“Water!” a man on the battlement shouted, slumping down behind a crenulation and wiping his brow. A crossbow bolt flickered through the air in the spot where moments ago he had been standing. “Fuck me..” he muttered in Flemish, spitting out a glob of orange phlegm as one of the castle boys ran up the stairs to hand him a cup of slightly brackish water. “Bloody French, why can’t they give us just one day of peace?” the man moaned.
“I…I… I’m not sure” the castle boy stammered, too afraid to pick up on a on what the rhetorical question. The man looked at him, the whites of his eyes were showing and there was a wildness to his face that betrayed the extreme fatigue which every one of their gallant band of defenders was feeling. He sighed and patted the boy on the shoulder then began to wind the string back on his crossbow.
“Ah well lad, it is what it is.” He looked up and smiled at the boy, the madness still wavering behind his three front teeth “I’ll not die today at least. The archbishop promised me I’d not die in battle, but in my home, by the fire with my dog on my lap and my wife by my side.” He looked down as he notched the bolt into place. “That’s why they call me Lucky Tomas! I've never been so much as scratched. God said I’d be safe home in my house and so I will be. He said so” He stood and aimed his weapon, squeezing the trigger and suddenly staggering back, an arrow protruding from just beneath his left eye socket, angled up and into his brain. Lucky Tomas stood bemused for a second before pitching forward to fall with a dull thud into a limp heap in the courtyard below. The boy ran back to the well as another soldier called for water.
For eight days now the French had bombarded their little fortress with arrows, weakening the small garrison there with each day, each day several Lucky Tomas’ came crashing to the ground in the courtyard, crossbow bolts riddling their lifeless bodies. Every day men screamed for their friends, wept as they dragged corpses of their long time comrades out of the sun to slow down their rotting. Worse than the dead were the ones who were only wounded though , their screams cut across the defiant roars of attacker and defender alike for hours, keening wailing howls that echoed through the small castle, as though their anguished makers were already beyond the grave. One man had taken an arrow in his belly on the second day and had screamed incessantly for three more until finally one night he had abruptly fallen silent. No one even mentioned it the day after. Their fort was not a large one, but the position it held was somewhat important, with a dominating presence over a small portion of Northern France and positioned next to a well used waterway alongside a prime trade route. The French wanted it back and it was the job of the forty or so strong garrison of English and Flemish to hold them back. The Flemish Crossbowmen made up the majority of the defensive force, the sound of their ratchets and hand cranks providing a constant background sound over the last eight days. Standing with them were ten English Longbowmen, fearsome men who looked strangely out of proportion, chests like enormous beer barrels with one arm twice as thick as the other. They looked like strange woodland creatures invented in some child's fever dream. Their demeanour however was far different to that of any faery, or the Flemish for that matter, who set to their task with some degree of formality and regimen. The English on the other hand seemed to treat the whole siege as a joke, laughing and jesting with one another they took great pleasure in taunting the French and Flemish alike, whipping themselves into a frenzy, taking bets on their shots, calling out all the faults in the more cumbersome crossbows and offering snide advice on where to aim. And all the while they whispered death at the enemy with a smile on their faces. There was a reason that the French despised English archers so much, their six foot long poles of Ash and Yew were staggering tools of destruction on organised ranks of men and the spaces beneath the sections of wall where the longbowmen stood were littered with at least double the number of French corpses than where the Flemish struggled with their more unwieldy crossbows. The ten English were worth more than all the Flemish put together. That isn’t to say that the Flemish weren’t brave or weren’t effective, but they were farmers and blacksmiths and farriers who had had a crossbow thrust into their hands and perhaps a week of training before being ordered to some field in France and told to kill. The English practiced from the moment they were able, every week, in rain, sun, sleet and snow in order to become masters of their craft and when armed with their long staves of ash and yew they were archers first, trained and battle scarred to a man. They weren’t just told to kill, it was their second nature.
With the motley crew of defending archers were three other men, Sir John of Hounslow was the commanding knight in the fortress, he had been personally charged with the defence of the trading fort by the King himself, which had swelled the relatively lowly knight to levels of pompousness that even he was surprised he could achieve. These levels had slowly deflated however as he realised he had been given a poisoned chalice. The Fort was located in a strong position, and it governed a great deal of trading routes around the local countryside, however the much larger city of Reims lay not far to the South and this fort was little more than an outpost to it, meaning that were they attacked it was unlikely any relief efforts would bother with coming to their aid, and would more likely head straight south to fortify the city instead rather than waste their time on their little collection of stones and sticks. Sir John therefore found himself confronting a surprisingly large, and unquestionably persistent French expeditionary force with very few men and no chance of reinforcement. The only good news was that the French were clearly in a rush to get to Reims itself and therefore instead of stopping to starve out the garrison or to build siege weaponry they were attempting to breach the main gate with simple axes and weight of numbers so that they could go on to join the main army, which must have been marching by somewhere to the East, as fast as possible. Some ladders had been employed at the beginning but no one carrying a ladder made it close to the walls, being an obvious target for the lethally accurate English bows, and so they lay in pieces beneath the ramparts. Sir John was hoping that the French would eventually get bored and move on to Reims rather than actually putting a full force into bringing down his gate. The man himself was no coward; he was large both across the shoulders and around the waist, comfortable both on the battlefield and in any local tavern, though he was most comfortable with his well-worn warhammer in his hand, having been a veteran of several campaigns across northern France. This was to be his last though he had decided; his fighting had earned him a large enough holding in Normandy to go with his small estate back home and his wife and two fast growing daughters were there now waiting for him. All he had to do was the impossible and hold the fort with its slowly crumbling gate.
The other two men were a fascination. They had arrived just ahead of the French force, entering with the last of the local farm wives mere minutes before the garrison had shut the main gates. They had ridden in upon two horses, one small brown nag which was heavily overburdened with packs and pouches and another a great white destrier, which had a wide and scarred chest with powerful well muscled legs and didn't carry a single pack. One of the men was a small Dominican monk called brother Herman. The first thing you noticed about him was that he was almost comically short, the second thing they had noticed was that he had a wickedly sharp sense of humour. He seemed to hail from East of the Reine, although his accent barely showed when he spoke in fast paced English. He had his head shaved on the top of its dome, and was never out of his brown habit. He smiled easily and made the Englishmen and Flemish alike laugh until they were hoarse. During the siege he busied himself tending to the wounded and, most usefully, cutting and fletching new arrows from the small copse of trees to the rear of the fort whilst the fighting was slow. He carried out his tasks whilst constantly laughing, keeping moral high with his jokes and drops of some fiery liquor he kept in a big barrel in the stables. He claimed that he had brewed the potent smelly liquid himself and promised to show the men how they could themselves if they got him alive through the siege. At night he would sit with Sir John and help him to marshal the preparations for the next days defences, as well as carrying out the less military tasks with the small population of fifteen or so women and children that had fled from the nearby farmsteads to the fort for protection. He was a huge asset to all in the castle and the men were extremely taken with him.
The second man, however, they were not so taken with. This man was a giant. Standing a full head and shoulders over even Sir John, his arms were like tree trunks and his chest was wide and looked powerful enough to lift a horse. He very rarely moved, ate and drank alone and spent his days sitting quietly in the shadow of the eastern wall with the two large hunting hounds that lived in the courtyard with them. He rarely spoke and when he did it would be monosyllabic and curt in a deep and heavy voice that rolled up through his chest like far off thunder. He only ever wore rough spun woollen trousers, and was constantly bare-chested, even when it had poured with freezing rain on the third day of the siege he had sat as though it was any other day, utterly unaffected with bare feet and bare chest as his long hair slicked to his face. The only movement besides eating and sitting he had done had been to carry a wounded Flemish man from where he had landed after falling from the wall with a bolt in his thigh to the monk, muttering something into his ear to which the Dominican had nodded solemnly and the giant had returned to his seat in the corner. The men avoided him, some held negative feelings for him not being more active in the defence of the fort, but most just kept a wary eye on him and got on with the task of repelling the French. Even the monk would not talk to him, and when pressed on the matter Herman merely gave a knowing smile before artfully, yet obviously changing the subject.
“Fuck it…” muttered sir John as Lucky Tomas fell to the ground with the bolt in his face. He had lost three men so far that day, mercifully only one of the English was currently out of action although their arrow bags were getting alarmingly low, despite Brother Herman’s best efforts at replenishing them. He grabbed a boy who had been running back to his post by the well. “You, boy, run to captain Lott over there and see how many arrows we have left in the stores” he ordered in French, indicating the English captain. The boy sped off as John ran his hands through his receding hairline. The gate was quivering incessantly as the thud of axes on hardened wood rang out. He wasn’t too worried about that today, behind it stood a thick iron portcullis followed by another, thinner, wooden gate which could both be closed should the thick oak trunks of the main gate fail. What he was worried about was the slowly thinning numbers of men manning the walls. The ladders hadn’t been a threat at first, but soon gaps would start appearing in his defence that coordinated moves from ladder parties could exploit. He could feel the cogs in his brain whirring as two stray bolts clattered to the floor in front of him. He frowned and walked forward to kick them away, then spat at them for good measure. The boy came racing back around the corner of the small keep and skidded to a halt in front of him, unleashing a flurry of provincial French that John couldn’t even begin to understand. “Calm down boy calm down, try that again. Slowly this time”. The boy took a few breathes and then surprised Sir John by speaking in reasonably good English.
“Captain Lott, he says there are arrows for perhaps one day and the other half of this day, if not too many ‘French Cunts’ come knocking.”
John smiled as he saw the boy taking pleasure in the foul word.
“I say Louis, that’s no way for a young lad to be speaking” came a voice, John turned to see Brother Herman, a grin over his face as he looked down at the boy. “Remember, you have the most important job for today. Go on head over to the well, there’re thirsty men on the wall.” Louis nodded and put on a determined face. The two men watched him race off to take a cup up to a panting archer, John with a frown and Herman with a smile. “Ah the eagerness of youth” said the monk, warmly before frowning “not that the old can be any less eager I must say. Those ‘French Cunts’ are certainly rather eager to get at us today.” John was rather taken aback by the monks use of such bad language, but quickly masked his shock, Brother Herman was not your traditional religious zealot.
“Yes, but I shouldn’t worry for now, the gate is still in good nick and Captain Lott figures we should have enough arrows to last us until they get tired and head back to their camp. It’s tomorrow I’m worried about”
“Ah we can always worry about tomorrow Sir John. Tomorrow is another day though, and tomorrow never comes etc. etc. Take your pick of optimistic drivel. I have faith in our mighty leader that we will pull through.”
“Yes of course, God will see us through I’m sure” muttered John, reluctantly humouring the monks faith.
“God John? No no” Herman laughed and smiled at the big knight. “No no, you old boy!” he slapped the man roughly on the back “I have faith in our fearless leader Sir John, may he strike his foes down!” John couldn’t help but smile, he liked the little monk and his limitless good humour.
“Thank you Brother, your faith is greatly appreciated.” He frowned at the quivering gate as a small splinter cracked back from a particularly well placed axe blow. “Still, a little help from God wouldn’t be sniffed at right about now” he muttered. The monk spread his hands and smiled
“God will provide John, and right now he’s provided us with you, and by my estimation that makes us blessed indeed.” With that the little man wandered over to where the wounded English Archer was sitting arguing with a comrade over whether he could go back to the wall. Three hours later and several hundred arrows and bolts spent, the French retreated for the day, the jeers of the English and Flemish hot on their heels, especially when one last arrow, fired by the wiry old English Captain Lott struck a particularly loudmouthed French axeman who had turned to show his genitals at the defenders in an act of defiance, ultimately resulting in him slumped to the floor with an arrow through his chest. Once they were sure that there wouldn’t be another attack that day the English unstrung and the Flemish set their crossbows down. The local villagers came out from the keep and started cooking whilst brother Herman proceeded to organise the provisions of beer to be liberally handed around. After eating John went forward and inspected the gate. The damage was worse than he had hoped, but not as much as he had feared, though now he was sure that it would not last another day now that the arrows were mostly finished. Once that happened the axemen would have free reign to break through the thick wooden beams unencumbered. He found himself the whole war, cursing himself, cursing France and dangerously close to cursing God, although he didn’t feel he should tempt the almighty into making his situation worse than it already was just yet. Captain Lott came to stand with him at the splintered gate. The gruff old Archer was an angry type, heavily respected by his men for being a man who was not afraid to get himself knee deep in filth to help out a comrade, or to kill a Frenchman. “Fuckin’ shit show this sir” Lott said, spitting on the floor and picking some gristle from his teeth. “Gonna be a long day tomorrow I tell ya”. He was not exactly refined man though thought John with a smile..
“Yes, it is promising to be a particularly unpleasant thing to have to wake up to” John muttered in reply. “What do you think Lott, how long will the arrows last tomorrow?” He tried not to sound too hopeful.
“Well our lot will probably go on for anuvva hour or so. Them Flemish pricks can probably hold for maybe three more hours, but I tell ya Sir, wivout our bows they’ll be ‘ard pressed to keep the Froggies away from this ere door.” He gave the gate a slap and a light dust of splinters fell from it causing both men to grimace.
“How are your boys in a close up fight? Do you think they’ll be able to hold at the gate here?” John asked, trying to think ahead to how he would marshal the defence once the gate inevitably fell.
“Well I’d wager any one ov my boys is worth three Froggies that’s for sure. Grisly bastards the lot of ‘em. If I were you though Sir I’d try an’ stack the odds a little for us. Maybe throw up some barricades by the inner gate that we can fight behind, get some oil to slick the ground or something." He suddenly stiffened as he realised he’d been dangerously close to being pushy towards a nobleman "But that’s just my opinion of course sir, wouldn’ think to be tellin you what to do or nuthin’.” John laughed.
“We’re all equal when we’re dead Lott, and it seems to me we’re one foot in the grave here anyway.” Lott smiled at the knight, relaxing a little. “Besides, so long as you’re under my command I would consider it a crime if you didn’t come forward with whatever advice you find necessary. It’s my job to then decide whether to listen to you you old bastard.” He grinned at the captain, who returned the favour. “Right then, you’re in charge of making a fighting barricade at the gate, have it as tough as you like, but don’t make another wall, I want you all able to swing a club or sword over it .” Lott nodded and started to walk away, before he frowned and turned back to John
“Tell you what Sir, we could just chop down that big bastard over there and let him clog up the ‘ole.” He indicated the giant who had just risen from his corner to collect his meal.
“Hmmm” mused John, raising an eyebrow. Lott barked a laugh then spat and shook his head but kept his mouth shut as he moved off again to gather a group of men for the barricades. John went on watching the large man as he paced eerily quietly across the courtyard. The giant took his food without a word and went to sit away from the others as usual. A man of that size clearly had a story, although he also clearly didn’t want to share it, but John figured he was going to die soon anyway so he might as well go find out if he could put the massive man to work somehow.
He didn’t look up as John approached, and didn’t even acknowledge the knight as he drew up in front of him. His bare shoulders were like a mass of knotted rope, muscle layered on muscle coiling down his enormous arms, the spoon he used to eat the broth the villagers had provided looked like a child’s toy in his hands. Crossing his arms and back like a tapestry were a plethora of scars which formed a web so detailed it could have been a map of some uncharted region. He was even more alarming to behold up close than from a distance. John shuddered slightly, it was hard not to fear a man who was almost as tall as you when he was sitting. John cleared his throat and when that got no reaction he tried talking “the wounded man you helped is improving you’ll be glad to know” it wasn’t much in the way of an introduction, but the man responded with an appreciative nod, though not a word. “I’m afraid it looks as though the gate will fall tomorrow, and they’ll probably make short work of the portcullis so we will be fighting with our hands.” He watched the man who continued to eat in silence. He cleared his throat awkwardly but persevered “Should they break through early I’m not sure whether leave the inner gate open and let our men shoot at the bastards or to close it so the bastards can’t shoot at us”. The giant paused or a second before slowly setting down his spoon in the half empty bowl and looking up at John. There was a moment of intense silence as the two locked eyes and despite himself John couldn't marvel at the blue, almost white of the man's irises.
“Apologies Sir John, I prefer to eat alone.” He said in a quiet yet deep rumble. He dropped his gaze again and carried on eating. John felt his cheeks flush, he was not an angry man but he could also tell insolence when he saw it.
“I couldn’t give a damn what you prefer!” he let out, not in a shout, but with an angry tone. “Tomorrow the French will likely as not overrun this fort and then you and I and everyone else will be dining together in hell, so why don’t you get off your damned arse and come help those of us who are trying to save your sorry hide?” The giant didn’t respond but John saw the chords of muscle across his back tense for a second before relaxing again. He carried on eating in silence.
John let out an exasperated growl and spat on the floor “Fine, fucking die in silence then you over sized ox, don’t help and you’ll burn along with the rest of us anyway. Jesus, your little Brother Herman has bigger balls than you do and he’s a goddamn midget priest!” He made to storm away but just as he turned he was caught off-guard by a quiet response
“You will want to keep the inner gate closed Sir John. When they break it they will be in disarray and will rush the barricades where it will be easy to cut them down. Arm some of the Flemish with long hafted spears and have them present these as staves for the enemy to fall upon. Have the English archers armed with clubs and axes, they’re stronger than any usual man but don’t have the skill to use a sword properly.” He had said all this quietly and matter-of-factly into his broth and now he lifted his head to stare at the knight with shockingly blue eyes. “Pray to God Sir John, and if you ever speak unkindly of Brother Herman again I shall remove you from this world.” He picked up the spoon again and went back to eating his broth as if he had never spoken. He was perfectly relaxed and the picture of serenity. Were a lesser man before him John would have been furious, and were he one of the prouder nobles that he knew of then perhaps he would have called for some form punishment. John was a realist though, and they would all probably be dead come lunchtime so he wasn't about to risk his last few hours by starting a fistfight with a man that looked like he could punch a horse to death. More than that though he felt that there was more to this man, a danger in him that lived beneath the muscles, something that he didn’t want to provoke regardless of standing. He turned away and walked back to the group without another word, leaving the strange giant to his broth and hopefully to make his peace before morning.
***
Louis started awake. Initially he wasn’t entirely sure why and he sat up slightly blearily, glancing around at nothing in the cold night. One of the fort dogs farted near him and he giggled quietly. The stars were out in full that night, but the moon was dark, nothing but a colourless sphere hanging in the speckled black canvas of the night sky. He looked around again, searching for what had woken him but he couldn’t see anything but the vague outlines of the fort walls and everything was quiet, seemingly peaceful as the previous evenings. He settled back into the straw bed that Herman had helped him to build on the second night of the siege and began to fall back to sleep. A muffled squeak jolted him awake again and he sat bolt upright. He stared into the darkness, straight at where he had heard the sound come from and after a second spent trying to focus his eyes he thought he could make out a hint of movement. He stood and quietly sneaked his way across the courtyard, picking his way through the sleeping bodies of the women and children from the surrounding farms. The Flemish slept over where had thought he had heard the sound, near the west wall opposite the little keep. Something clattered and he froze where he stood. Someone was walking, hunched over like he was amongst the sleeping peoples bodies. As he stood crouched he saw other figures begin to materialise from the darkness, moving silently throughout the courtyard. He was instantly afraid. One man creeping in the night was one thing, probably someone who needed to relieve himself, but a group of men slinking in unison through the courtyard clearly held bad intent. He took a step back and noticed his foot stuck slightly to the floor. Looking down he saw that he had been standing in a black pool of something that clung to his feet, and upon looking at the lady sleeping next to him he suddenly realised what it was. She stared up at him, blank eyes looking through his skull and out into infinity behind him. He made to scream but her gaze held his, he couldn’t look away until a hand grabbed him from behind and threw him to the ground. The wind was driven out of him hard as he hit the dirt, his right-hand landing in the woman’s blood as he struggled for breath. A gloved hand blocked his mouth and he bit down hard on instinct, causing the man to quietly swear in French. Another person quickly stepped in and punched the boy hard in the side of his head so hard he saw lights flashing in front of his eyes and his mouth went numb. “What about this one?” asked the second man in hushed French too.
“Lejeaunes said all of them, women and fucking children two” the first man replied, sucking his hand where Louis had bitten him. “Come on get it over with, finish the little shit and let’s find those English cocks” the man replied. Louis began to thrash as he understood what they were saying, sure that he was about to be killed. The second man drew his knife, leaning down over him and raising it above his head “sorry boy, nothing personal you see. What the yellow man wants the yellow man gets” He drew the blade back to stab him in the stomach, but never brought it back down. His eyes opened wide as a shadow fell over Louis from behind him.
“Wh….” The Frenchman started but never finished, his question turned to a scream as he was flung fully ten yards through the air to crash against the inside of the castle wall, his head splitting open on impact. Louis fell to the floor in a heap.
“What in the name of God…” The second man began as the giant stepped over Louis towards him.
“In God’s name indeed” thundered the massive man “Rise all of you!” he roared as the Frenchman swung his sword at him and a series of wild swipes. The giant swayed his torso again and again, easily dodging each cut the Frenchman made as though they were the branches of a windswept tree. It was strangely enchanting to see a man of such size move so like liquid, he flowed around the sword blade as though his enemy was missing on purpose. Then as sudden as a strike of lightning he shot out one hand to the man’s throat and tore the whole thing away in his fingers, blood and gore spraying out across his chest as the Frechman dropped his sword with a clatter and clasped at what used to be his windpipe, his eyes suddenly wide in shock, panic and pain. Flames began to shoot up around the courtyard as men woke in an alarm and torches were lit along with shouts of surprise. A group of Frenchmen were running along the base of the eastern wall, leaving behind them a litter of corpses, villagers and soldiers alike lying where they had slept, obvious in their stillness amongst the hubub. The attackers were nearly at the stairs when the Giant appeared before them. Louis hadn’t even seen him move but suddenly he was there, bare chested and silent in front of the fleeing Frenchmen, he lifted the first of them clean off his feet with the swing of one arm, dashing his head against the stone as he spun without hesitation to the next, suddenly low he took the man’s heel and flung him to the dirt, stamping down on his throat with a sickening crunch. The third man made to swing at him but the giant caught his wrist and dislocated his shoulder in one movement then snapped his neck before he even had time to scream. The last three dropped their weapons and surrendered. It was over before anyone was even aware of what had happened, the alarm bell was now ringing high on the keep roof and Sir John had come out into the courtyard
“What the bloody hell is going on?” He shouted over the din of the waking soldiers. Fully twenty soldiers and villagers did not rise however, they never would again. The French raid, though ending in their death, had none-the-less been ruthlessly effective and had almost halved the amount of defenders of the small fort. Looking around him he saw the devastation and his stomach dropped. He couldn’t defend the fort now, not with only twenty men. His eyes then fell on the villagers and his stomach fell further. Almost all of them now lay dead in the dust, women, children, innocents, their eyes unblinking and staring into the night. Rage boiled in him, even for the French this was low. No it wasn't low it was barbaric, it was… beyond him. Then finally he saw the giant man, the three surviving Frenchmen at his feet whimpering slightly as he stared down at them, his breathing slow, measured as he stared down, his hair tied back in a high ponytail. John shook his head in bemused desperation as he walked over to the man and his captives. The small French boy Louis stood up amongst the bodies, at least there was some reprieve from the carnage around him. The body of a Frenchman was lashing at the ground next to him, his throat glaringly absent from where it should be. The whole scene defied his sleep addled brain. “What… happened?” he asked the boy as he walked past.
“The French, they must have snuck in when.. when we were sleeping” he was crying, though trying valiantly not to it was clear that he was overwhelmed with what was happening around him
“It’s alright son, it’s alright, go find Herman, it’ll be OK” John said, trying to sound comforting but his voice coming across as forced and strained.
“The… the Giant Sir. He saved us… I think… I think he’s an angel Sir. He moves so…”
“It’s Ok Louis, go see the monk, he will fix you up”. He turned back to the hulking figure standing over the French, those blue eyes never left their captives, his face was a mask of impassivity. John came up to him and glanced down at the captives as well, before looking up again at the alarmingly serene giant “Who… Are you?” he asked, nothing else coming to mind at that point.
“This is not important Sir John. Who I am doesn’t matter in this moment.” His voice was measured, calm, his muscles relaxed and his breathing soft. “Apologies Sir John but these men should die.”
“I...” John paused and looked down at the grovelling Frenchmen. “They should?” He was genuinely taken aback.
“Yes Sir John, I’m afraid they cannot be allowed to continue. God abhors the murderers of innocents and babes. The blood of those stains these men.” He looked down at John then. “I ask you this as a pleasantry, not as permission. These men will die.” John felt like his feet were paddling in air, he had no grounding.
“Wait wait wait, I need to get a handle on this please. I don’t even know your name. Please tell me who you are. Now.” He stood defiantly, despite the man’s daunting size. The giant looked down at him for a long while.
“Brother Herman!” His voice boomed like a bass drum across the courtyard. The small monk appeared from nowhere, suddenly beside the two, his perpetual smile ever present although the studious observer would note that now there was a hint of darkness leaking from behind his bright teeth.
“Hello Sir John, what appears to be the issue?” The monk asked in a pointedly lighthearted voice.
“Brother Herman. I need you to tell me who this man is. Right now.” The monk looked up at the Giant towering above them, he had an inquisitive look on his face and to John it appeared he was asking permission. The bigger man nodded, his eyes rooted on the Frenchmen again. The monk sighed.
“Well then this is a fine mess.” He began. “Ok Ok. John. SIR John, may I please introduce Brother Michael of Acre. Brother Michael, please meet Sir John” he smiled, slightly too widely.
“Brother? Brother Michael?” John replied, ignoring the apparent levity in the monk’s voice. “Am I supposed to believe that this man” he indicated the bloodstained mountain “is a monk??”
“A…a monk?” Brother Herman looked back and forth between the two for a second. And then burst into laughter. “A monk? Brother Michael? Oh ha ha ha! Sir John no, by heavens no. Brother Michael is a Templar knight.”
The term hung in the air between them.
“A Templar Knight? Here?” Sir John was struck. Again he had no idea how to proceed with this information.
“Yes Sir John, Brother Michael is a Templar Knight. And not just any Templar Knight mind, he is in fact the Master of the house of Acre, the iron fist of Damascus and the Black Right Hand of God. Although he rather prefers just 'Michael', if it please you.” The little monk smiled up at John, unphased by what he had just said, which didn’t do anything to calm John, rather just distressing him more. He had heard the titles, he had understood the weight they held and more to the point he had heard of the Black Right Hand of God before, but it had been no more than a story he had heard told to first time crusaders back in his time before the gates of Jerusalem. It had been the story of a young Knight Templar who had been sent with a small unit attached to a Holy Roman force which had been tasked with putting down a heretic uprising of occultists in Eastern Europe. This man had been a silent giant, stronger than ten men, though untested in battle compared to his comrades. They had had specific orders to capture a shrine based in a large fort east of the Rhine. When the main force had refused to mount a full frontal assault on the fort, instead choosing to try and starve out the occultists the Templars had decried them as cowards before god. Ten Templars had walked up to the fortress and one man had walked away, no-one knew what had happened inside those walls but the giant had walked out through the main gates, his right hand burnt black and carrying the heads of ten heretics, leaving five times as many corpses behind him and the husk of a burnt out fortress crackling in his wake. It was one of the many legends that came out of the halls of the Templars, and of course he had dismissed it as the fantasy of bored soldiers when he had first heard it. He stared at Brother Michael for an age. He certainly fitted the profile.
“And what would happen, were I to say that these men should be kept prisoner until I see fit?” Asked Sir John. The monk sighed and turned away as Brother Michael took hold of the nearest Frenchman and quicker than blinking crushed his skull against his knee, moving like water onto the second and third he beat both of their heads back against the castle wall leaving nothing but a blood smear and fragmented skulls behind. It had happened so fast that John hadn’t even had time to move. Michael was impossibly quick for a man of his size. He straightened, turning to John and Herman he exhaled deeply once, bringing his bloodied hands back down to his side. John was speechless, his entire estimation of this siege had been flipped on its head and then flipped again, and again until now he wasn’t sure what to think at all. "Well..." He started, stunned.
“Sir John please, I would advise you to ignore this now. Consider the defence of your castle. Tonight is over, your fortress is safe and we have repelled the invader.” The small monk put his hand on John’s chest, with surprising firmness. John nodded quietly. His head was a mess but one thing stood out. A master of the Knights Templar stood before him. His authority held no sway over this man, and therefore this was out of his control, and so he turned back to his men, who had watched the whole exchange in equally stunned surprise.
“Move the dead to one side, prepare the castle, find whatever ladder they used to get in. There’s no point in trying to sleep again it’s almost dawn.” He looked at their bewildered faces, not one of them was moving, but rather were staring at the hulking figure of brother Michael, who hadn’t moved. “Now you bunch of twats!” John roared at them suddenly angry again. Captain Lott was the first to snap out of his reverie, turning and grabbing the closest two men to him and dragging them away. The others followed, setting about the morning tasks just as the first beams of sunlight came over the Eastern wall.
“Sir John” came the voice of the Giant behind him, suddenly close, making him jump. He turned to face Michael, and looked up at the giant again.
“What, what could I possibly help you with Sir?” He asked slightly more angrily than he thought he was.
“Sir John it would do me a great honour to be allowed to join your battle line tomorrow for when the gate falls. I would position myself as best fits your layout. You need not worry about me or consider me in your plans, I am very adept at choosing the optimum position for the situation.” He didn’t once meet John's eyes but instead surveyed over his head at the now busying soldiers.
“Do I have any option in this Brother Michael?” asked John and for the first time he saw the Giant break his impassive mask.
“No Sir John” Michael smiled, “this was merely a courtesy. It is my duty to slay the heretics and find Lejeaunes" he frowned slightly as he said the name "as God and the church decree. Prepare your line John. I shall stand with you as the situation necessitates.” With that the giant and his small ecclesiastical friend moved off, Michael slowly running one hand through the other, blood dripping down beneath his feet.
John shook his head. On the one hand having a man referred to as ‘the Black Hand of God’ was certainly going to help him with several issues, namely moral and certainly adding a weight of combat prowess that no other member of his team possessed. On the other hand he was a massive unknown and in a battle an unknown standing on your side of the line was a dangerous thing. He sighed. What was he in front of a Templar master? For that matter, what was he in front of the might of the church? Clearly these men were not here by accident but rather for some cause above his, to kill this ‘Lejeaunes’ apparently, a person who until now he was entirely unaware of. In the grand scheme of things though it wasn’t really his problem right now. They were clearly on his side, with no love for the French attackers who as far as he could see were absolutely the most immediate threat to his life and the lives of those under his command. Even so, the Giant man and his small comrade, who until then had been a comfort, were now a difficult uncertainty thrown into the defence of his little fort.
He sighed again and moved off, there wasn’t anything he could do and he was never much a believer in worrying about things he couldn’t do anything about and so he walked towards where Captain Lott was shouting at a bemused looking Flemish man. He would set his defence, he would fight to the last and perhaps dying next to a Templar would help balance the scale when he reached the pearly gates. He smiled at that thought, then frowned and sighed again as Lott smacked the man he had been shouting at.
***
Louis ran up to the walls as fast as the large sack of water in his hands would let him, carrying it to the thirsty archers as they loosed off their bolts. They were shooting more sparingly today he noticed, risking having their heads over the parapet a little longer so as to place their shots better. The French had come early that morning, seemingly eager to take advantage of the depleted forces and the weakened gate. They were now battering at it in flurries of blows, shields held high above their heads to try and protect themselves from the fearsomely accurate arrows from above. They were being cautious however, unaware that the defenders were almost out of arrows and so were taking their time. Brother Michael hadn’t left a single Frenchman alive from the night before so no one had been able to return to their camp to report on the numbers they had slain. The defenders had been faced with an issue though that anyone below the walls would have been able to see that they were now woefully short on defenders, with perfect ladder sized gaps between them. Luckily, in the early light of the morning Brother Herman had had the idea to dress the dead men for battle and prop them up against the old stone crenulations, giving the illusion that the night time attackers had completely failed in their attempts, Sir John hadn’t seen anything wrong with the idea, particularly as it was the church that had suggested it. So the French were battering down what was left of the gate whilst almost all the remaining archers, English and Flemish, rained their last shafts down on them, relishing for the last time their ability to shoot at the fish in the barrel beneath them.
Louis slipped behind two of the English as they loosed and gave the Flemish man next to them a long gulp of water as he wound back the thick chord on his crossbow. There was no banter between the two groups of them now, only a grim camaraderie. The English had been spared the slaughter from the night before but the Flemish had been sorely wounded and as a result the two groups had come together since, sharing their food, paying their respects and helping one another as they made their last ditch attempts to keep the French at bay. Louis gave the last of his water from the sack to the English Captain Lott, who had slumped back, his right hand dripping blood from his bow fingers. “Cunts” the man muttered and grinned through gritted teeth at Louis before taking a swig. “Go on lad, go fill up, ain’t gonna be no time for rest today. Gonna be too busy killing these fackin’ Froggies!” he smiled again before hefting his bow once more and lining up a new target, an arrow lodging itself under the raised arm of an axeman at the gate, who fell screaming to be dragged away by the men behind him and immediately be replaced by another.
Louis sped down the stairs back into the courtyard and nearly ran headfirst into one of Sir John’s new barricades. The men had been building them all morning, dragging furniture out of the keep and hacking down the last of the small trees from the grove at the back of the fort to pile them in a ring at about waist height around the back of the gatehouse, forcing a bottleneck for when the French made it through the portcullis and final weak gate. Skirting the ring of debris Louis made his way over to the well where Brother Herman was in deep hurried conversation with Sir John. The Courtyard was strangely quiet in comparison to the flurry of activity on the wall above, the only sounds being the beating of the axes on the last of the great wooden outer gate and a long harsh rasping sound from by the stables. Again and again the sound of whetstone on blade rang harsh from where the giant Templar sat on the stump of an old tree. Louis couldn’t help but gaze over as he drew the water up from the well. The man had saved his life the night before, with nothing but his bare hands and wearing a pair of lambs wool trousers he had killed five men as though they were wheat before a scythe. Now the Black hand of God was dressed for war. Even sitting he was daunting, if not terrifying. A thick long coat of mail rings hung from his shoulders over several layers of leather and fabric. Above that large plates of metal hung crudely, covering his chest, stomach, back, shoulders and upper arms whilst a coat of plates hung down to just beneath his knee. On top of all this was the great white mantle of the Templars with the red Cross blazing from the middle of his chest, proudly showing to any standing before him of what they faced, as if the mountain of man and metal wasn’t enough. Beside him sat a great helm thicker and larger than any he’d seen before and clearly well used, crudely painted in white with the red cross of the Templars daubed over the face. Lastly two enormous metal gauntlets sat neatly on the ground next to him. Unlike the rest of his armour these were clearly crafted by a master smith, articulated scales allowed almost totally free movement of the fingers whilst a large spiked panel covered the knuckles and the back of the hand whilst another protected the palms. One was painted a deep jet black, the other was buffed to a glaring sheen glinting in the morning sun, they looked like weapons on their own. Across his knees sat the largest sword Louis had ever seen. It stood as tall as a normal man, broad and wickedly sharp, the pommel was undecorated save for a large counterweight which had been fashioned into the shape of the templar cross. Along the swords great length ran patterns like smoke, coils and ripples ran through the steel in mystifying ways, Louis concluded that it must be one of the magical sword that his father had once told him had been given to the Templars by an angel when they had still called Jerusalem their seat. In all the man was a Titan, an impenetrable behemoth of protective steel coupled to a sword the length of a lance, for the first time in nine days Louis felt a touch of excitement in his stomach. His water sack filled he ran off up the stairs again to help the archers as they expelled the last of their arrows.
“A good boy that one” said Brother Herman as Louis raced off round the unmanned barricade.
“What?” asked John who had been deep in thought. “Oh right yes. Yes he’s a good asset to the fort. Shame he won’t make it much beyond today, maybe if he pretends to be our prisoner…”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t help him,” Brother Herman interjected “the man we face at the head of the French is not want to show much mercy, to friend or foe, Frenchman or Englishman I’m afraid sir John.” John watched the small monk as he picked at some dead skin on his fingernail.
“Why are you here Brother?” He asked after a while.
“Here Sir John?” the monk asked nonchalantly, inspecting his hands and avoiding eye contact. He looked up when John didn’t reply and met his gaze, seeing the intensity there he sighed. “Well seeing as you’re so adamant we won’t be here come tomorrow I suppose it won’t hurt.” He sat up on the well wall, the long drop behind apparently not perturbing him. “As we explained, Brother Michael here is ‘the Black Hand of God’, a silly nickname invented by the Templars to instil fear in the enemy, as if Michael’s size wouldn’t do that enough." He laughed, swinging his feet like a child "We are part of a group of the church’s warriors above most others. Well I’m not a warrior, I am merely Michael’s carer, I should say that he is part of a group of warriors above others in the church’s power. We are tasked with missions of particular import, the pope himself is the one who gives our orders.” John raised his eyebrows sceptically, causing the little man to chuckle “yes I know, bizarre isn’t it, but sometimes people are so heinous, their crimes so vile that the Holy Father himself gets wind of them and dispatches one of our order to take care of this, from putting down a knot of heretics on the banks of the Rhine to rooting out a coven of demon worshippers in the Welsh mountains our missions are sacred and above all else.”
“So you are here on the orders of the pope himself to put down a… heretic?” John asked, intrigued despite himself.
“Lejeaunes” The monk said, a dark look flashing across his face. “The leader of the band that so persistently beats at our gates here. It is said that he weaves spells over his men to induct them into his war party, to make them ferocious and rabid and spite God. He’s also meant to collect the ears of those he slaughters, to burn in the name of Lucifer and his demons in exchange for good fortune in future battles.” John looked stricken “It’s all bollocks of course, a steaming pile of shit cooked up by some clever chaplains and dissolved amongst the ranks to spark outrage. What is true is that Lejeaunes and his band of merry wankers raided a monastery two years ago and burnt it to the ground along with one of the largest biblical libraries to have existed in Christendom." He looked up at him with a stern look on his face. "After we are all dead Sir John it will be books that tell our stories, that show our faith and ensure our names live on. The burning of the monastic library was a crime against both man and God so heinous that it warranted Michael and myself to hunt Lejeaunes down and bring him to face his judgment. I have seen Michael’s judgment before at Acre John and I can tell you, once we have him, Lesjeaunes will wish for hell.” John glanced over at the Metal cased giant by the stables, the rasping of his whetstone against the great sword a perpetual rhythm to the morning.
“I must say, having seen his performance last night I am certainly interested to see ‘The master of Acre’ in action, even if it will be one of the last things we see.” Brother Herman hopped off the well and smacked the dust off his hands.
“And I must say, Sir John, you are being rather morbid. The French are not the tides of hell, they are not endless.” He took one of John’s arms in his hands and looked up into his eyes, suddenly serious “Trust God John, trust in the enormous arms of Brother Michael, trust in your men and most importantly, trust in yourself. You are the commander of this garrison, you will lead us to life.” He gave his arm an affectionate squeeze and nodded to him then moved off to join Michael in the stable. John smiled to himself then shouted across the courtyard
“Trust myself above God Brother?”
“I won’t tell the Pope if you don’t Sir John!” The monk grinned back before turning to Michael who shook his head slightly in rebuke without breaking his rhythm with the whetstone. John leant over the well and spat into it, listening to the splash several seconds later before turning around and looking up at the wall. Two of the Englishmen had been hit that morning, one had unfortunately fallen forward with a bolt in his shoulder and had quickly been hacked to pieces by the Frenchmen beneath. The other man had taken a bolt in the thigh, but instead of coming off the wall to join the wounded he had stayed where he was, gritting his teeth and firing down on the attackers. Two women had gone up and strapped his leg after it was clear he wouldn’t budge. Mercifully none of the Flemish had been hit and after last night’s losses they were operating with a vicious efficiency and a vehement aggression. He shook his head, ‘trust in your men’ the little monk had said. “Alright then, let’s lead you fucks to life” he muttered, pushing himself forward off the well.
John walked across the courtyard right up to the splintering gate, the noise of axes on wood was loud as soon as he entered the tunnel under the gatehouse, the sound of roaring Frenchmen clamouring for his blood rang around the stone enclosure. He stood beneath the portcullis and inspected the broken gate in front of him, the wood was constantly shuddering now. It rocked on it's hinges every time an axe landed, the defenders above unable to keep the enemy back now. As he stood there inspecting the ragged wood an axe blade suddenly cleaved through to his top right. There was a roar from the attacking French and John took a shocked step back, however rather than the blade pulling free and leaving a gaping hole it became wedged and two seconds later there was a scream from the other side as one of his men above him found their target. Stepping back John made to investigate the drawn up portcullis, about to observe the slightly rusted mechanism above him when he heard an English cry from above. He ran out of the gatehouse to look up.
“What is it Captain Lott?” he called up to the defenders.
“Last ten arrows Sir John” Lott called back from behind a crenulation. He was handing out the last of them to his most trusted marksmen. The Flemish were exchanging worried looks and it was clear that their own supplies were running alarmingly low. John thought quickly.
“Fire off your last then Lott, then pull your men back to me” he called up.
“Right you are Sir” Lott shouted back standing and loosing the first of his last two arrows.
John turned and beckoned to the remaining villagers who were bustling about the courtyard trying to help as they could. They looked worried he thought. Those of them who spoke some English had relayed what was happening on the walls to those that didn’t. “Bring out everything that could be used as a weapon” Jon shouted to them in his broken French “Hammers, clubs, anything that would injure or kill, especially if it is made of metal. Go!” The small gaggle quickly dispersed again, suddenly given purpose. They brought forward a small pile of smithing and farming tools, bludgeoning weapons. John glanced over at Brother Michael to see if he approved but the man was engrossed in the preparation of his equipment. Behind him the English had fired off the last of their arrows and were now retreating down the stairs to join Sir John in the courtyard.
“What now Sir?” asked a particularly burly young man who had the hairiest arms John had ever seen.
“Well now Frank, we will need to rely on the good nature of our Flemish friends up there on the wallto keep things going for a while”. He spoke with a wry smile but as he did so there was a splintering snap behind him as another axe burst through the gate and this time did not stick, but tore away leaving a hole in the wood through which the English could see the snarling face of the Frenchman who had caused the damage. They stood transfixed as the offending axeman screamed a tirade of abuse they didn’t understand through the hole at the archers who stood transfixed in shock as the moment they had feared arrived all too soon. Then suddenly a crossbow bolt appeared right through the top of the screaming man's head. His face went dull and he slowly slid left out of sight as he fell dead to the floor. There was a second of silence and then a Flemish man on the wall shouted in triumph and turned to grin at the English below him as he sat to crank his crossbow. The stunned archers let out a cheer and threw up their fingers towards the French through the hole, laughing and jeering and applauding the man who sat grinning on the wall. “Right then lads! No time to lose it seems!” shouted Sir John, a smile on his face despite the situation. He clapped his hands together, “OK then, grab yourselves a club or axe or hammer or whatever and get yourselves in line with the barricades, I need two of you to head up to the gatehouse and get the portcullis ready to drop.”
“Hammers and clubs Sir?” asked Lott, slightly indignantly but hiding it under a layer of respect, “Where’s the steel? The swords Sir?”
“Well Lott, you chaps are a big bunch no doubt about it, and I reckon you’ll be handy in a close fight, but you’re not exactly graceful are you?” the archers smiled and jostled one another. “So, what the biggest bloke here” he indicated Brother Michael “has suggested, is that we stick a load of heavy things in your hands and let you introduce them to the ‘Froggies’ skulls. That alright with you?” the archers happily murmured their assent.
“Aye I reckon that makes a good deal of sense Sir” replied Lott, athoughtful look on his face. “Let’s hop to it then lads!” He said, ushering them forward. “Rob, Frank, you cunts head up t’the gatehouse.” The two men sped off up the stairs jumping between the tiring Flemish, clapping them on the shoulders and shouting words of encouragement to them.
“Lott I need you to fetch out the spars from the keep, pile them over in the corner there then get that French boy and send him to me.” John was serious now, he was back in garrison commander mode and Lott jumped to in response. As he jogged off John turned to see the hulking figure of Brother Michael just getting up from his spot on the log by the stables and Brother Herman hefting his helmet, which looked comically big in the small monk’s hands. John sighed, it seemed he would get no peace today. The two men made their way over and Sir John marvelled at the way the large man moved, he seemed not to notice what must have been a man’s weight in armour, and the huge greatsword on his back didn’t hinder him in the least. In fact the giant Templar could only be described as utterly terrifying and despite himself he smiled again, this time for the macabre reason of looking forward to seeing 'the Black Hand of God in action in the killing field. He hid his smile as the two men approached.
“Sir John,” Brother Michael said as he drew up next to him “it is only a matter of minutes now until the gate gives way. Are your men prepared?”
“I believe so brother Michael” John looked pensively towards the shuddering gate, two more slightly smaller holes had appeared and the wood was starting to bow in alarmingly. Right on que Louis the waterboy appeared at his side, panting slightly.
“Monsiuer? I… I mean Sir?” he asked, his eyes darting to and from him and Brother Michael.
“Louis good boy, I need you” He knelt to eye level with the young boy and clapped him on the shoulder with one hand. “Things are about to get extremely ugly in the courtyard here and I’ll be needed on the front of it.” He smiled at the boy to try and calm him, as he was wringing his hands a little “I’m going to need you to be my voice around the fortress whilst we are defending the courtyard, do you think you can do that for me Louis?” The boy looked up and nodded, a face of fear but with a childhood stubbornness that made John feel a strange sense of pride at the back of his head, this boy wouldn’t let him down he didn’t think, he was too pissed off. John smiled and ruffled his hair, straightening. “Good lad, first off I need you to run to the gatehouse there and tell the two men inside to drop the portcullis, can you do that?” The boy nodded eagerly "good lad, and when you're done come back here and find me. Off you go now" Louis smiled and sped off up the stairs once more, John and the two Templars watched him go in silence. They watched for a while once he had gone into the upper level of the gatehouse as the gate itself heaved inwards still further. Axes crunched and splintered against the wood incessantly, the shouts of the French louder and louder it seemed. John frowned as he watched, time was dragging on now and it seemed that the boy had been gone for longer and longer and still the portcullis remained open. John was about to follow after him when Louis came scampering out of the gatehouse again, faster than before and with a heart droppingly worried expression on his face.
“Mr John! Mr John!” the boy was shouting in English as he ran down the steps two at a time. “Mr John! The gate! The Iron gate” The portcullis was broken. It was clear from the look on his face and the more obvious fact that it hadn’t been closed yet. He cursed himself. It must have happened last night, the attackers must have broken one of the mechanisms and suddenly he felt like an idiot for not checking. Louis arrived and began to explain what was happening but then everything seemed to happen at once. One of the Flemish men on the wall shouted down that he was out of bolts, a second shouted before the first had finished and then the gate gave an almighty crack and two huge panels snapped clear, finally enough for a single man to climb through at a time. It all happened in a heartbeat and without the portcullis and no-one prepared to close the rear gate there was nothing stopping the French from now entering the courtyard. Two men burst through the hole they had made, one after the other with more following. All of a sudden John felt his instinct take over and time seemed to slow. He took a single deep breath, clenched his mailed hands once then pushed off with his left boot, feeling the dirt and earth crunch under the balls of his foot.
“Brother Michael, with me” he shouted simply and hefted his Warhammer from its sling at his waist as he leapt forward. The Giant nodded and strode with him, leaving Brother Herman frowning and clutching the giant helmet. As the two ran past the barricades John shouted over to Lott who was snarling at the men coming through the gate “hold here Captain, bring the Flemish down and prepare” he wanted to say more but before he knew it he was almost upon the enemy where experience kicked in and suddenly nothing else mattered. John was an older soldier, a veteran of several battles, which was not a boast you could make if you didn’t have a certain level of fighting skill. He liked to think of himself as a kindly, patient man when at work and he had a strong head, but when the red mist descended and the fires of battle began he let his body take over from his mind and he became pure well honed instinct. With a roar his warhammer crashed through the first man’s raised sword as if it weren’t there and continued through to collide with his chestplate in a sickening crack as it caved in the man's ribcage. He allowed his momentum to carry him on as he ducked slightly to slip under the sword swing of the second man and to crash his shoulder into him, knocking him clean off his feet as John made it to the gate before the third man could fully climb through. As he had anticipated he heard a crack behind him as Michael must have ended the second man on the floor. In battle if you lost your footing you were dead. He regained his balance by slamming against the gate and in doing so was able to bring his hammer down once more to bend the leg of the third intruder at a complete right angle in the wrong direction as he tried to struggle through the hole in the gate. The man fell screaming to partially plug the hole and John left him there, a wounded man was a better barrier than a dead one as he would hinder any man behind with his writhing. He took this opportunity to take a breath and look back at Michael. He took a small pleasure in seeing what appeared to be a look of surprised satisfaction on the man’s face and then he smiled further as he looked back to see the English archers grinning widely in admiration.
“Sir John, I had heard word of your skill, I must say it is an honour to see it in person.” The giant smiled at him “by your leave I will work on the…” he was interrupted as another Frenchman jumped through the gap as his wounded comrade was pulled clear, before John could react though the Black Hand of God had appeared in the space where the man’s head had been, the glistening, spiked black gauntlet moved faster than blinking and left nothing but a mess of shattered teeth and crushed eye sockets, sending the man flying back again through the hole he had jumped through. “By your leave Sir John I would close your Portcullis from here, however this will require you to hold the gap alone whilst I do so, would this be acceptable?” John looked at the man slightly bemused, the extreme violence the man was capable of contrasted so profoundly with the way he spoke it was almost impossible to connect the two to the same person. But he didn’t have time to think now as the gate gave another heave inwards and groaned.
“If you can Brother then be my guest, I have the gap.” The French were roaring from the other side of the gate and he readied his hammer as Michael took two steps back. John was stunned as he watched the big man simply raise his hands to grasp the bottom protruding rung of the useless portcullis and heave. He didn’t have the time to marvel though as another man thrust a sword through the split in the gate in an attempt to catch him off guard. John blocked a wild slash with the haft of his hammer in one hand and with his other hand he snapped the man’s elbow, causing the sword to satisfyingly retreat in a loud scream. Another man was quickly through, lancing his sword forward in a half stabbing half swinging motion before John had time to get his right footing and he thought he was done. Luckily the sword thrust deflected off his mail coat, only causing a heavy abrasion on his hip bone that the adrenaline in his system helped him ignore. He found a footing, too close to the man to swing his hammer but was able to land a punch with his mailed glove his nose, not as effective as Brother Michael’s earlier but certainly stunning the man enough to send him reeling back so that John was able to bring his hammer down in a wicked arc onto his skull. As he did so Michael let out a shout of alarm
“The Gap!” he roared in a voice like thunder and on reflex John swung his hammer backhanded so that the spiked back of the vicious weapon smacked cleanly into the chest of a man who had been taking the step through the shattered gate whilst John had been occupied. He stared stunned at Michael who smiled back at him and heaved on the iron grate, which moved down a notch.
“Louis!” John shouted, as Michael strained the portcullis down one more step, for the first time a look of discomfort showing on his hardened face. The boy came racing up as John threw back another would-be attacker, the gate splintering even further. “Tell Lott to have his men ready” Michael pulled once more on the iron bars, his immense size tensing against the broken portcullis. “Have them ready to block off the grooves in the gatehouse above us where the portcullis is, he will know what I mean.” The boy nodded and glanced up at the Templar who puffed out his cheeks as he pulled down once more, straining against the immense counterweights concealed above them as the boy sped off with the message.
The French had stopped trying to push through as John held the gap and had gone back to smashing at it with their axes. He watched as they snarled and swore at him. “Come on you cowardly arseholes!” he shouted, taking up a menacing position by the gap, spinning his Warhammer in his mailed hand in readiness as the French milled about on the other side. The gate gave another heave and two planks to John’s right buckled inward. “Brother Michael hurry!” John shouted, aware he would not be able to hold two holes in the gate on his own and would soon be outflanked. He Received nothing but a growl in return as the giant pulled the iron grill down another foot. It was now at his chest height and John, glancing back between hurled insults saw the garrison in a madness of activity, preparing themselves for the defence as the Flemish had come down off the wall and were busy setting up by the Barricades.
Suddenly the gate gave an almighty crack and the boards to his right gave way as a Frenchman’s axe smashed through. On instinct John brought the hammer down, shattering the wrist that held the axe, but before he could turn he felt a ringing crack go through his helmet followed by a harsh pain in his left shoulder as a man had swung his sword through the first hole in the gate behind him, glancing off his helmet and catching the mail coat just below his collar bone. He cried out, falling to one knee, but managed to swivel to defend against a killing blow aimed at his head from his attacker. The sword caught in the cross of his hammer and he strained back against the snarling man, John snarling himself in response, but he was failing to hold his attacker back as his left arm had gone numb. He felt himself stumble to the floor and a heavy blow rang through his head, knocking his helmet clean off and sending a rainbow of colours and stars flashing through his mind as concussion blinded him. His arm gave out as his attacker readied himself for the killing blow. Death it seemed had come for him earlier in the day than he had expected and he began to close his eyes as his head rang like bell. Suddenly the Frenchman let out a gargling scream as a long thin blade appeared through his unguarded throat.
“Sorry Sir John” Lott shouted over the roaring of the attackers on the other side of the heaving gate “personally I fink I’m better with a blade than a club”. John blinked up at the old archer, his brain foggy and unable to quite grasp what was happening. Lott smiled grimly at him before his wickedly sharp knife darted in his thickly muscled right arm, seeing off what was left of John’s attacker before hamstringing an intruder from the newly formed breach. The knife jumped to slice over the thigh of a man stepping over his fallen comrade then came back to tear his cheek open before the first injury had even been registered. Lott's face was morose as he cut from one gap to the other, four men had fallen before John could regain his bearings. Then suddenly he was being dragged backwards, under the half closed portcullis and past the giant form of Michael, he was too stunned to register what was really happening but he appealed against it. He screamed at the two archers who were pulling on his jerkin to let him go as he watched Lott turn to grab the front of Brother Michael’s mantel. “Ya close that fuckin' gate, ya hear me Brother?” He growled, turning to elbow another intruder in the jaw then stab him in the gut as he reeled back. “Close tha fuckin’ gate” he stared Michael in the eyes and the giant nodded, understanding.
“We shall meet at Saint Peter’s feast Brother” The giant replied, and Lott smiled at him.
"Aye, I'll be the naked fucker covered in wine" He barked a harsh, loud laugh as he spun back to deflect an axe blow away from his head. John made to cry out again but his tongue was swollen in his mouth, his throat unable to make a sound around it as the Templar gave a great roar of exertion, his voice booming out over the din of the French and with one final heave he slammed down theblack iron of the portcullis. True to their orders Lott’s men in the gatehouse locked the grate into place straight away, and the iron dug deep into the ground, holding fast. Lott himself though stood isolated on the far side.
"Come on then you Froggie arseholes" the old soldier growled at the crowd of men behind the gate, his long knife glinting menacingly. Two men came through at once, hoping to overpower him, but he moved too fast for them and the first man fell clutching his intestines before he had made it through. Lott parried two wild swings from the second man before stepping inside his reach to slide the knife up through the bottom of his jaw deep into his brain. Brother Michael stood and watched in silence from behind the portcullis, unblinking as Lott tore down several more attackers before finally being caught from behind by a sword to the back of his knee. Even cut down to one knee he managed to slice the heel of his attacker who fell screaming before he turned panting to face an enormous Frenchman. The two stared at each other, Lott was panting hard and blood was flowing fast from his wounded leg as Michael, John, and the rest of the garrison looked on in silence. Lott spat on the floor and grinned over at Brother Michael "Naked and covered in wine" he smiled as the man brought his axe swinging down in a great arc on his head.
The Frenchman roared in exaltation and raised his large arms over his head in his victory before turning to face brother Michael, who still stood staring at the shattered corpse of the English captain. The large axeman screamed at the Templar, unleashing a tirade of profanity at him as he simply stood looking at the bloodied mess of what had once been Lott’s head. The Frenchman continued to shout at him, bringing his face close to the iron as more of his companions pushed through the undefended gaps, widening them as they did, smashing timbers from inside and out as they were finally able to tear down what was left of the gate unimpeded. Those not hacking down the thick timbers joined in the screaming of abuse at Brother Michael. John pushed himself to a sitting position just as Michael looked up. He stared the large Frenchmen in the eyes, still looking down on the man despite the other's great size, but the men, buoyed by their advance into the gate continued to scream regardless. Slowly the giant knelt and picked a handful of dirt from the earth. He ran it through his hands twice before closing his eyes and amidst the cacophony of French insults growled a prayer in his deep bass voice “Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei, requiescat in pace.” He threw the earth forward so that it pattered over Lott’s body. He was silent for a moment as the French swore at him and then he brought his eyes up to stare at Lott’s killer “Amen” he whispered. He took one lunging step forward and with his left hand grabbed the man’s tunic through the portcullis with a shining white gauntlet, pulling him forward so that he collided with the barrier at the same time as his black metal encased right hand came flying forward. It smashed into the axeman’s face at such a velocity the there was only blood and torn flesh left beneath the spikes. He brought his hand back and cracked it back again into the same place, the French who were originally stunned to silence by the speed of the Templar’s movements tried to jump to action, attempting to swing swords and stab knives through the grate of the portcullis but none had any effect, sliding off the great plates of armour that hung off the giant’s shoulders. Michael brought his fist crashing again and again into the man’s head, ignoring every one of the glancing blows to his body as he grimly proceeded to remove any semblance of humanity from what had once been the axeman that killed Lott. Finally, after nothing but a bloodied mess was left of the Frenchman's head, Brother Michael threw the body back amongst his desperate comrades and took two steps away from their flailing, glancing strikes. John inhaled and realised he had been holding his breath as he had watched. The Giant looked at the suddenly quiet attackers, surveying their faces one by one. "You shall all burn" he whispered, the sound like distant thunder telling of an oncoming storm as blood dripped thickly from his gauntlet to the dirt. He turned his vast back to them and casually walked from the gatehouse, his face blank once more as he shouted “Seal the inner gate” up to the men in the house above him. The smaller panelled gate slowly swung shut behind him as he strode into the now oddly silent courtyard, the French disappeared behind the wood in a frothing anger behind him and the defenders in equal parts shock and fright stood watching as the metal clad giant strode through the barricades, past the men and on to his stump by the stables. He removed the sword from his back and began to drag the whetstone along its length as though nothing had happened, though the discerning listener may have been able to tell that the rasping was a notch harsher than it had been before.
***
John shook his head to try and clear it as the English sat in sullen silence around him, blank faces staring at nothing in particular. The Flemish were moving slowly too, they had ran of bolts now and the French were free to attack the inner gates unobstructed so the crossbowmen now paced back and forth along the walls with their swords in their hands to keep an eye out for any ladder based attackers, although the French seemed content to continue their focus on a frontal assault. The couple of remaining local women were handing out food and water and helping with the wounded in a manner as if it was as normal as breathing. They went about their jobs as if it was an everyday routine and their stability was helping the men to centre themselves since the death of Captain Lott. Brother Herman too was wandering between them, Flemish and English alike, saying prayers with those who wanted to, joking about nothing with those who didn’t and giving some of the fiery spirit to those who were too morose for either, until they weren’t. John was still seeing stars at the edges of his vision but he ignored them, forcing himself into focus as he surveyed the fort. His defence of the gate earlier had won him further respect from the men but Lott’s death hung heavy on them all, as it did on him. He had liked the tough old soldier and had enjoyed his company during the campaign, but he was the garrison commander and he had other things to deal with besides grief at that point, the barricades were up but there was more to be done.
The long spars they had fashioned the previous night were piled uselessly on the floor. He had stood at battles with the French when their formidable cavalry were halted by well-placed sharpened stakes, perhaps he could employ a similar tactic here to hinder the infantry as they broke down the final gate. A small ditch too could help give them another edge if it were dug right. He needed to get the men working that much was clear, up and moving otherwise they would not have the heart to fight. He needed to show that his leadership was still good and he needed to prove to them that they still had hope, even if he didn't believe it himself. He stood and listened for a second. He closed his eyes and pointed his face to the sun. War was noisy he thought, even in the quiet moments there was still screaming and shouting, groaning and swearing, he couldn't remember the last time that there wasn't some kind of purveying ambient noise of death or battle. He missed silence, he missed the quiet of peace. Shaking his head again he scowled at the sitting men, now wasn't the time to get nostalgic.
“Frank!” he shouted to a particularly hairy archer who was fiddling with his bowstring. The man jumped up with a startled yelp as he heard his name.
“Yessir” the short stocky man said, looking up at John.
“I want you and two men to snap half of those spars in half there and bury them into the ground.” The man looked puzzled at him rather than moving and he immediately missed Lott even more “like you do when you stand in a firing line, like cavalry stakes. The other half give to the Flemish to hold like spears.” The man continued to frown at him in confusion.
“But... they ain't gonna ride ‘orses in ‘ere are they sir?” He asked. John struggled not to hit the man.
“No Frank, but they are going to run at us like mad men, and if we can get some stakes in the ground before that then maybe we can get a few more of the bastards before they get to us.” He explained slowly. Frank stood still frowning for a second before he finally caught John’s drift.
“Right sir, dig the spears into the ground, gotcha Sir.” He stood there watching Sir John
"And the other half to the Flemish." John finished for him, expectantly. Frank continued to stand there staring at him. “Well off you go then Frank" he waved his hands in exasperation "and take those two with you” he indicated two of the other English archers sitting nearby. The men struggled to their feet as Frank turned away “and be quick! I doubt we have more than half an hour, an hour at most.” The man scuttled off, grabbing the other two as he went and they set about their task. John ran his fingers through his ever thinner hair and looked around for more to do, if he wasn't completely bald by the end of this he would be amazed. It was infuriating having to just wait and wait, not being able to do anything to delay the attackers.
He shouted at a group of Flemish to check their weapons and to start digging a trench, he doubted they'd come up with anything effective in time but it gave them something to do. Some of them had gone up to drop stones from the battlements but after one of them had been grazed by a passing bolt John had ordered them back. A man holding at the barricade was more useful than some headaches. He looked around him again and spotted Brother Herman walking over with Brother Michael, the large man was carrying his helmet now and had a grim look on his face.
"They will be through the Portcullis at any moment John" he growled, staring at the closed inner gate, "are your men ready?" John looked around at the last of his motley crew
"As ready as they will ever be Brother Michael" He looked up at the sky, the sun was out and there wasn't a cloud nearby, nothing but azure blue for as far as he could see. "A good day to die" John mumbled.
"Oh Sir John you are morbid" smiled the little priest. "Here, have a drop of this" he instructed, offering forward a skin of his fiery spirit. John opened his mouth to refuse but then shrugged, where was the harm now? He took a swig and choked as a small inferno burnt his mouth. The priest and a couple of the other men nearby laughed, even the giant smiled.
"Piss off" he grunted, handing the skin back. Just then there was a great crash and a roar from behind him.
The inner gate buckled as a rush of Frenchmen banged into it having removed the portcullis. "Piss off" muttered John again, Brother Michael frowned at the gate as it began to splinter, his face betrayed only the slightest annoyance. "Right then boys!" John shouted to the men in the courtyard standing and looking at him as he rallied himself "I'm not one for rousing speeches" he unslung his warhammer again, feeling his arm twinge a little but he gave it a few practice swings before pointing it at the gate "these fuckers are coming to try and kill us." He grinned at them "let's kill them all first" the men roared in agreement, the Flemish getting the gist of the idea even though he had shouted in English. They took up their positions against the barricade as the axes started to break through and snarling French faces showed through cracks in the wood.
Some men prayed, some men screamed insults, the giant placed his helmet on his head, pointed his sword to the sky and then towards the screaming French and the gate burst open.
There was instant mayhem. The first few French fell almost immediately as the Flemish thrust their long spears forward, however most of them stuck fast in the dying bodies and became useless, allowing the second wave to push through and make it to the barricade with a screaming roar. The defenders had the upper hand in holding their ground behind the tangle of furniture and bushes but the French had numbers and weight. John brought his hammer down on the shoulder of the first man to reach him with a sickening crunch and he fell screaming, tripping the man behind him so that John was able to sweep him aside with a back swing to the ribs. A good start he thought. Two men down to his left Brother Michael had already dispatched several attackers, the defenders to either side of him standing well back as he swept his greatsword single handedly in broad swipes, severing limbs and life with ruthless efficiency. "God stands with you men" he bellowed to them from his position in the centre "not one of them leaves this day". He was met with a cheer and renewed vigour from the defenders and several more attackers fell back screaming.
John Gritted his teeth as his hammer locked with the haft of a burly Frenchman's axe. The two tussled for a while before Frank on his right was able to lean over and snap the man's arm with an iron studded club. Suddenly the Flemish man who had been standing to his left screamed as two Frenchmen overpowered him, one breaking down his guard as the other swung a poleaxe into his ribs. John cursed and took a step left to try and make sure a gap didn't occur and immediately he felt the pressure increase as he was now holding a larger space. The dying man was dragged clear by two of the women, their hair tied up in tight knots with faces set hard to their tasks. He put down the man with the poleaxe by stepping inside the vicious weapon as it was swung wildly at him, managing to catch a bone breaking blow to the man's leg. This afforded him a quick breath to survey the battle once more.
The majority of the French force was now inside the fort, it was by no means an army but they easily outnumbered the defending force by at least four to one, which multiplied every time one of their own number fell. Odds that even the mighty Brother Michael may would struggle with, although he was making a good effort John thought as the giant wrenched a man one handed from behind the barricade to bring him slamming down to the ground beneath his metal cased boot. Every time one of his men fell the odds stacked up further and the pressure increased on those that were left as they were forced to defend a larger section of the barricade. John grimaced, all they could do was hold until they were forced to retreat to the keep as a last ditch attempt. Losing the courtyard meant losing their supplies and the well, they would not survive long there but then again they would not survive long here either.
He snarled as a burly man brought his axe down on the barricade, splintering a long table that he had been standing behind and succeeded in dragging away a portion before John could retaliate. The man snarled back and dove for him, John having to parry as he stepped in, but was able to land a punch with his mailed fist as he did. his opponent recovered quickly and grabbed the haft of his hammer but in doing so John managed to trap his arm under his and the two became locked in a wrestle over the splintered wood. He could smell the man's breath as he screamed at him, John was screaming too although he was unaware of it at the time. Suddenly as the men wrestled a searing burn cut down John's side as he felt a blade scratch along his ribs and he cried out in pain. He managed to give an almighty yank on the Frenchman, using his weight to lift him off his feet and bring the two of them crashing to the ground. Frank on his right, seeing the danger, managed to crack the man he had been dealing with over the head and spun to swing a kick into the side of John's attacker's head, the iron cap of his boot splitting his skull with a sickening crunch. Frank was an idiot thought John through gritted teeth as he forced himself back up before anyone else could come at him, but at least he was an idiot who knew how to fight.
Six of his men had fallen but over twenty French had in return with none making it beyond the barricade yet, save two that had been thrown there by brother Michael and quickly hacked to pieces by the remaining villagers. The French were wary of coming too close to the imposingly silent giant now, and they hung back out of reach of his great sword which swung like the reaper's scythe glinting in the harsh sunlight. The enemy's apprehension created a milling confusion in the centre ranks that allowed the rest of his defending force more time between opposition as they tried to pick their moments to rush forward. Even so, the strain was showing as one of the English archers let out a loud curse that was cut silent by a sword blow to the throat. "Louis" the giant shouted, the little villager materialised at his side and Michael gave him a set of instructions, the boy rushing off to the keep door where the villagers and Brother Herman were busying themselves with bandages and running water to the men at the barrier. John watched before shrugging and wincing as the gash at his side rubbed against the damaged chainmail. He fought on, holding off another man with a poleaxe as he tried to tear down more of their barricade until the small boy's voice sparked up behind him.
"Monseiur Sir John!" John growled in reply as he blocked a wild stab aimed at his stomach. He hated pole axes. "Sir John, Brother Mr Michael says we should retreat to the keep."
"I fucking know" snarled John, managing to grab hold of the axe's haft and wrench the man off balance to bring his hammer crashing down on his back, crumpling him in a gargling cry. He glanced at the boy and forced a smile as he panted, the child looked half wild with adrenaline. "Getting to the keep without getting stabbed in the back is gonna be the problem lad" he breathed, checking his side with his fingers and grimacing as they came out slick with blood.
"Brother Michael is saying this is not a problem" the boy said in his broken English "that Brother Herman has got the answer in his barrel." John frowned but didn't have time for any clarification as the boys eyes widened and he spun in time to block a lancing sword. Frank on his right was panting hard, getting slower from tiredness, as was John he thought, trying to ignore the blood seeping into his Green tunic. As he beat back the man with a heavy parry and a shove to the chest when he spotted Brother Herman and two of the village women running up the stairs of the wall to the side, carrying what looked like the large barrel of the monk's fiery drink between them. They carried it up and round until they were standing above the gatehouse and the milling Frenchmen. John frowned but ignored them as he smashed the haft of his hammer two handed into his opposition’s face, letting him fall back amongst his comrades. Just as the man hit the ground Herman gave the barrel a shove and it pitched forward, top off and spraying its contents out over the gaggle of enemy soldiers and smashing against the ground. A second later the two women threw down a pair of burning torches and suddenly there was utter pandemonium.
With an eruption of blue and orange flame the spirit caught light and engulfed the central group of French in a ball of fire so hot John could feel it from where he was standing back at the barricade. There was screaming and swearing and mayhem in the French line as fire caught between them, those not burning attempted to run away, and were greeted by the defending line, who were almost as startled as the French at this sudden blaze but were spurred into action as Brother Michael stepped forward over his section of the barricade to cut down a screaming attacker as he burnt in front of him.
“Sir John” shouted Herman over the din as he ran back round the walls above them. “Sir John! I would suggest that now would be a good time to beat a hasty retreat!” John simply nodded as he swung his hammer, spike first through the helmet of a panicking Frenchman. He bellowed at his men in English and Flemish to make for the keep as he backed away from the barricade slowly. They went slowly at first, not wanting to expose their backs to the enemy but moved faster as they realised the French were more preoccupied with avoiding getting set on fire by their flailing comrades. The smell of burning flesh was now strong as smoke gusted around the courtyard and the group ran the short distance across the dusty ground into the small Stone building at the back. Brother Michael was the last to make it into the keep, keeping the few rallied French at bay as the rest of the depleted defence force hurried through the single heavy wooden door. Michael strode through the open door, turning to fling back a pursuing Frenchman, who clattered against the stone wall as the thick wooden panels slammed shut and a locking bar was swung down into place.
***
John stood panting, his vision slightly blurred as his ribs throbbed in pain. He shook his head to try and clear it and looked around in the long dark corridor where they were now standing. He had lost half his remaining force in keeping back the French, but looking out of a small arrow slit in the wall next to him he could see that his men taken a far heavier toll on the enemy. Bodies littered the ground, some charred and burnt, some thrashing against the ground from heavy wounds and many more simply still. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see one of the village women offering him a skin of water, he nodded gratefully and took a swig, wincing as his chainmail raked against his wound again.
“Dear me Sir John, you’ve made a mess of yourself haven’t you?” Came a friendly, jovial voice. Brother Herman came out of a door from the side of the corridor, wiping his hands clean of blood on a well-used rag. John smiled grimly as the little man came up to him and began to fuss about his torn skin.
“He made more of a mess of the Frogs though didn’tcha sir?” shouted Frank from further down the corridor “Reckon t’only bloke oo killed more o’ the bastards was ol’ Brother Michael down there! I barely ‘ad nothin’ to do!” John smiled and the corridor rippled with laughter as it was translated to Flemish, one man even clapped him on the shoulder. He could see that the smiles were somewhat strained though, flecked with exhaustion and combat madness. All except Michael, who merely stood at the door, hunched over in the low corridor as he surveyed the men standing or sitting there.
John looked down at the small priest, who was now wrapping a bandage around his chest to stop the bleeding. “We were drinking that stuff?” he asked quietly.
“Oh yes, warms the belly, puts hairs on your chest.” He smiled up at John “Also has the added little bonus of being highly flammable.”
“Yes I think it was rather effective at removing hairs from the chest as well” he said “Ow!” he shouted looking down as the man dripped something onto the bandages.
“Also extremely good at keeping away rot from wounds.” Herman smiled up at him and took a swig from the skin. “There we are, good as new.” John lifted his arm at the shoulder and gave it a few rotations, testing his motion. It still hurt but the mail no longer raked against the split flesh and he nodded
“Thank you Brother, now at least I won’t die of blood loss.”
“Well not yet at least no” smiled the monk before bustling away again into the side door. The atmosphere in the corridor was subdued, only ten of them were left now as they got their wind back and they awaited the next, and probably last stage of the assault. John moved up to stand by Michael, who had now sat down by the door so as to save his neck from becoming cramped against the ceiling. The man looked utterly serene, his helmet on the floor was daubed in blood up one side yet it clearly wasn’t his. His sword, wiped clean of blood was propped up against the door frame, glinting eerily in the lit torches.
“Are you hurt?” asked John sincerely
“I am not, thank you Sir John.” Replied the giant in his heavy bass voice. “You fought admirably sir, your men are right to praise you.” He looked up the corridor at the little group. “They are brave men all, it is heartening to fight beside them.” John couldn’t help but feel a little pride as the usually impassive man spoke. He cleared his throat.
“So why do you think they’re waiting now then?” he asked, frowning at the door. By rights they should be hearing axes thumping away again by now but the French were still milling around by the gateway, not crossing the courtyard. Michael looked up at him then, his eyes were the lightest shade of green John thought, almost blue in colour it felt as though they were reading his soul. Then John was surprised again as the giant smiled.
“They are scared Sir John. They fear you, they fear me and they fear our Brother Herman there. They have underestimated us from the off and we have held them despite odds and numbers and have made them pay in blood for every step they have taken. They do not want to come here for they know they must step through piles of their own corpses to reach us. And when they do they shall be facing your hammer and my sword and they shall fall to them as all who oppose them must.” John shivered at the intensity of the words. The men sitting nearest to them had been listening intently to what Michael had been saying and they murmured in assent, muttering the words down the corridor to those nearby. They seemed to relax as they heard the words, the Flemish who spoke English translating it for their friends. John stood a little straighter and looked around, all eyes were on him and Michael now, their faces that of hard set determination, exhaustion being pushed down below pride and admiration and John felt his heart swell at it.
Suddenly there was a commotion in the courtyard, the crackle of hooves against the stone courtyard as three riders came clattering through the gate to stand their horses amongst the subdued French. One man, wearing a bright yellow cloak with a fur trimming began screaming down at the milling men around him as John watched through the arrow slit. He was pointing at the dead men and shouting at those still living, who were bowing their heads and shuffling from one foot to the other, clearly mumbling explanations. Suddenly, without warning the man in yellow hefted a mace out of a loop at his waist and brought it slamming down into the head of the man closest to him. He shrieked at the stunned soldiers around him and they quickly jumped to work, clearing the corpses of the dead and moving aside the barricades as the body of the man twitched in the dust.
“What a pleasant looking man” John muttered. “I take it that that is Lejeaunes?” he asked to Brother Herman who was helping a Flemish man next to him to tie up his leg.
“If there’s an angry man in a yellow cloak then you can be sure that’s him.” Replied the monk who who didn't look up from his work until he had tied it off tight, making the man grimace. He finished and wiped his hands before leaning up to the hole in the wall. “Yes that’s the man indeed. At last the little shit shows himself.” He smiled and went over to Brother Michael, whispering into his ear too quietly for the other men to hear. John saw the big man tense as the monk whispered. The giant sat for a few moments, his face as impassive as ever. Then with an uncharacteristic sigh her pushed himself to his feet, lifting his helmet in one hand as he did.
“Sir John this is the man I must kill as you are aware” John frowned “I have been tasked by the holy father and God himself to bring this man to proper justice. From where we stand here it is unlikely that I will be able to have a confrontation with Lejeaunes, as he will not risk himself in an assault on the keep.” John felt his heart flutter as he understood what the giant was saying. “This means that my only chance of completing what it is that God has tasked me with is to confront him under the sky. I must fight him in the courtyard. I would ask that you join me in this fight but I will understand that tactically this is a decision you may not wish to take for the sake of your men.” John stared at the big man now, unsure of whether he was angry at him or just shocked. Then with a crash he realised he was neither of those things. He was tired, he was tired of thinking, he was tired of weighing options, tired of stacking numbers and odds and most of all he was tired of the bloody French. He stood for a long while, his fists clenched, staring at the Templar.
“Fuck it” he muttered and turned to the last of his men. “Right boys.” He took a deep breath, and looked at them all gathered there. “The way I see it now is we can stay here and maybe hold out another day or so before those pricks out there break in and do their best at killing us like rats in a grain barn.” He spat at the wall and went on, the Flemish catching up as some the words were translated for them. “We’d last a bit longer and then we’d die in the dark. This man here” he pointed at Brother Michael “has a task from God that he needs to carry out, and he’s gonna try and do that whether we go with him or not. He’s gonna go and kill that smarmy yellow prick on the horse out there, and as many of the other evil bastards as he can and then he'd probably die.” John smiled at them then took another deep breath before finishing “So I’m gonna go with him. I don’t know about you lot, but killing evil men in the sunlight on a mission from God sounds like a better way to go than most. Who’s with me?” He looked at their faces as they stared at him in silence for what felt like an age. Then a strong English voice piped up from the back of the corridor.
“Aye!” Frank spat too “Fuck th’ cunts, let’s go kill ‘em” lifting his club and rapping it against the wall.
“Eloquent as ever Frank" replied John, smiling as the two other Englishmen laughed and nodded at him, lifting their weapons.
“Ja, laten we gaan dood van de prikken” shouted one of the Flemish men to the rest and they too rose, grinning at the others. “We fight for Sir John” the man shouted and the rest of the soldiers cheered and shouted. John grinned at them and lifted his Warhammer from its sling for the last time. He nodded to Brother Herman who smiled and bowed back to him and then they all turned to brother Michael.
“Lead on then I suppose Brother, I’ll see you at the gates.” Michael smiled again and placed his great helmet over his head, hefted his sword, swung back to check them all one last time and then lifted the locking bar from place. He looked down at John
“Today Sir you fight with God”. There was a brief heartbeat and then he kicked the door open, bursting it clear off its hinges as they ran into the sunlight with a furious roar.
Eleven men from the original forty barrelled into the courtyard, but their battlecry would have suited an army as they came out into the light, turning into the dust and blood soaked yard, John and Michael led the charge with a roar to deafen the Devil himself. Things seemed to slow for John as he let go of everything else and allowed the battle rage to descend for one last time. His feet fell in the sun-baked dirt as he picked his target, a startled Frenchman who had been dragging a charred corpse. The enemy was not prepared for them as they burst out into the blasted courtyard, the men howling like furies in the wild reckless charge of men resigned to their fate. To his left Michael was making a straight dash for the three mounted men by the gate. He could feel his heart beating and was surprised by how calm it seemed. He could smell the burnt bodies, but also there was a freshness in there too, blown in from a southern breeze. He could hear the howling of his men as well as a bird, somewhere up above him chirruping in the warm summer light. He planted his right foot and suddenly everything happened at once. He swung his hammer upwards in a wide vicious arc, catching the man as he bent over trying to wrestle his sword from its belt strap. It connected perfectly with his chin with a sickening crunch which flung him back a good few yards, stone dead. His men flew at the French like wild dogs, ripping through the first few before they knew what was happening. Brother Michael moved like water, dodging two men as they made wild swipes at him, a third bouncing his blade uselessly off a shoulder plate as John behind him put down a second man with a shoulder and then a hammer blow to the chest. Michael was at full pace still and John watched as the giant sprinted ahead like a lightning bolt from heaven to collide full force with one of the mounted men’s horses, the Templar’s great size and the momentum from the heavy metal plates he wore slammed into the beast, lifting it off all four feet and crushing its ribs with his shoulder as it hit the ground. Michael was on his feet before anyone could get to him and his sword hissed as it sliced in a wicked arc through the air, catching one man in the throat and another across the shoulder. Both men were lifted from their feet and were dead before they hit the ground. The giant had already spun to one side and hacked his way through one more man with a two-handed slice downward that split him from collarbone to navel, crumpling him to a heap on the ground.
The Yellow cloaked Lejeaunes was wheeling his horse in panic, screaming at his men to try and marshal them against the furious attack from the remaining defenders as the hulking Templar wrought a bloody swathe towards him. A screaming poleaxeman came charging at John who dodged the stab by swaying to one side before landing a kick to his chest. Frank caved in his skull before he could get up as he roared at another man. To his right one of the other longbowmen was beating two of the French attackers with a billhook, bloody mist filling the air as the man howled in with battle lust.
The Flemish had formed a knot of men that pushed against the most rallied of the French, frothing at the mouth in a blind rage, their lack of experience made up for my sheer ferocity. Their swords hacked wildly as they pushed through the enemy, ignoring the wounds that some of them had received as they were consumed by their desire to kill the enemy. John brought his hammer down again in a two handed swing that shattered a man’s wooden shield and broke the arm beneath it, the man beneath screamed as John stamped down on his head repeatedly until he stopped. John stood for a second to check round, the French who had been thrown off balance to begin with still outnumbered them and they had begun to rally in small groups. One such group, lead by another enormous axeman charged the knot of Flemish and one of them fell to a savage axe swing as the others braced against the charge. The man was large and his arms were soaked in blood as he swung his axe again, nearly ripping the man in half. Another of John's men fell and he grimaced before taking a deep breath and a short prayer as he ran forward once more.
Michael swung his sword through the leg of another attacker, swaying back to avoid an axe that flickered at his chest before lunging forward to strike the man with his spiked fist. He spun away now only yards from his quarry, who was staring down at him from his spinning horse, his eyes wide with fear as the metal clad Templar stalked forward. On man ran at him and Michael swung his sword across to bury it in his chest, but the blade then stuck, trapped in the mess of broken ribs and spine, he gave a heave but just then the other mounted man gave a cry from across the courtyard and spurred his horse forward. He screamed and roared at the Giant, swearing at him and swinging an overly ornamented sword. Michael turned to face the rider as the horse bore down on him, abandoning the greatsword to stand upright in the dead man's corpse. The courtyard was too small for a horse to pick up full speed but the knight still rushed forward with a furious intent. Michael stood unarmed as he faced down the mounted man, the weight of bellowing flesh bearing down on him with hooves flying and sword swinging. At the last moment the giant braced himself in the dirt, his metal cased boots gouging holes in the ground as he leapt forward, head on at the horse with his right arm drawn back. The two seemed to hang for a minute before his clenched fist exploded forward. The full weight and strength of the giant Templar and his armour was channelled through his black right hand which he brought down like a meteor to collide perfectly with the horse’s forehead. The beast died instantly, pitching forward as its skull collapsed, pulling the screaming rider down to be crushed beneath it as the two tumbled in a flailing mass of man and animal. Michael was spun round by the impact, landing to one knee as those around him watched stunned. He looked down at his hand, the fingers broken and he almost winced as he failed to flex them into a fist.
He rose and tore his sword from the dead man's chest with his good hand before turning to the horror stricken Lejeaunes. The two men locked eyes through his helmet visor for a second and the man in yellow blinked first. He whirled his horse around towards the gate and made to flee the fury of the giant Templar.
Michael lunged forward but was still too far from the man as he spurred out desperately to escape the fort and the carnage in the courtyard. He went for the gate, the one passageway out to safety that he had spent nine days and more than a hundred men to get through. He fled desperately into the passage, but it was blocked.
Sir John of Hounslow stood panting between Lejeaunes and freedom coated in blood. He stared up at the man in the yellow coat as he charged at him in panic. Time slowed for John again, his right arm numb, his chest tight and heavy as his eyes met those of his enemy. “This is my fucking fort” the big man growled “you go when I say you can go” he hefted his hammer one last time and swung it in a viscous two handed swing, catching the panicking Lejeaunes heavily in the chest and lifting him up out of the saddle as his breastplate buckled. He seemed to hang in the air as his yellow cloak billowed around him and his eyes rolled back in fear and pain before he crashed to the blood-soaked floor.
Michael arrived a second later and without missing a beat he picked the wheezing mewling Lejeaunes from the ground and carried him back into the courtyard.
“Throw down your weapons!” the giant roared in French. “Throw them down and God shall spare you” The Frenchmen turned to see him holding the man in the yellow cloak high in his good hand like a trophy. He pointed his Black gauntlet to the French as blood dripped from the crushed metal to the floor “Drop your weapons.” He growled. There was a heartbeat of nerve wracking silence before a clatter of metal on baked ground as the French conceded defeat. They dropped to the earth, their knees hitting the dirt in what felt like a breath of relief. Seven men remained standing.
In the gateway Sir John leant back against the inner wall of the gatehouse. The sun was shining through the smashed timbers and he suddenly noticed how warm it felt on his face. He slowly slid to the floor, his back scraping down the soft orange stones as his legs gave way, their job done. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly as the sounds of battle died away. Above him he heard a bird chirping gently on the early evening breeze that stroked at his face. The steady drip of blood falling from his armour to the dust faded away as he leant his head back against the warm wall and smiled.
