Authors: Mark Acres
Behind him, the camp was gradually transformed as his barons formed their troops. Each baron had with him between one hundred to one hundred and fifty men. Of these, ten to twenty were mounted knights; the remainder were men-at-arms, foot soldiers. The knights were armored as best they could afford, and most were armed with heavy lances, supplemented by longswords, or, in some cases, some other preferred weapon, such as a mace, morning star, war hammer, or axe. The men-at-arms were a haphazardly armored and armed lot. Most carried a standard twelve-foot-long spear along with some other weapon, though these varied from fine longswords for the more fortunate to daggers, mallets, or even clubs for the less privileged.
“Form up! Form up!” the count cried, riding along the crest of the hill, waving his great two-handed sword in the air above his head. “The enemy comes!”
As he rode along the hillcrest he could see them advancing across the meadow. Already they were only about eight hundred yards distant and coming on at a slow but steady pace. Never before had Dunsford seen an army advance in such a fashion. These were foot soldiers, but with peculiarly long spears. They were arranged in thin blocks, about three ranks deep, keeping nearly perfect order as they advanced. There were more troops in the center than elsewhere. Behind the main lines were little groups of men that didn’t seem to carry the long spears. Probably archers or slingers, Dunsford guessed. But most peculiar of all was the behavior of the enemy knights. These formed a solid block, three ranks deep, nearly three hundred yards long, that advanced at a very slow walk, hanging far behind the infantry. What kind of knights were these, Dunsford wondered, who allowed infantry the honor of the first attack?
His own army took shape at the crest of the hill. His longtime friend and loyal vassal, Sir Duncan Wright, rode up on his right-hand side. Sir Richard Grier, a younger man of proven prowess in many a minor border dispute, thundered up on a magnificent charger to take his position on Dunsford’ s left. The remainder of the cavalry, some six hundred in all, gradually formed a ragged line that was at times one rank and at times two ranks deep. Behind the cavalry the foot soldiers formed up in irregular masses of spearmen, trying to get into positions somewhere behind and near their respective noble leaders. Pennants snapped in the breeze, revealing a colorful panoply of coats of arms.
“By the gods, what is this insult?” Sir Richard shouted to the count. “They attack with infantry—why? Do they think to tire us and thus avoid capture and ransom payments? Come, let us show these brigands false!” Sir Richard shot out his right arm and his young squire, who would not fight, handed him his great battle lance, a heavy, tapered, pointed twelve-foot shaft of wood coated with metal. Sir Richard raised his lance high in the air.
“No,” Dunsford shouted. “Not yet. We need to think about—”
“For the gods, for the right, and for Dunsford!” Sir Richard screamed at the top of his lungs. His spurs bit into the flanks of his mount, and he was off, charing at the trot toward the slowly approaching enemy mass.
A tremendous shout erupted from Dunsford’s lines. Rider after rider put spur to flank, and in less than half a minute the entire cavalry force was in a ragged charge. Pennants and banners snapped bravely against the pale blue of the cold, clear sky. The foot soldiers scrambled after the horsemen with no order to their ranks. Some waved their spears and shouted; others carried them lowered toward the enemy. A few paused after a hundred yards to catch their breath and let their comrades run on ahead.
Oh well, the count thought as his own steed charged forward, it’s no worse than usual. “For the gods, for justice, and for me!” he called, lowering his own great battle lance. He spurred his mount to a full gallop. He had to overtake Sir Richard; it would never due for a vassal to be the first to make contact with the enemy.
The Viscount Karl of Sudland reined his horse to a halt and craned his neck forward. He held up his right arm, and immediately the drumming, which marked time for the marching ranks of his legion, ended with three heavy beats. As one man, the disciplined men-at-arms halted, their eighteen-foot spears held erect.
By all the gods, Karl thought, old Culdus was right. Everything he taught us was right! The fools are charging! Karl waved his upraised right arm in a broad, circular motion. The drumming began again, this time at a much faster tempo. The two huge battles on either flank of the center turned inward, forming three long lines. The heads of these lines then began a turn toward the rear. In less than a minute, during which time the oncoming enemy cavalry closed to within one hundred yards, the two flanking battles had moved to the very rear of the formation.
The archers, too, had changed position; they were now in the very center of the huge block of spearmen. The two squares in the middle, on the outside of the archers, did a smart change of face so they were facing outward, as did the flanking lines of the front and rear battles. The mass formation now looked like a giant block, with spears pointing outward in all directions except the very rear.
Karl wheeled his horse and galloped to a position at the rear right corner of the block.
“Lower spears!” he shouted. “Fourth battle, arcing fire, by hundreds!”
The long spears were lowered, allowed a clear flight path for the volley of one hundred short arrows that arced from the center of the block into the line of onrushing cavalry. The first flight was followed by another, then another, then another, all within a few seconds.
Dunsford, who rode in the very center of the charge, was only sixty yards from the enemy when the hail of arrows struck the line of charging horses. Two arrows bounced off the barding on his horse, but a third penetrated its right eye, and a fourth plunged into its left flank. The injured animal whinnied wildly and reared. As it did, four more shafts struck it dead-on in the chest. The mighty animal crashed over on its side.
“Aaaahhhhwwww!”
The count howled with pain as the full weight of his dying mount crushed his right leg and the hard ground knocked the breath from his lungs. His great lance thudded to the ground beside him and rolled uselessly away. The count cursed his horse and kicked at its back with the mailed boot of his free leg. The painful blows only caused the panicked animal to thrash more wildly in its losing bout with death, and with each thrash of its legs, it pressed its weight more against the count’s trapped, crushed limb.
Loyal Duncan, heedless of the menace of the volleys of arrows that sang through the air all around him, reined in his own mount and trotted to the count’s side. Quickly seeing the hopelessness of horse’s struggle, he raised his great lance like a spear and plunged it deep into the horse’s head. The animal’s struggles ceased.
“Onward, Duncan,” Dunsford shouted through clenched teeth. “The men-at-arms can free me. Go! Fight them!”
“Aye, my lord,” Duncan replied, raising his shield as another flight of arrows plunged to earth around him. One shaft buried itself in his shield; another bit into the dead flesh of the count’s horse. Duncan handed his shield to the pinned count. “At least protect yourself, my liege.”
“I shall, I shall,” the grateful war leader replied. “Now go, lead the attack!”
But the attack was already faltering. No sooner had the tenth flight of arrows been loosed than Viscount Karl shouted another simple command. “Prepare to receive!” he bellowed.
At the front of the great block, the first battle, three ranks deep, knelt and planted the ends of their great spears on the hard earth. Their hands gripped the ends of the spear shafts and their strong arms kept the points, which included an extra metal hook for ripping armor, angled upward at about thirty degrees.
Behind the first battle, the second hoisted their spear shafts waist high and aimed them forward. The third battle raised their spears high in both hands and, resting the ends atop their shoulders, likewise pointed the business ends dead ahead.
The result of this simple maneuver was a wall of spear points, now three rows high, extending outward some fifteen feet from near the earth to the height of a man’s head. Similar maneuvers by the men facing the sides caused a similar bristling defense to be presented on either flank.
Sir Richard was the first in Dunsford’s army to learn a basic lesson concerning animal behavior. A horse, even a trained, charging war-horse, will not willingly impale itself. Sir Richard was less than twenty yards from the enemy when his own mount veered off, slowing its pace, finally coming to a winded halt with its flanks presented to the enemy only a few feet away. Sir Richard shouted and howled and cursed. He gestured threateningly with his great lance, but could only touch the spear points and hooks, not the men behind them.
All along the front of the block the same scene was repeated: dozens of horses and riders were felled by the initial volleys of arrows. The remainder of the horses veered off just before the moment of contact with the wall of spear points, leaving their riders to dig their spurs into flanks and curse with helpless rage. It was the same on the flanks as the charging line wrapped itself around the block, only to find that spears pointed at them from all sides. In less than a minute more than a hundred of Dunsford’s mounted knights were dead. The count himself was still pinned under his dead horse, beating the earth and writhing in pain. The remainder of his knights milled about helplessly in front of the spear points, unable to bring any weapon to bear on the enemy.
Even the Viscount Karl was stunned by the magnitude of the legion’s success. Footmen had withstood a charge by mounted knights—not only stood it, but stopped it dead. And now these same knights were wandering about in rage and confusion, leaderless, virtually helpless. There were not even the usual sounds of battle to be heard—no clash of steel on steel, no resounding impacts as lance met shield or breastplate. Instead, there were only the curses and howls of the frustrated knights and the screams of the wounded and dying. So overwhelmed was Karl by the magnitude of this success that it took him longer than it should to issue the next, logical command.
“First battle,” he shouted. “Attack!”
Drummers translated his order into beats. The front three ranks of the great block stood up, raised their huge spears to their shoulders, gave a mighty shout, and charged forward at a run. They had both superior weaponry and number on their side. Untouched by casualties, their battle numbered a full thousand. Only slightly more than a third of the enemy force had actually charged the front of the block, and of those more than a third had been felled by arrows. Now, the men-at-arms charged with a five-to-one superiority and a weapon that could outreach their foes’ by a good twelve feet.
It was George the miller’s son, in the second rank of the first battle, who happened to drive his great spearpoint through Sir Richard’s leg just above the knee, pinning the limb to the horse that the hook of the spear then half disemboweled. “Hah, c’mon, Frederick, the fun’s a’ now!” George shouted with glee. He released his grip on the great spear—it was deeply embedded in man and horse, and, drawing his shortsword, wove forward at a crouch, avoiding the spear shafts of his friends as he made his way toward the enraged knight still atop the dying horse.
Sir Richard screamed with pain, but his agony did not completely numb his brain. Tossing aside his lance he drew his longsword and vainly twisted atop his mount, trying to bring the blade to bear on George.
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” George taunted as he worked his way to the horse’s rear. “Your mount seems to be hamstrung!” George let fly a mighty slashing blow at the back of the horse’s rear left leg. The beast squealed from the pain of the blow, and the leg collapsed. Sir Richard’s body snapped and rolled as the horse suddenly fell like a rag doll, but the knight could not free his leg from the impaling spear.
“Damn you, you peasant murderer!” Sir Richard bellowed. “May all the gods damn you!”
“Ask ‘em about it when you see ‘em,” George called back, leaping onto the back of the dying steed and, with both hands, plunging his shortsword into Sir Richard’s back. The blade bit through the chainmail. George felt the satisfying resistance of bone as the cold steel sliced through vertebrae and ribs. Blood spurted from Sir Richard’s mouth as he tried to form a final curse, and his right arm vainly flailed up and down, beating his longsword against the unyielding ground.
“C’mon, Frederick, there’s more for the taking,” George called, looking about the melee for his friend. He finally spotted Frederick about ten yards away, hacking the head off a man who was pinned to the earth by a huge eighteen-foot spear shaft extending toward the heavens from the middle of his torso.
All along the front line of battle the scene was similar. The futile fighting of Dunsford’s knights lasted only about ten minutes. In that time the more valiant tried in vain to charge again and again, but always with the same result. Duncan, veteran of many battles, saw the problem and tried to tackle it by approaching dismounted. A well-trained man-at-arms simply laid his spear on the ground, waited for Duncan to approach, then quickly pulled the spear backward, using the hook to grab Duncan’s ankle and pull him to the ground. The knight was quickly impaled and cut to bits by three other men-at-arms.
Eventually the remaining knights saw the futility of fighting and turned to flee. As they increased their distance from the impregnable block of spearmen, more volleys of arrows were unleashed, and more and more of the knights found themselves fleeing on foot in full armor.
Dunsford’s men-at-arms were useless at initiating battle. Their function was to follow after their knights and finish off the wounded, occasionally taking a prisoner who could be ransomed. With the failure of the knights they had not the slightest notion what to do. They simply stopped and stupidly watched the debacle. And when the knights at length retreated, the foot soldiers turned and ran.
Only when the enemy was retreating with his infantry in panic and the knights in, at the very best, confusion and disorder, did Karl take a large green pennant from his saddlebag, tie it to the tip of his own lance, and raise it high. From three hundred yards in the rear, the fresh, untouched heavy cavalry of his legion began thundering forward in perfect formation at a controlled trot. The formation split in two as it approached the rear of the block of spearmen, swirled around them, and reformed into a line at their front. Then the commanders gave the signal for a canter, and after sixty yards more, for the full gallop.