INCOMING! wall of text. Apologies, been working on it over a few hours over the past couple of days. Part 2 of 3. Or 4. Maybe 5, I don't know. Anyway. I've broken it up as much as possible to make it a little easier on the eyes when reading 
Hope you enjoy it!
Count Delinard, Lord of Uxkhal, Marshal & Knight-Commander of King Harlaus' guard turned his eyes away from the far ridge. He had watched as the advance guard of horsemen had been torn to pieces by the crossbow bolts, had seen the horses plunge to the ground with blood coursing their flanks. Men lay still, dead or dieing, dotted amongst fallen shields and weapons.
He turned his horse to face the expectant ranks that stood before him. Farmers with pitchforks or woodaxes, footmen with spear and shield, crossbowmen ready with their deadly weapons, the professional infantry in their mail, bastard and great swords in hand. The red of Swadia's flag rippled above the Marshall, snapping and pulling at the stave that held it high. In the afternoon light the banner looked more like a sea of blood, pulsating and flowing.
"Swadians!" The voice roared, forged by lungs that had shouted orders for over thirty years of battle. "Swadians, rise up and hear me! Once more on to the field we march, once more we take up arms to rid these lands of those that oppose us!" His great fist, clad in its mail mitten, struck against his breast. "Us! You, the true sons of Calradia, the only people worthy of this land, will you let these villains, these bandits, raiders of your homes, murderers of your loved ones, will you them stand against you?"
As the wind whipped as his hair, Delinard tried to suppress a smile as the army in front of him roared its protest, four hundred men roaring, the cacophony of noise making his horse prick up its ears.
"We will win today, we will triumph. First we will smash them with horse!" He balled his hand into a fist and smashed it into his palm. "Then you will kill them! Summon up your blo-u-u-d! For Swadia, for Harlaus!"
His sword sang as he hauled it from the scabbard and punched it into the air, the gesture provoking fresh bellows from the Swadians. The polished blade was like fire in the sunlight, whilst the mail coat, burnished until it shone, gleamed brighter than silver. He lowered the blade to his side, and beckoned with his free hand to two squires, unarmoured and mounted on light horses who acted as his messengers.
"Instruct the cavalry to form in front of the infantry, and to advance on the third note from the horn. They are to smash through their line, surround the enemy and keep them in place until the infantry arrives to slaughter them. No prisoners. Understood? Then get moving!"
As the squires galloped off to the flanks where the Knights and Men-At-Arms, mounted on tall destriers, armoured in the finest plate and mail the Swadian smiths could forge, with long lances in hand and swords hung at their belts, waited for their orders. Of his army, it was only the cavalry Delinard trusted to implement his will on the battlefield. The infantry were capable, but the ground-shaking, massed horsemen of Swadia were the only ones who would reliably break an opponent. He stared up at the ridge where the mercenary crossbowmen waited. Their accurate volleys had torn apart the light cavalry, ripping the best of three squadrons apart. Balling his hand he thumped it against the saddle. There was no need, none at all, for the scouts to have charged the enemy, but the fools had seen their chance for glory and had paid the bloody price. Serve them right. he thought bitterly.
On the Swadian left, beneath another red banner, sat Lady Rosewitha, feeling rather bothered with the delay. The gambison under her mail itched, and sweat ran down the nape of her neck. She felt hot and sticky from the perspiration, the weight of her armour pushing down on her shoulders, whilst her hair beneath the arming cap was soaked with sweat. Her mare, as if sensing its mistresses agitation, whinnied softly, pawing at the ground with a hoof.
She could see the enemy at the top of the ridge ahead of them, a scant eight hundred yards away. There was a flag fluttering above the crossbowmen, some form of white animals head on a black background. A dog? Cat? Wolf? She didn't recognise it, and she doubted whether the owner of the badge was a Noble, more likely just the badge of a common mercenary.
A strand of pitch black hair managed to free itself from the arming cap, it's tip curling up, poking at her eye. She brushed it away, wiping at the sweat that caked her forehead, though the leather pad of her mail mitten just agravated her skin, making it feel abrased.
"M'Lady?" She twisted in her saddle towards the voice. One of her Knights, a Sir Joen, held out a skin filled with water. Her throat suddenly felt dry, while her tongue seemed stuck to her pallet. Gratefully Rosewitha took the proffered skin and bit the stopper from its neck. Lifting it to her lips, she felt the cool water dribble across her dry lips, and unable to help herself, squeezed the skin, squirting the liquid greedily into her mouth. She drank until she had to stop for air, savoring the feeling of the cold water in her parched throat as she passed the skin across to Sir Joen, who twisted round in his saddle to throw the skin to the man behind him.
"How long do you think they'll keep us roasting here? We waiting for them to die of old age up there?" The grumble, coming from Rosewitha's right belonged to another of the knights, Sir Leone of Dhirim. He always had something to complain about, never happy it seemed. "Something's a-happening though. S'one of those fancy boys givin' old Clais his marching orders. Reckon we'll be shoved right into the thick of. You know what Delly's like, straight in with us and damn the infantry. Bloody right too." The sing-song voice of the lazy Sir Denils settled itself on Rosewitha's ears. If his voice was not so lovely to hear, she thought, he'd be really, -really- annoying. Still, he's right, something is happening.
Count Clais, commander of Swadias cavalry this day, was beckoning his commanders to him, reluctantly including Rosewitha in his summons. Rosewitha and Clais mutually disliked each other. She knew his was reasonable, women were supposed to stay in the home, raise the children, plan the social calender, discuss the weather. That would be so...dull, her mind moaned at her as she slowly walked her horse towards Clais, disdaining to hurry as the other commanders had. Imagine it, sat in a drafty Keep, with little children screaming and crying. She visibly shuddered. There were those amongst Swadia's Nobles who found the fact she was a fighting woman quite alluring, but most of them were either ugly, poor, had bad hygiene or were just too boring.
"Feeling a touch of fear, m'Lady Rosewitha?" Clais' sneer was soaked in venom. He'd seen her flinch, she realised. She hurried to compose a response but Clais was already speaking again, addressing the half dozen commanders. "Delinard's orders are that we move in front of the infantry and charge the ridge. We ride over them, tear them apart and then encircle them so that they can't escape. Should be easy enough, I know at least most of you are capable." Unable to help themselves, the other commanders looked uneasily at Rosewitha, who ignored them. "To your men Gentlemen, let us get ourselves moving. Lady Rosewitha perhaps you and your men would prefer to act as our reserve, I'm sure they've no real belly for a fight."
"If you have such little confidence in your men and their capabilities that you wish a reserve, then I'll gladly take such a position. At least Delinard will be able to see who his competant commanders are then when you fail and I take the field in your stead." The words blurted out of her mouth before she could stop them, and before the shocked Clais could respond she turned the horse and kicked her heels back. Brilliant, now I'll be in trouble after the battle. She pushed the thought away and suppressed her anger as she reached her men.
"So what is going on?" Sir Denils asked, idly inspecting his plated gauntlets rivets. Rosewitha straightened her back and cleared her throat. "Count Clais, in his infinite wisdom, wishes us to be a reserve. We'll form in the centre behind the other squadrons, and if they fail, we push on through and show them what we, this squadron, can do. We'll not just break those bastards at the top of that ridge, we'll do it in full view of the army, and they'll see our badge at the top of that hill, not Clais, nor any of those others, but ours."
The short, impassioned speech recieved little response, and Rosewitha felt a little deflated. "So...bottom line is, we charge up there, knock them about and then the infantry come up and kill 'em off. Delinard's usual tactics then." Denils shrugged. "Being a reserve isn't too bad, 'least we don't get shot at quite so much."
"Yes, but we're not where the glory is, are we? We'll be climbing up that slope whilst the others'll be getting first pick on the loot." The growling voice of Leone rolled out into the silence Denils words had left. "Shut it Leone, you're always whining." Joen raised his voice so that the whole squadron, ten knights and twenty Men-At-Arms, with ten Squires carrying spare shields, swords and lances. "Helms on! Make sure you fasten them firmly. Keep your lines, when we charge we arrive as one. What do we arrive as?"
"ONE!" came the barked reply. Joen nodded and unbuckled his own great helm from where it hung on his saddle. Rosewitha scrabbled with her own full-faced helm, pulling it over the soaked arming cap. Instantly her world was plunged into darkness, then her eyes slowly adjusted to the small light filtering in through the eye holes. Her breathing echoed inside the helm, whilst all external sound was muffled and given a metallic edge. She felt a hand tapping at her leg. She looked down and managed to make out one of the squires handing something wide and flat up to her. Holding her left arm straight down, she waited for the squire to finish sliding the leather straps of the shield over her forearm. She grabbed with her hand at the metal handle, feeling it through the leather palm of her mitten. At the second tap, this time on her right leg, she leaned down, and felt the restriction of the leather chin strap as the squire tightened it. She straightened and pulled the sword from its scabbard, the metal scrapping on the lip. Raising the blade above her head, she tapped gently back with her boots, urging the mare forward.
Now that she had become accustomed to the helms limited vision, she twisted her head to spy one of Clais' footmen waving to her. She turned the horse and trotted towards the soldier, feeling the ground tremble as her men followed behind her.
As the massive bulk of cavalry trotted in front of the infantry, the peasants cheered them hoarse. This was the might of Swadia, in plate and mail, on massive mounts, with bright swords and long lances, colourful tabards and bright shields. Swadia's pride was being brought to bear on sixty mercenaries, a little excessive some of the older, more experienced soldiers thought, but a fantastic display of strength.
Delinard, unable to resist the moment, rode forward to inspect the cavalry. He trotted his enormous destrier down the Knights front rank, left hand raised in response to the cheers or salutes that came from the horsemen. As he passed Clais's division, he slowed, his eyes noting the fourty horsemen stood behind the line. His eyes flickered up to the red banner above the squadron, a white rose on a blood red field.
"Smart thinking Lady Rosewitha, makes good sense to have a reserve. Good luck to you m'Lady, and good hunting!" Rosewitha bobbed her helmed head in response to Delinards comment, feeling the chinstrap dig into the soft skin. She watched as Delinard rode out of her field of vision, and swallowed nervously. There may only be sixty mercenaries ahead of them, but enough crossbow bolts would fly that a single one could kill her. In her armour she was no different in appearance than her men, not that she believed the crossbowman would spare her even if they knew. Her stomach felt uneasy, feeling as though butterflies flew amoke inside her, whilst her mouth was dry once again. The helm was hot and sweat was running freely down her forehead, the salty liquid stinging her dry lips. She just wanted to get it done, to get out of her armour and lay in the sun, to wear light linen clothing that was comfortable and didn't stick to her skin.
A sound to her right, as deep as it was loud, made her twist her head in its direction. She could see nothing but mounted horsemen. Then a second sound, more musical this time, erupted from the same direction. A horn, a battlehorn. Then came the third note, and Swadia's finest warriors, armed with sharp weapons, in their shining armour, high upon horses bred to carry them and their armour into battle, lurched forward as the thunder of hooves began.
Instantly her dry mouth and throat were forgotten, the itching of her clothing of no consequence. Even the weight of her shield and mail were distant to her thoughts, as she felt the vibration of her horses hooves hammer at the ground, mixed with the muffled strikes of over two hundred horsemens hooves on the ground. Each hoof, shod with iron, hammered at the firm ground.
She pulled her sword free of its scabbard, gripping it tightly with her mail mitten. Now she was used to the helms restrictions, she could make out more through the eye holes. The sky above was a deep blue, barely a whisp of cloud, whilst the grass they rode over was thick and a deep green. The clink and rattle of armour and weaponary rose jauntily over the sound of hooves. The range was closing, and she rose up, standing in her stirrups to punch the sword into the air, her men responding with a deep roar. Almost in response, death, powered by fourty powerful crossbows, sent on its way by the finest mercenary marksmen in Calradia, flew towards the horsemen. And struck.
The noise exploded over the sound of hooves, the heads of the steel-tipped crossbow bolts hammering through armour and shields. They plunged into horse and man alike, causing beast and rider to tumble across the ground, their screams challenging the thunder of hooves, as the rest of the cavalry climbed, as one, moving faster. A second volley flew towards the horsemen, the quarrels slashing into men and horse once again, the impact causing the lines to ripple as more men and horses fell. The succeeding ranks leapt the piles of dead and dying and continued their charge. For all the power of the crossbow bolts, they were too few to stop the Swadian charge.
Clapping her heels back, Rosewitha urged her horse onwards. The elation of the charge was upon her. She felt invincible, a Goddess of War, unstoppable, unkillable. Every shock of a hoof hitting the ground sounded like a beat of death coming from the jaws of the Hells. This was what she lived for, not the comforts of a bored wife in a castle, to ride towards death and laugh in its face. To feel the ground shake with the thunder of hooves, the excitement that ran through her veins. She felt her horse tense itself, then sail through the air as it leapt over the remains of the Light Cavalry. The horse felt as though it hung in midair for an eternity, the world sailing past, then came the impact as the mare landed comfortably and rode on. Another volley of crossbow bolts tore into the Swadians, but their blood was up now and an impudent band of mercenaries could never hope to stop them. They were Swadians best, their finest, but unbeknown to them, they were flanked.
The Rhodok infantry had marched hard, hurrying to reach the blocking force of mercenaries. They'd been hurried along paths and roads, moving as quickly as they could, carrying only their weapons and ammunition. They'd not stopped to break their fast, hardly stopped briefly for water, but otherwise had been kept marching, onwards to where the mercenaries blocked the pass. The weaker men had fallen out of line miles back, hobbling on blistered and bloodied feet, but just under a hundred remained, each man a credited marksman with his heavy crossbow.
Each ridge had seemed taller than the previous, their muscles ached whilst lungs burned, stomachs felt tightened from lack of food, but the Sergeants and Captains kept their men moving. As they'd hauled themselves up yet another slope, one of the Captains, unable to resist riding ahead to check the ground, rose up on to the ridge and took in the scene that lay before him. To his right, clinging to their ridge, was the mercenary Company, their banner fluttering in the wind, to his centre lay the open ground of the slope, littered here and there by bodies and horses, whilst to his left, a line of cavalrymen stood before blocks of infantrymen. Then three blasts of a horn rose up to his eerie and the line of cavalrymen moved. He turned his horse savagely and kicked his heels back.
Rosewitha didn't see the right flank of the cavalry charge falter as a hundred crossbow bolts hammered into it, ripping the line into shreds, nor did she see the mercenary cavalrymen, lances lowered, charge down the hillside, aiming for the broken mass of horsemen. All she could see was the line of horsemen in front of her, whilst from further up the ridge, the crossbow bolts still flew. They were now no more than a hundred yards from the crossbowmen, and as one, the remaining Swadian cavalrymen lowered their lance points and bellowed their warcry, hammering back spurs to release the destriers to their devestating charge.
At the full gallop a Knight wearing a closed helm can see little. He can make out the blurred shapes of others, can see the sky and the ground, but none of the horsemen could see the long trench covered in grass, until the first Knights crashed into it. Sharpened spikes smashed through the soft tissue of the hooves, causing the destriers to pull up, screaming in agony and confusion. The second line, so close behind the first, crashed into it, forcing the horses in front further onto the spikes, fresh screams of agony coming from the beasts lungs. Blood misted in the air as the horses reared, blood flowing from the punctures. Still the crossbow bolts tore into them, adding to the confusion.
On the Swadian right, the mercenary cavalry, having purposefully flanked the trench, crashed into the disorganised ranks, the twenty horsemen easily cutting a swath through the still ranks, whilst the volleys from the Rhodoks high on the flank continued to fly, their bolts now ripping into the centre of the line, where more men and horse fell.
Lady Rosewitha was surprised to see the line ahead falter, the horses rearing and plunging. They were less than fourty yards from the mercenaries, and she dug her heels back to coax more speed from the animal, when the mare shuddered. Her scream tore at Rosewitha's soul as the beast stumbled, lost its footing and crashed onto its forelegs, the impact breaking its legs. The horse slid forward, its momentum and weight still propelling it on. Rosewitha kicked her feet free of the stirrups and tried to launch herself from the saddle, but her foot caught on the reins and as she hit the ground, the leather yanked at her boot, pulling her along on her back behind the rapidly slowing horse.
When she finally came to a halt, just behind the lines ahead of her, she curled into a ball as her knights looked for gaps in the dead and launched their horses, sailing over the piles of dead and the trench, to land on firm ground, where the crossbowmen, close enough to pick their spots, took each man down with well aimed shots.
Freeing her foot, Rosewitha sat up, gasping for breath. She yanked off the mail mittens, her sword and shield having been lost when the horse fell, and fumbled with the leather strap. Her chest felt empty, the impact having driven the air from her body. The buckle refused to shift, and she began to panic, her breathing quickening whilst her muscles shivered. Elation had turned to concern, concern to fear. Her hands were shaking so much that she could not shfit the straps fastening. Her hand dropped to her belt and shakily drew her dagger. Carefully, she lifted the point inside her helm and began to saw at the leather. It did not take long for the dagger to slice through the strap, and she tossed the dagger aside, and hauled the helm from her head.
The air was thick with sweat, stench of saddle sores and blood, whilst the screams of injured men and horses punctured the air. She filled her lungs, near choking on the stench. Drawing up her legs to her chin, she wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face in the mail armour, that covered her limbs, smelling the lanolin used to keep the links greased and free of rust, could smell the sweat from the soaked gambison.
At length, she raised her head, to see her mare laying next to her, its eyes wide and rolling, its breathing laboured. She crawled across the flattened grass and looked closer at the horse. Three bolts stuck from the mares chest, each with blood leaving its trail over the white hide. She groaned to herself as the mare tried to beat the ground with its hooves as a fresh wave of agony struck, but the beasts forelegs were both broken, whilst the rear legs were trapped beneath the corpse of another horse. Sitting herself next to the mare, she carefully lifted the horses head and slid her legs beneath its neck, to support the weight. The head was heavy, saliva and froth dribbled from the mares mouth. As the horse tried to neigh, Rosewitha made hushing noises, and stroked at its forehead, feeling the stiff hairs of the hide against her skin. A tear welled at the corner of her eyem then fell to roll down her cheek, trailing a path through the sweat and grime. She continued to stroke the horses head, feeling its breath hammering at her legs, as it flared its nostrils, ears pricked up.
Looking up, she could see a mass of fallen horses and men ahead of her, and individual men trying to climb the hill on foot, and one by one they fell back, peppered with crossbow bolts. She could make out the green tabard of Sir Leone, who always complained if it was hot or cold, dry or wet, who was cynical of everything and who rarely smiled, yet she could see him climbing, hunched behind his shield as though into a storm, crossbow bolts sticking from his armour. A shout rose from the mercenary ranks. "He's mine!"
A single figure, clad in dark cloth armour, with a large board shield and a wicked looking spiked hammer, broke through the mercenary ranks, and legs pumping, ran full tilt at Sir Leone. Rosewitha tore her gaze away as the spike hammered down hard into Sir Leone's helmet, the high-pitched screech of metal rising above the screams of horses. The soldier abandoned the hammer in the helm, and hauling his sword from its scabbard he continued down the hill, past the knights slowly falling corpse.
The other crossbowmen, following their leaders example, abandoned crossbows, drew swords, picks, and glaives and ran down the hill after their Captain. They covered the short distance quickly, and the blacksmith sound of blade on blade, steel on armour, sword on shield resounded. The screams began again, as the dismounted Swadian knights, trapped under horses, wounded or dazed were cut down mercilessly by the mercenaries.
Lord Clais took one look at the mercenaries advancing on his squadrons before turning his horse and ramming his spurs back savagly. The tired horse obeyed, taking its master down the slope in long strides, free of the carnage and back to where the infantry stood, shocked and stunned at the butchery on the slope above them. Lord Clais knew he should have obeyed his duty and gone on to the line, even alone, but he was a sensible man, and death was not yet going to claim him.
Rosewitha swatted at the flies that flew around her dieing horses head. The horses breathing had slowed, and the eyes had stopped their fearful rolling, the lids half closed. She could hear the weapons still doing their work just twenty yards from her, knew that she could rise up and flee, but she felt drained, exhausted both physically and mentally. She had spent the last of her familys fortune on raising the troop of Knights and Men-At-Arms, feeding & arming them, finding them lodging until her chance to prove her worth and earn a fiefdom from King Harlaus, but instead she was reduced to caring for her dieing horse as though it were a sleeping child. She began to hum as she stroked the horses neck. Elsebeth, a pretty name for a pretty horse. A pretty horse reduced to agony on a warm field filled with gore. The horse had been a present from Harlaus on her acceptance as a Vassal, one of his own animals as a consolation after his refusal to award her a village or Keep of her own in his name. The mare had a white pelt, as pure as snow. A calm, docile animal, but strong and agile.
She softly broke into a childs rhyme, singing to the horse. The wheel on the mill goes round and round, round and round, round and round. The wheel on the mill goes round and round, all day long. A song she'd used to sing with her sister in her fathers castle, the two of them giggling as they sang, a childs song, happy and far removed on the field of death. The stone in the mill grinds and grinds, grinds and grinds, grinds and grinds, the stone in the mill grinds and grinds, all day long.
So removed was she from what was happening around her that it was not until the sixth verse that she realised someone was watching, more listening. Her voice faltered and stopped as she twisted round. The pungent smell of the mans quilted coat stung her nostrils, a mix of sweat and blood. His face was smeared with blood and sweat, grey eyes reddened. Sweat dripped from his moustache and beard whilst whisps of hair were stuck to his skin. The arming cap on his head had turned grey with moisture. In his hand was a bloodied sword and in the other was a large rectangular shield, painted black, with a white wolfs head backed by a grey dagger.
He sheathed the sword and carefully put down the shield, and without a word knelt, feeling the horses neck for a pulse with his fingers. The man looked up at Roswitha, his face solemn. "Your horse is, ahm... dead m'Lady. I'm sorry."
Sorry?! the word burst through her mind like a meteor. She wanted to scream at him, to beat him into the ground for the loss of her fortune, her men, their horses. She wanted to protest at the injustice of it all, that she was alive whilst her loyal friends were dead, that they had lost. But No words came to her. She stared at him, feeling lost, for some reason expecting him to break into laughter at her misfortune, but the eyes were clear of any guile or mischief. He looked away, down at the horse and gently patted its neck. When he looked back up, he seemed sadder. "A beautiful animal, m'Lady. What was her name?"
Rosewitha struggled to speak, but the words only hurt her throat. She managed to whisper the horses name hoarsly. He nodded slowly. "Elsebeth, a beautiful name for a beautiful animal. If you wish to remain with the body for a short while, I will allow you, but I must first make you aware that you are my prisoner now, to be held for ransom. You will come to no harm and recieve every possible comfort we can give you. I will await a short distance away for when you are ready to come with us."
Hope you enjoy it!The Battle
Count Delinard, Lord of Uxkhal, Marshal & Knight-Commander of King Harlaus' guard turned his eyes away from the far ridge. He had watched as the advance guard of horsemen had been torn to pieces by the crossbow bolts, had seen the horses plunge to the ground with blood coursing their flanks. Men lay still, dead or dieing, dotted amongst fallen shields and weapons.
He turned his horse to face the expectant ranks that stood before him. Farmers with pitchforks or woodaxes, footmen with spear and shield, crossbowmen ready with their deadly weapons, the professional infantry in their mail, bastard and great swords in hand. The red of Swadia's flag rippled above the Marshall, snapping and pulling at the stave that held it high. In the afternoon light the banner looked more like a sea of blood, pulsating and flowing.
"Swadians!" The voice roared, forged by lungs that had shouted orders for over thirty years of battle. "Swadians, rise up and hear me! Once more on to the field we march, once more we take up arms to rid these lands of those that oppose us!" His great fist, clad in its mail mitten, struck against his breast. "Us! You, the true sons of Calradia, the only people worthy of this land, will you let these villains, these bandits, raiders of your homes, murderers of your loved ones, will you them stand against you?"
As the wind whipped as his hair, Delinard tried to suppress a smile as the army in front of him roared its protest, four hundred men roaring, the cacophony of noise making his horse prick up its ears.
"We will win today, we will triumph. First we will smash them with horse!" He balled his hand into a fist and smashed it into his palm. "Then you will kill them! Summon up your blo-u-u-d! For Swadia, for Harlaus!"
His sword sang as he hauled it from the scabbard and punched it into the air, the gesture provoking fresh bellows from the Swadians. The polished blade was like fire in the sunlight, whilst the mail coat, burnished until it shone, gleamed brighter than silver. He lowered the blade to his side, and beckoned with his free hand to two squires, unarmoured and mounted on light horses who acted as his messengers.
"Instruct the cavalry to form in front of the infantry, and to advance on the third note from the horn. They are to smash through their line, surround the enemy and keep them in place until the infantry arrives to slaughter them. No prisoners. Understood? Then get moving!"
As the squires galloped off to the flanks where the Knights and Men-At-Arms, mounted on tall destriers, armoured in the finest plate and mail the Swadian smiths could forge, with long lances in hand and swords hung at their belts, waited for their orders. Of his army, it was only the cavalry Delinard trusted to implement his will on the battlefield. The infantry were capable, but the ground-shaking, massed horsemen of Swadia were the only ones who would reliably break an opponent. He stared up at the ridge where the mercenary crossbowmen waited. Their accurate volleys had torn apart the light cavalry, ripping the best of three squadrons apart. Balling his hand he thumped it against the saddle. There was no need, none at all, for the scouts to have charged the enemy, but the fools had seen their chance for glory and had paid the bloody price. Serve them right. he thought bitterly.
-----
On the Swadian left, beneath another red banner, sat Lady Rosewitha, feeling rather bothered with the delay. The gambison under her mail itched, and sweat ran down the nape of her neck. She felt hot and sticky from the perspiration, the weight of her armour pushing down on her shoulders, whilst her hair beneath the arming cap was soaked with sweat. Her mare, as if sensing its mistresses agitation, whinnied softly, pawing at the ground with a hoof.
She could see the enemy at the top of the ridge ahead of them, a scant eight hundred yards away. There was a flag fluttering above the crossbowmen, some form of white animals head on a black background. A dog? Cat? Wolf? She didn't recognise it, and she doubted whether the owner of the badge was a Noble, more likely just the badge of a common mercenary.
A strand of pitch black hair managed to free itself from the arming cap, it's tip curling up, poking at her eye. She brushed it away, wiping at the sweat that caked her forehead, though the leather pad of her mail mitten just agravated her skin, making it feel abrased.
"M'Lady?" She twisted in her saddle towards the voice. One of her Knights, a Sir Joen, held out a skin filled with water. Her throat suddenly felt dry, while her tongue seemed stuck to her pallet. Gratefully Rosewitha took the proffered skin and bit the stopper from its neck. Lifting it to her lips, she felt the cool water dribble across her dry lips, and unable to help herself, squeezed the skin, squirting the liquid greedily into her mouth. She drank until she had to stop for air, savoring the feeling of the cold water in her parched throat as she passed the skin across to Sir Joen, who twisted round in his saddle to throw the skin to the man behind him.
"How long do you think they'll keep us roasting here? We waiting for them to die of old age up there?" The grumble, coming from Rosewitha's right belonged to another of the knights, Sir Leone of Dhirim. He always had something to complain about, never happy it seemed. "Something's a-happening though. S'one of those fancy boys givin' old Clais his marching orders. Reckon we'll be shoved right into the thick of. You know what Delly's like, straight in with us and damn the infantry. Bloody right too." The sing-song voice of the lazy Sir Denils settled itself on Rosewitha's ears. If his voice was not so lovely to hear, she thought, he'd be really, -really- annoying. Still, he's right, something is happening.
Count Clais, commander of Swadias cavalry this day, was beckoning his commanders to him, reluctantly including Rosewitha in his summons. Rosewitha and Clais mutually disliked each other. She knew his was reasonable, women were supposed to stay in the home, raise the children, plan the social calender, discuss the weather. That would be so...dull, her mind moaned at her as she slowly walked her horse towards Clais, disdaining to hurry as the other commanders had. Imagine it, sat in a drafty Keep, with little children screaming and crying. She visibly shuddered. There were those amongst Swadia's Nobles who found the fact she was a fighting woman quite alluring, but most of them were either ugly, poor, had bad hygiene or were just too boring.
"Feeling a touch of fear, m'Lady Rosewitha?" Clais' sneer was soaked in venom. He'd seen her flinch, she realised. She hurried to compose a response but Clais was already speaking again, addressing the half dozen commanders. "Delinard's orders are that we move in front of the infantry and charge the ridge. We ride over them, tear them apart and then encircle them so that they can't escape. Should be easy enough, I know at least most of you are capable." Unable to help themselves, the other commanders looked uneasily at Rosewitha, who ignored them. "To your men Gentlemen, let us get ourselves moving. Lady Rosewitha perhaps you and your men would prefer to act as our reserve, I'm sure they've no real belly for a fight."
"If you have such little confidence in your men and their capabilities that you wish a reserve, then I'll gladly take such a position. At least Delinard will be able to see who his competant commanders are then when you fail and I take the field in your stead." The words blurted out of her mouth before she could stop them, and before the shocked Clais could respond she turned the horse and kicked her heels back. Brilliant, now I'll be in trouble after the battle. She pushed the thought away and suppressed her anger as she reached her men.
"So what is going on?" Sir Denils asked, idly inspecting his plated gauntlets rivets. Rosewitha straightened her back and cleared her throat. "Count Clais, in his infinite wisdom, wishes us to be a reserve. We'll form in the centre behind the other squadrons, and if they fail, we push on through and show them what we, this squadron, can do. We'll not just break those bastards at the top of that ridge, we'll do it in full view of the army, and they'll see our badge at the top of that hill, not Clais, nor any of those others, but ours."
The short, impassioned speech recieved little response, and Rosewitha felt a little deflated. "So...bottom line is, we charge up there, knock them about and then the infantry come up and kill 'em off. Delinard's usual tactics then." Denils shrugged. "Being a reserve isn't too bad, 'least we don't get shot at quite so much."
"Yes, but we're not where the glory is, are we? We'll be climbing up that slope whilst the others'll be getting first pick on the loot." The growling voice of Leone rolled out into the silence Denils words had left. "Shut it Leone, you're always whining." Joen raised his voice so that the whole squadron, ten knights and twenty Men-At-Arms, with ten Squires carrying spare shields, swords and lances. "Helms on! Make sure you fasten them firmly. Keep your lines, when we charge we arrive as one. What do we arrive as?"
"ONE!" came the barked reply. Joen nodded and unbuckled his own great helm from where it hung on his saddle. Rosewitha scrabbled with her own full-faced helm, pulling it over the soaked arming cap. Instantly her world was plunged into darkness, then her eyes slowly adjusted to the small light filtering in through the eye holes. Her breathing echoed inside the helm, whilst all external sound was muffled and given a metallic edge. She felt a hand tapping at her leg. She looked down and managed to make out one of the squires handing something wide and flat up to her. Holding her left arm straight down, she waited for the squire to finish sliding the leather straps of the shield over her forearm. She grabbed with her hand at the metal handle, feeling it through the leather palm of her mitten. At the second tap, this time on her right leg, she leaned down, and felt the restriction of the leather chin strap as the squire tightened it. She straightened and pulled the sword from its scabbard, the metal scrapping on the lip. Raising the blade above her head, she tapped gently back with her boots, urging the mare forward.
Now that she had become accustomed to the helms limited vision, she twisted her head to spy one of Clais' footmen waving to her. She turned the horse and trotted towards the soldier, feeling the ground tremble as her men followed behind her.
As the massive bulk of cavalry trotted in front of the infantry, the peasants cheered them hoarse. This was the might of Swadia, in plate and mail, on massive mounts, with bright swords and long lances, colourful tabards and bright shields. Swadia's pride was being brought to bear on sixty mercenaries, a little excessive some of the older, more experienced soldiers thought, but a fantastic display of strength.
Delinard, unable to resist the moment, rode forward to inspect the cavalry. He trotted his enormous destrier down the Knights front rank, left hand raised in response to the cheers or salutes that came from the horsemen. As he passed Clais's division, he slowed, his eyes noting the fourty horsemen stood behind the line. His eyes flickered up to the red banner above the squadron, a white rose on a blood red field.
"Smart thinking Lady Rosewitha, makes good sense to have a reserve. Good luck to you m'Lady, and good hunting!" Rosewitha bobbed her helmed head in response to Delinards comment, feeling the chinstrap dig into the soft skin. She watched as Delinard rode out of her field of vision, and swallowed nervously. There may only be sixty mercenaries ahead of them, but enough crossbow bolts would fly that a single one could kill her. In her armour she was no different in appearance than her men, not that she believed the crossbowman would spare her even if they knew. Her stomach felt uneasy, feeling as though butterflies flew amoke inside her, whilst her mouth was dry once again. The helm was hot and sweat was running freely down her forehead, the salty liquid stinging her dry lips. She just wanted to get it done, to get out of her armour and lay in the sun, to wear light linen clothing that was comfortable and didn't stick to her skin.
A sound to her right, as deep as it was loud, made her twist her head in its direction. She could see nothing but mounted horsemen. Then a second sound, more musical this time, erupted from the same direction. A horn, a battlehorn. Then came the third note, and Swadia's finest warriors, armed with sharp weapons, in their shining armour, high upon horses bred to carry them and their armour into battle, lurched forward as the thunder of hooves began.
Instantly her dry mouth and throat were forgotten, the itching of her clothing of no consequence. Even the weight of her shield and mail were distant to her thoughts, as she felt the vibration of her horses hooves hammer at the ground, mixed with the muffled strikes of over two hundred horsemens hooves on the ground. Each hoof, shod with iron, hammered at the firm ground.
She pulled her sword free of its scabbard, gripping it tightly with her mail mitten. Now she was used to the helms restrictions, she could make out more through the eye holes. The sky above was a deep blue, barely a whisp of cloud, whilst the grass they rode over was thick and a deep green. The clink and rattle of armour and weaponary rose jauntily over the sound of hooves. The range was closing, and she rose up, standing in her stirrups to punch the sword into the air, her men responding with a deep roar. Almost in response, death, powered by fourty powerful crossbows, sent on its way by the finest mercenary marksmen in Calradia, flew towards the horsemen. And struck.
The noise exploded over the sound of hooves, the heads of the steel-tipped crossbow bolts hammering through armour and shields. They plunged into horse and man alike, causing beast and rider to tumble across the ground, their screams challenging the thunder of hooves, as the rest of the cavalry climbed, as one, moving faster. A second volley flew towards the horsemen, the quarrels slashing into men and horse once again, the impact causing the lines to ripple as more men and horses fell. The succeeding ranks leapt the piles of dead and dying and continued their charge. For all the power of the crossbow bolts, they were too few to stop the Swadian charge.
Clapping her heels back, Rosewitha urged her horse onwards. The elation of the charge was upon her. She felt invincible, a Goddess of War, unstoppable, unkillable. Every shock of a hoof hitting the ground sounded like a beat of death coming from the jaws of the Hells. This was what she lived for, not the comforts of a bored wife in a castle, to ride towards death and laugh in its face. To feel the ground shake with the thunder of hooves, the excitement that ran through her veins. She felt her horse tense itself, then sail through the air as it leapt over the remains of the Light Cavalry. The horse felt as though it hung in midair for an eternity, the world sailing past, then came the impact as the mare landed comfortably and rode on. Another volley of crossbow bolts tore into the Swadians, but their blood was up now and an impudent band of mercenaries could never hope to stop them. They were Swadians best, their finest, but unbeknown to them, they were flanked.
------
The Rhodok infantry had marched hard, hurrying to reach the blocking force of mercenaries. They'd been hurried along paths and roads, moving as quickly as they could, carrying only their weapons and ammunition. They'd not stopped to break their fast, hardly stopped briefly for water, but otherwise had been kept marching, onwards to where the mercenaries blocked the pass. The weaker men had fallen out of line miles back, hobbling on blistered and bloodied feet, but just under a hundred remained, each man a credited marksman with his heavy crossbow.
Each ridge had seemed taller than the previous, their muscles ached whilst lungs burned, stomachs felt tightened from lack of food, but the Sergeants and Captains kept their men moving. As they'd hauled themselves up yet another slope, one of the Captains, unable to resist riding ahead to check the ground, rose up on to the ridge and took in the scene that lay before him. To his right, clinging to their ridge, was the mercenary Company, their banner fluttering in the wind, to his centre lay the open ground of the slope, littered here and there by bodies and horses, whilst to his left, a line of cavalrymen stood before blocks of infantrymen. Then three blasts of a horn rose up to his eerie and the line of cavalrymen moved. He turned his horse savagely and kicked his heels back.
-----
Rosewitha didn't see the right flank of the cavalry charge falter as a hundred crossbow bolts hammered into it, ripping the line into shreds, nor did she see the mercenary cavalrymen, lances lowered, charge down the hillside, aiming for the broken mass of horsemen. All she could see was the line of horsemen in front of her, whilst from further up the ridge, the crossbow bolts still flew. They were now no more than a hundred yards from the crossbowmen, and as one, the remaining Swadian cavalrymen lowered their lance points and bellowed their warcry, hammering back spurs to release the destriers to their devestating charge.
At the full gallop a Knight wearing a closed helm can see little. He can make out the blurred shapes of others, can see the sky and the ground, but none of the horsemen could see the long trench covered in grass, until the first Knights crashed into it. Sharpened spikes smashed through the soft tissue of the hooves, causing the destriers to pull up, screaming in agony and confusion. The second line, so close behind the first, crashed into it, forcing the horses in front further onto the spikes, fresh screams of agony coming from the beasts lungs. Blood misted in the air as the horses reared, blood flowing from the punctures. Still the crossbow bolts tore into them, adding to the confusion.
On the Swadian right, the mercenary cavalry, having purposefully flanked the trench, crashed into the disorganised ranks, the twenty horsemen easily cutting a swath through the still ranks, whilst the volleys from the Rhodoks high on the flank continued to fly, their bolts now ripping into the centre of the line, where more men and horse fell.
Lady Rosewitha was surprised to see the line ahead falter, the horses rearing and plunging. They were less than fourty yards from the mercenaries, and she dug her heels back to coax more speed from the animal, when the mare shuddered. Her scream tore at Rosewitha's soul as the beast stumbled, lost its footing and crashed onto its forelegs, the impact breaking its legs. The horse slid forward, its momentum and weight still propelling it on. Rosewitha kicked her feet free of the stirrups and tried to launch herself from the saddle, but her foot caught on the reins and as she hit the ground, the leather yanked at her boot, pulling her along on her back behind the rapidly slowing horse.
When she finally came to a halt, just behind the lines ahead of her, she curled into a ball as her knights looked for gaps in the dead and launched their horses, sailing over the piles of dead and the trench, to land on firm ground, where the crossbowmen, close enough to pick their spots, took each man down with well aimed shots.
Freeing her foot, Rosewitha sat up, gasping for breath. She yanked off the mail mittens, her sword and shield having been lost when the horse fell, and fumbled with the leather strap. Her chest felt empty, the impact having driven the air from her body. The buckle refused to shift, and she began to panic, her breathing quickening whilst her muscles shivered. Elation had turned to concern, concern to fear. Her hands were shaking so much that she could not shfit the straps fastening. Her hand dropped to her belt and shakily drew her dagger. Carefully, she lifted the point inside her helm and began to saw at the leather. It did not take long for the dagger to slice through the strap, and she tossed the dagger aside, and hauled the helm from her head.
The air was thick with sweat, stench of saddle sores and blood, whilst the screams of injured men and horses punctured the air. She filled her lungs, near choking on the stench. Drawing up her legs to her chin, she wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face in the mail armour, that covered her limbs, smelling the lanolin used to keep the links greased and free of rust, could smell the sweat from the soaked gambison.
At length, she raised her head, to see her mare laying next to her, its eyes wide and rolling, its breathing laboured. She crawled across the flattened grass and looked closer at the horse. Three bolts stuck from the mares chest, each with blood leaving its trail over the white hide. She groaned to herself as the mare tried to beat the ground with its hooves as a fresh wave of agony struck, but the beasts forelegs were both broken, whilst the rear legs were trapped beneath the corpse of another horse. Sitting herself next to the mare, she carefully lifted the horses head and slid her legs beneath its neck, to support the weight. The head was heavy, saliva and froth dribbled from the mares mouth. As the horse tried to neigh, Rosewitha made hushing noises, and stroked at its forehead, feeling the stiff hairs of the hide against her skin. A tear welled at the corner of her eyem then fell to roll down her cheek, trailing a path through the sweat and grime. She continued to stroke the horses head, feeling its breath hammering at her legs, as it flared its nostrils, ears pricked up.
Looking up, she could see a mass of fallen horses and men ahead of her, and individual men trying to climb the hill on foot, and one by one they fell back, peppered with crossbow bolts. She could make out the green tabard of Sir Leone, who always complained if it was hot or cold, dry or wet, who was cynical of everything and who rarely smiled, yet she could see him climbing, hunched behind his shield as though into a storm, crossbow bolts sticking from his armour. A shout rose from the mercenary ranks. "He's mine!"
A single figure, clad in dark cloth armour, with a large board shield and a wicked looking spiked hammer, broke through the mercenary ranks, and legs pumping, ran full tilt at Sir Leone. Rosewitha tore her gaze away as the spike hammered down hard into Sir Leone's helmet, the high-pitched screech of metal rising above the screams of horses. The soldier abandoned the hammer in the helm, and hauling his sword from its scabbard he continued down the hill, past the knights slowly falling corpse.
The other crossbowmen, following their leaders example, abandoned crossbows, drew swords, picks, and glaives and ran down the hill after their Captain. They covered the short distance quickly, and the blacksmith sound of blade on blade, steel on armour, sword on shield resounded. The screams began again, as the dismounted Swadian knights, trapped under horses, wounded or dazed were cut down mercilessly by the mercenaries.
-----
Lord Clais took one look at the mercenaries advancing on his squadrons before turning his horse and ramming his spurs back savagly. The tired horse obeyed, taking its master down the slope in long strides, free of the carnage and back to where the infantry stood, shocked and stunned at the butchery on the slope above them. Lord Clais knew he should have obeyed his duty and gone on to the line, even alone, but he was a sensible man, and death was not yet going to claim him.
-----
Rosewitha swatted at the flies that flew around her dieing horses head. The horses breathing had slowed, and the eyes had stopped their fearful rolling, the lids half closed. She could hear the weapons still doing their work just twenty yards from her, knew that she could rise up and flee, but she felt drained, exhausted both physically and mentally. She had spent the last of her familys fortune on raising the troop of Knights and Men-At-Arms, feeding & arming them, finding them lodging until her chance to prove her worth and earn a fiefdom from King Harlaus, but instead she was reduced to caring for her dieing horse as though it were a sleeping child. She began to hum as she stroked the horses neck. Elsebeth, a pretty name for a pretty horse. A pretty horse reduced to agony on a warm field filled with gore. The horse had been a present from Harlaus on her acceptance as a Vassal, one of his own animals as a consolation after his refusal to award her a village or Keep of her own in his name. The mare had a white pelt, as pure as snow. A calm, docile animal, but strong and agile.
She softly broke into a childs rhyme, singing to the horse. The wheel on the mill goes round and round, round and round, round and round. The wheel on the mill goes round and round, all day long. A song she'd used to sing with her sister in her fathers castle, the two of them giggling as they sang, a childs song, happy and far removed on the field of death. The stone in the mill grinds and grinds, grinds and grinds, grinds and grinds, the stone in the mill grinds and grinds, all day long.
So removed was she from what was happening around her that it was not until the sixth verse that she realised someone was watching, more listening. Her voice faltered and stopped as she twisted round. The pungent smell of the mans quilted coat stung her nostrils, a mix of sweat and blood. His face was smeared with blood and sweat, grey eyes reddened. Sweat dripped from his moustache and beard whilst whisps of hair were stuck to his skin. The arming cap on his head had turned grey with moisture. In his hand was a bloodied sword and in the other was a large rectangular shield, painted black, with a white wolfs head backed by a grey dagger.
He sheathed the sword and carefully put down the shield, and without a word knelt, feeling the horses neck for a pulse with his fingers. The man looked up at Roswitha, his face solemn. "Your horse is, ahm... dead m'Lady. I'm sorry."
Sorry?! the word burst through her mind like a meteor. She wanted to scream at him, to beat him into the ground for the loss of her fortune, her men, their horses. She wanted to protest at the injustice of it all, that she was alive whilst her loyal friends were dead, that they had lost. But No words came to her. She stared at him, feeling lost, for some reason expecting him to break into laughter at her misfortune, but the eyes were clear of any guile or mischief. He looked away, down at the horse and gently patted its neck. When he looked back up, he seemed sadder. "A beautiful animal, m'Lady. What was her name?"
Rosewitha struggled to speak, but the words only hurt her throat. She managed to whisper the horses name hoarsly. He nodded slowly. "Elsebeth, a beautiful name for a beautiful animal. If you wish to remain with the body for a short while, I will allow you, but I must first make you aware that you are my prisoner now, to be held for ransom. You will come to no harm and recieve every possible comfort we can give you. I will await a short distance away for when you are ready to come with us."
, its a partly true story
