Nikolai - Nope! Couldn't resist! And... is this Arthur? That's a good question I won't answer!
stnylan - I like that little rhyme. Maybe I can use it sometime!
coz1 - I'm fairly sure
any title inherited by Arthur would make John fly into a royal rage. The question is, how far can John Lackland's hand reach? Does John know if the boy is alive?
Specialist290 - One, you are too kind with your praise. Second, I remember that AAR from way back - I loved it! Hopefully this will end up half as good.
Maxim Cherepanov - Well, take a relatively sheltered noble boy, make him journey across Europe and see the world for what it really is, and who knows what could happen?
Mirick - Hopefully you've had a chance to read some since then!
Asantahene - I didn't realize I had an AAR pedigree - one good one, one good start, and quite a few false starts. Thank you!
July 17th, 1203
Arnaud, son of Arnaud, backed away from his charge, their latest round of blows still ringing through the camp. He did not wear his mail, or wield his fine sword, only a thick cotton shirt and a wooden practice sword in his hand. His charge was clad in the same, towering over him.
Arnaud eyed the young man. On first look, he was imposing - blonde of hair, a head taller than most anyone else in the army. It wasn’t until you noticed his beardless chin, and his almost shy smile one realized he was a mere boy - perhaps 16, perhaps 17, Arnaud was not sure. Counting Arthur, Duke of Brittany’s years was not Arnaud’s job.
He was to keep him alive - none less than Mehtar Lainez, the bodyman of the Venetian Doge, demanded it. And when Lainez said to do something, on pain of his master’s displeasure - well, Arnaud did not want to think of the unpleasant things Enrico Dandolo would do to him if he failed.
Arnaud was so distant from his more illustrious cousins they did not acknowledge him with a formal surname. An experienced, if worldly knight, he came on crusade for wealth, not faith.
So, while the great crusader host, motley as it was, camped beneath the walls of Constantinople, Arnaud took off his practice helm, and eyed the boy he was training with a sword.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Arnaud was still in his prime, but life had dealt him defeat after defeat, and it showed in the lines on his face. He was the sixth son of a sixth son, scion of a penniless son of a penniless baron. He had arms, a horse, but little else. He’d served for coin to this lord and that lord, but the crusade was supposed to be Arnaud’s path to his destiny, a way to earn wealth, status and honor.
Instead, it’d become a cesspit. Even Father Valeran, the priest of his parish who’d run away with him for Venice, would say so openly.
The Venetians had driven themselves to near ruin provisioning for the army, and fleeced Arnaud and the other crusaders of every
florin they had. When that wasn’t enough to repay Venice’s loss, they’d demanded the crusaders sack their rival, Zara. Even that did not even gather enough loot to pay the Venetians back.
It was then that some Greek whelp named Alexios had come to the crusaders in those desperate days, with a proposal seemingly from heaven. His father had been dethroned by another Greek - also named Alexios, just to confuse everyone - and the young prince promised them 200,000
gold florins if they would restore him to his rightful throne.
For an army with no money, little food, and no purpose, it was music.
Alexios Angelos, Fourth of His Name, was the son of Isaac II, who was deposed by Alexios (Third of His Name). In the mind of the Crusaders, used to the clear cut primogeniture of their homelands, their crusade had now become a mission to restore a usurped son to his father’s crown. For riches and wealth beyond their dreams, of course…
God, we were idiots, Arnaud cursed at no one but himself. They’d followed the indolent boy’s banner, and boldly sailed to Constantinople, the Queen of Cities, and demanded that he receive his father’s throne or face their wrath.
The Greek’s simply retreated behind walls older than the families of the most ancient noble houses, and let the crusaders be. So now they were in the bowels of Greece, laying siege to a city that was far too large for their small army to contend with on the mere promise, a
promise of riches beyond their wildest dreams. All without food, and still without money. The only prospect of payment was victory.
And that’s if that little whoremonger Alexios delivers, Arnaud told himself as he held up his practice sword in a defensive stance. He didn’t think the so-called ‘Emperor of the Romans’ would. Arnaud had only met a handful of Greeks, and they all seemed dodgy at best.
“Arthur, ready?” he called to his student and charge.
“Ready!” the Duke grinned, donning his helm once more
Arnaud grimaced behind his own. He’d been young like that once, when he’d first joined a company. The world was his oyster then - he had mail, he knew how to use a sword, and it seemed like nothing could ever happen to him.
Too many ghosts, too many dead had changed that. And no how often that sin-filled Valeran uttered one of his bad prayers, nothing would change that.
“Don’t grin,” Arnaud said, “prepare yourself.”
“Yes Arnaud.”
Slowly the two circled, Arnaud watching the boy’s stance.
Still too wide Arnaud noted. Without warning, he swung. The Duke awkwardly parried, but brought his shield forward to take the rest of the blow.
Whack!
“You were slow.”
“Fast enough!” the Duke quipped, launching his own swing. The blow was quick, but Arnaud slid past it, launching a swift strike that was only barely stopped by the Duke’s shield.
He’s thinking more on instinct there, good, the Frank grimly noted.
The Duke was always good for a quick retort during sparring - he was clever, Arnaud would grant him that. When he wasn’t with Arnaud sparring, that Lainez creature was teaching him to read - something Arnaud couldn’t do. He was also nimble for his size. He may have been a boy giant, but he moved with the speed of a cat.
Duke Arthur was only 16 in 1203, but he’d grown to six feet, two inches tall, a full head above most of the knights in the crusader force.
But one needed more than cleverness, size and speed to be a good swordsman.
Wham!
“Stance, my lord!” Arnaud barked. The boy shuffled his feet, and without warning him, Arnaud started to attack in earnest, raining blows on the lad. Arthur’s shield came up.
Whack!
“
Basilieos, King.”
Arnaud shook his head. Whatever that was, it was muffled, Probably one of the Greek camp followers muttering something inane.
Thud!
“
Kyrios, Lord,” he thought he heard the Duke say.
“What?” Arnaud heard himself ask as he continued to rain blows on the giant man’s shield.
“I’m…”
Clang “...trying to remember my Greek…”
Clang “If I…”
Bash! “...can remember it in a…”
Wham! “...fight, maybe I can remember…”
Thud! “...when…”
“Focus, my lord!” Arnaud snapped, pivoting around the taller boy’s defense. With a dull
whump he delivered a sharp blow to the back of the Duke’s lower thight. The boy didn’t yelp like he did months before, but Arnaud backed away.
“Killing blow,” Arnaud pronounced, taking off his helm.
“Killing blow?!” Arthur yanked his own helm off. “How was that a killing blow? If I had armor on…”
“It would have sliced where you only had a gambeson, and the sword would have sliced through into the back of your thigh,” Arnaud continued before turning to one of the camp-followers. “Water!” he barked. “You would have been bleeding out before you knew it. Five minutes, no longer.”
“But my hauberk…”
“Comes up when you swing in that stance you take,” Arnaud cut him off as a goblet of water was thrust into his hands. “Leaves only the gambeson. May I speak freely, my lord?” Arnaud asked out of habit. Arthur had never refused him, something that still surprised the lowly knight, considering Arthur’s station.
“Of course…” Arthur said, before gulping down a goblet of water handed to him
“You started late, that is sure,” Arnaud took a swig of his own water, “your father did you a misservice. I can make you a middling swordsman,” he turned, and stared up at the giant, “but only if you focus!” He pointed the practice sword at the boy’s legs. “And you keep your stance! You make it wider than a maid on seeing her first knight!”
“I’ll try Arnaud,” the boy sighed.
“Do, or do not. Trying alone will get you killed,” Arnaud shot back. “Narrower stance, or,” he gently thumped his sword into the boy’s crotch, “you shield can’t protect you, and you’ll make no little dukes and duchesses in the future.”
The boy’s face paled.
Arnaud started to grin. Maybe, after six months, some of the finer points of swordsmanship were sinking in...
“The Greeks are sallying! The Greeks are sallying!”
Ice slipped into Arnaud’s veins. Yes, the Greeks were decadent, committing sins such as deposing their patron’s father, but he’d
seen them on the walls of that palace! They were as armed as well as any Norman, and fought with courage and tenacity…
He looked up at the source of call. Already men were throwing aside dice, women, their meals, and grabbing sword and shield. A hand grabbed his shoulder, he spun around to find himself face to face with Valeran, the wayward priest’s latest conquest handing him his shield as he hurriedly buckled his sword in place.
“Greek’s coming!” Valeran said, eyes rooted on those formidable walls to their front.
“I heard, how many?” Sparring was long out of Arnaud’s mind as he tossed aside his practice sword. Already, his mind was racing - he’d seen maces when they were last on the walls, he’d hoped some of the camp followers had sewn his gambeson and…
“17 battles!” Valeran said, his cross clinking against his mail as he strapped on his shield “Augustino counted! That’s what…”
“Thousands,” Arnaud said simply as his woman of the week (Sophia, was that her name?) ran up, that gambeson in hand. He looked up at those imposing walls - banners were waving, and trumpets blared. No, no time for mail. He raised his hands up, and she yanked the thick cloth over his head. Unceremoniously she handed him sword, belt, and his helm. This one was good, hopefully she...
“Maul!”
That bellow yanked Arnaud back. Damn, the Duke! The young man was stalking towards the front lines already, as one of the haggard pages that passed for squires to the impoverished nobility handed him a huge hammer used for pounding in stakes.
“Arthur!” Arnaud barked. It was unseemly! He was a
Duke! He shouldn’t wander into battle with only peasant’s maul! “My Lord! Your sword!” Arnaud called again.
“Again?” Sophia (yes, that was her name), looked after the blonde giant, then back to Arnaud.
Arnaud sighed, but didn’t say a word.
Six days before, when they scaled the walls of some place named Blacharnae in the name of their patron, Arthur had grabbed that maul then as well in his haste for the front. Unlike some of the so called barons, he’d tried, and failed, to get to the battlements. If it wasn’t for the highborn knights holding back, by God, they would’ve taken that wall!
“I’ll be back,” he murmured, stalking towards the front line.
“You’d better!” Sophia called, “You haven’t paid me my pence for the week!”
Arnaud raced after his charge, but Arthur was taller, and his longer legs took him at a pace Arnaud couldn’t match. Horns blared, and the Duke disappeared into the hastily assembling spear-line of men half,armored, half armed, as pages, camp-followers and others streamed into the mass with helms, bucklers and other items forgotten in haste.
“Arthur! You stupid bastard, where are you?!” Lainez had made Arnaud promise, on pain of death, to keep that boy alive!
You’re a head taller than everyone else, why in the name of St. Michael’s balls can’t I see you? he fumed as he pushed into the mob that was slowly taking formation.
He pushed, he shoved, and suddenly, he was in front.
And there they were.
Arnaud tried to count, but past a certain point, it was useless - there were many. Thousands. An army that outnumbered the hastily assembled porcupine of half-armored men by a two to one margin, pennants with the grim faces of saints he couldn’t recognize was already in battle formation, glowering down at the crusaders. He looked back - the great lords and their knights should have been to their rear, the armored core of their own army. He could see the squires running through the camp in a panic, and men hastily donning mail as pages pulled whinnying horses up to their riders.
“God damn it!”
He turned to see the source of the worst curse he could imagine. Valeran’s eyes met his own, and the priest repeated himself. “God damn it! God damn them!” he grumbled as fastened a nasal helm on his the cap that hid his balding head.
“Where are the knights?” Arnaud called, eyes looking at the shaky spear line - The men were in formation yet, but by their faces, no
Deus Vult would hold the line if those Greeks came down. His eyes went back to the Greek host. They came with spear and shield, helms, good mail, glinting in the sunlight. At their front was a man in resplendent armor, mail blinding in the morning light.
The King of the Greeks had finally come.
Long gone were the days of Manuel Komnenos, when the West truly feared the Eastern Empire. Now, the Emperor was merely called ‘King of the Greeks,’ yet Alexios III intended to make these crusaders fear him once more. He sallied from besieged Constantinople with 8,000 men in 17 battles, intending on driving the crusaders off.
There were shouts, something different than the bellows of sergeants desperately trying to get the spearline ready to receive a charge. The air changed.
Then Arnaud saw him.
Arthur, alone, walking forward from the line, no shield, only holding that maul in his huge hands. He was shouting something in Greek, something Arnaud couldn’t follow. Something about sons and whores and children.
“What is he doing?” Arnaud craned to see as more strange Greek came from Arthur’s lips. “Your Grace!” he shouted, pushing towards the young man toying with death.
You fool! Get back! If they… Arnaud’s eyes flashed back up to the Greek host, and watched as their King pointed to one of his companions, rider and mount covered in mail. The man’s helm bobbed as he nodded, and, at a walk, armored horse and rider started towards the Duke of Brittany.
“He’s going to die, He’s going to die,” Valeran hissed, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. “
Ave Maria...”
“Save your prayers!” Arnaud snapped, unsheathing his sword, and starting forward. Lainez told him he was to keep that boy alive, and if God was kind…
...the Greek rider spurred his horse, and dust rose in the summer air as he plunged forward to a gallop, his lance lowered, deadly tip pointing directly to the Duke.
“St. Peter’s ass! Don’t just stand there!” Arnaud roared to the wavering line behind him, “We’ve got to save him! Move! Valeran! Theoderic! On me!”
For a moment, the two men he’d called stood confused, before Valeran’s face darkened.
“God will’s it!” Valeran shouted, his own sword out as Arnaud broke into a run. His tactical mind tried to think, to find a way, but there wasn’t one he could see as Arthur brought his maul back, eyes locked on that rider.
If he survives the first pass, maybe we can grab him and pull him back! If the spears can form, maybe we can hide behind them…
On that colorful rider came, death in full panoply. The rider stretched out, the tip of his lance reaching, a point of doom in the summer sun.
To the crusaders, the Eastern Roman cataphracts would have been a known, but still terrifying threat. As armored as any knight, mounted on horses covered in barding, if they charged in formation they could punch through the entire crusader line… let alone a single man standing alone…
Then, just before that lance of death made contact, Arthur stepped aside with blinding speed. Lance passed through open air as the Duke’s maul swung up, its metal head catching the armored rider in the side. Even from twenty yards away, Arnaud her the crack of metal breaking as the rider reeled back, then fell off his mount. Freed of his rider, the horse panicked and bolted through the Latin lines, scattering men.
Arnaud skidded to a halt, mouth agape, as the Duke walked,
walked next to the man that had merely seconds before been trying to kill him. Metal crunched across the field yet again, as the maul came down on the man’s head, leaving a ruin of blood and mail. That noise yanked Arnaud back.
“On the Duke!” he called, as his trio sprinted the last of the distance, a tiny triplet of shields and swords fanned out towards the Greek army. Just as they reached the Duke, horns blew.
The Greek line started to move.
“Why did you have to go and do that!” Arnaud hissed, glaring at his charge as he huddled behind his shield, waiting for the storm of arrows he was sure was coming.
“The line was wavering. I had a hunch that…” Arthur started, hunkering just behind him.
“I don’t care what hunches you had, idiot!” Arnaud snapped, not caring about their stations.
We have to get back to the main line! If they charge while we’re out here alone, we’re doomed! “We withdraw,” he called staring at his impetuous companion, “steady, no running…” He started to edge back, but bumped into Arthur.
“I said we withdraw!” he snarled as his charge stood up, mouth wide. Fury filled him.
Why in the name of St. Peter’s guts are you… Idiot! “Why the bloody hell are you all not...”
“Arnaud! Look!” Valeran called.
Arnaud followed the so-called-priest’s finger, and his mouth fell wide open again.
The King of the Greeks was wheeling around to the safety of those great bronze gates, his horse at a full gallop. Behind him, the great armored cavalcade of men and horses followed. Arnaud swore he could see them staring at their mangled comrade.
“St. Michael’s balls…” Arnaud cursed, for a moment just as stunned as everyone else, as a huge, ragged cheer rose from the haphazard crusader line behind them. “Why in the hell are they running?”
“Don’t care!” Valeran laughed. “Don’t question the work of the Lord, I say!”
“Or the work of a coward,” Arnaud spat into the dirt. That Greek king outnumbered them three to one! He’d caught them with their leggings off, and he’d retreated when one man knocked down one of his riders! “Cowardly,” Arnaud said again, before turning to the Duke.
That stupid boy!
He roughly grabbed the boy by the shoulders, and hauled him down to eye level, adrenaline making his rage hot.
“I swore an oath,
on my life, that I would keep you alive, you fool!” Arnaud snapped.
“I… thought you were to train me in…”
“That was extra!” Arnaud hissed, shaking the far larger young man. “No swordsmanship can save you if you run out and beg to be skewered by a lance!”
“I…” Arnaud watched as his charge’s face fell. The fearsome warrior went back to a boy in an instant. Instantly, the Frank felt a measure of regret wash over him. The boy
had dodged a lance, and swung true. The Greek’s
were running away.
“That… was a hell of a swing, Your Grace,” he forced a small smile on his face as way of apology. That small smile turned to a grin. “I… I have never seen an armored rider felled like that,” Arnaud said, not lying. Now that adrenaline was fading, the true measure of what he’d seen was dawning on him as the other crusaders began to filter forward. There were gasps, awkward hushes, but Arnaud was only looking at his charge.
“You… think so?”
“Yes,” Arnaud sheathed his sword clapped both the young man’s shoulders. He felt a laugh come to his lips, unbidden - a long bellowing laugh of relief, shock and happiness to simply
be alive.
“Holy Mother of...” Valeran called. Both Arnaud and Arthur looked up. The priest was standing over the fallen Greek cavalryman, sword poking the man’s side.
What was left of it.
Arnaud had seen a man’s body caved by a mace, but he’d never seen someone’s ribs caved in to their spine.
Someone who had been wearing a gambeson, mail,
and lamellar.
He looked back up at Arthur.
“Sweet Christ,” he made the sign of the cross.
Maybe the boy did not need to learn the sword at all.
