Part Four, Chapter Thirty-Six, War and Gentlemen
Chapter Thirty-Six
The prisoner lurched awake as he felt boots on the staircase, resonating through the grey, cold stone that clouded vision, his shackles rattling as he jolted upright. He craned his neck towards the thud, recoiling as a stiff pain shot through him, sore from the lack of movement. He shuffled backwards slightly as the boots came closer. The shadow was all he saw at first, growing and contorting to fill the cell floor, skewered by the rusted bars. The prisoner looked up. A grey face hung over him, crowned with a disheveled mess of grey hair, thinned slightly by years of stress. The man's body was well set. He was strong once, the prisoner could tell that much, eyeing the weakened muscles on his arms and legs. He imagined that the man would more than likely still get the better of the him in a fight, at any time, never mind now, the prisoner's muscles similarly weakened by months of no movement and little food.
"It seems I'm finally graced with your company, your highness." The man laughed to himself, no sincerity in his voice. "Don't think about trying to appeal to my better nature. You won't be finding yourself in a tower suite too soon. All you can do now is pray that this war is over soon so you don have to rot here much longer." A rat scurried along the damp cell floor, sending small pattering noises through the air. "I see you've already been introduced to your cellmates. I'd watch out for them. They can be dirty little buggers when they get hungry. And I won't be feeding them any time soon." The man spat through the bars as he turned to leave, his boots resonating ad they hit the stone once again. "I bid you adieu, your highness."
What is a man when he is at the mercy of a being who has none? Is he nothing? The prisoner had time for little else than these thoughts. Is he nothing?
Thoughts of home and the past faded with everyday. Past friends and loves. And sadness. All gone now. He gave a meek laugh as he came to the conclusion that he'd rather be sad and free than stuck here. And it wasn't as if he hadn't experienced depression. Is he nothing?
All that he had was nothing. For he was nothing.
--
The royal force, three thousand strong, line the field in dulled silver rows, almost as the crops that once swayed in the calm breezes did. From the other side of the field, deep amidst the host force, looking back on the royal army one would see the assortment of arms and shields, bore by the peasantry as denotation of their liege lords. Most arms bore escutcheon of fleur-de-lys, or, showing an ultimate allegiance to the king. Aside from the shields, most of the peasantry wore little armour, some with the odd antique breastplate or helmet. Those in the first few rows were armed largely with pikes. Those further back had swords.
Behind the peasantry was a relatively small band of cavalry, maybe only one hundred strong. They were well-equipped, bearing long swords and full armour. The cavalry was the first instance of nobility amongst the ranks, each with their arms emblazoned on shields, and, in some cases, on the tabards of squires and heralds. It was in the cavalry that Herbert was positioned, atop Turpin, and from his position he could see the host force of Burgundy, stood stoic against the green backdrop, their dull silver armour mirroring in the royal force. In mockery of the royal peasantry, Robert had instructed all the arms in the force to be escutcheoned with the fleurs-de-lys, or - a bold statement of his claim of the throne.
The air continued to be still, waiting for the first move. The tension was broken as Philippe, now nearing his twentieth year, rode out to the middle of the field. The men positioned either side of the field looked on, no one making a move aside from the subdued muttering coming from those not sure what was happening.
"If a man amongst you be a gentleman, let him come forth and speak with me." The challenge bellowed across the field, carried by the still, tension-thick air. Despite his new authority, Philippe was weary. Having been forced to grow by battle, watching his realm torn asunder whilst still a young boy, had taken a toll on him. He was tall, but his face had grown long early, his beard ragged and unkempt from years of living outside city walls in camp sites. Similarly weary were the armies themselves. From five years of war springs many an opportunity for desertion. Most of the original armies - those who hadn't been killed - had left for adventure elsewhere, disillusioned by what had become a decidedly un-romantic war, lacking any of the chivalric ideas that attract so many young men looking for adventure. Most had quit for England, after news of land and titles under the new Norman regime had leaked over the channel. Even then, losing Normandy was a catastrophic blow for the crown - taking nearly three thousand men across the sea.
A silence that stretched out over the field, accented only by the nervous shuffling from the less experienced soldiers on either side. Suddenly, the Burgundian host kicked into action, the sound of the clash of metal on metal rushing through the scene as people struggled to get out of the way. Soon, a man stood proudly at the head of his ranks - Robert. He took hard, exaggerated steps towards his nephew, drawing out the tension. Giving himself the appearance of being in control. Stoking the flames of his ego. As he squared himself up to the king, it seemed a contest of strength. Robert was grizzled and hardened from years of fighing - not just for lieges, but against minor Burgundian barons who had the audacity to oppose his rule. Even in his advancing age, his muscles showed no sign of significantly weakening, with the mess of grey hair crowning his head adding to his hardened appearance. His eyes were dark brown, thigh not warm. They were old, but still burned with a disarming wolffish ferocity.
Philippe, a good forty-five years his uncle's junior, was nearly as tall, his stature well-built as a result of an adolescence of fighting. He had a thick beard and broad shoulders, and had grown into a king adept in the arts of war, having grown up alongside the finest military minds in the realm. Even so, you wouldn't be too quick to bet on either if them in a fight.
"You are a jumped up git, aren't you, my nephew? You can flatter yourself with being the gentlemen all you like, but let me tell you this," he paused, looking back to his ranks, eyeing the king intently, spitting at him in his mind, "war makes no allowances for gentlemen."
Philippe and Robert in parlay.
--
To be continued...
