Trials of Gideon Book 1: The Cursed Blade

Chapter 6: Arrows in the dark

"We can't interfere," Oisin says, softly, "But we can join the infantry if you like?"
"It's a blood bath. I wouldn't trust the magic to stop the arrows, they'll come too fast," I say. We're standing on the edge of the army. It's nearly sunset. Hotspur sent out the Earl of Worcester to do the parlay with King Henry. Ultimately a poor move, it's believed that the earl never tells Hotspur of the actually fair terms, including Prince Hal's offer of hand to hand to combat. Hotspur and the rebels have terms as well, but they are unreasonable. Battle is imminent. The parlay is just ending, I already know the result.
"I hate not helping any of them," Oisin says.
"So do I. But we aren't meant to be in this time. Let's join Prince Henry's forces' camp, invisible we can at least make sure his sword doesn't fall into the wrong hands, it's all we can do," I sigh, shaking my head. I feel equally useless. But this battle has long since been over. We're just witnesses.
"How long does it last?" Oisin asks.
"Three hours, it'll be dark when it's ended," I say, softly, "And Hotspur's fallen."
"You feel sorry for Hotspur?"
"He's not a bad man, King Henry is the one who slighted him, I mean possibly an overreaction but," I shrug a little bit, "All we can do now though is watch."
We go to join the prince's army, now swollen with reinforcements. The King's army is divided in two, Stafford his cousin will take one flank, Henry IV the other. Henry himself will see battle, however he'll also send out several men wearing his colors. Commonly considered a coward's tactic, also favored by fellow userpur Henry VII (don't look at me like that, we long ago confirmed I'm Richard III trash, please accept it like other things you cannot change). This tends to lead to confusion as to whether or not the king is slain, but does protect the king. Feel how you want about the method, it's effective. Some of us think it's kind of dishonorable, some of us say all's fair in love and war. Henry- I -offer- Single- Combat- Personally- Every- Chance- I- Get- The -Fifth, probably isn't a fan, he's much more old school, and his god complex is stronger than his self preservation. I'm not blaming Henry IV, but I am saying it's usually considered a less than honorable move.
Prince Hal rallies his forces. Besides the new men, they are fluid and ready to ride. The prince is on his own charger, a deep black beast, with a white blaze and one white foot. Big enough of a mount for him, and quite steady, undisturbed by the rallying of the army.
All the nobles will be in full plate armor. The archers on both sides are armed with bodkin heads, which can punch through all but the toughest plate armor. So while the foot soldiers are wearing chest plates and helmets, they're not going to be saved by them. The horses are in armor as well, for what good it does them, which is very, very little.
Hotspur has the high ground, with his archers beyond marsh. They'll not be so easily trampled. The King's archers are in V-shape, the fighting will commence in the valley in the midst of the bow fire.
"We can see from here," Oisin says.
"Nope," I say, hand on his wrist, tugging him farther back, "Not trusting it. I cannot emphasize how badly this is about to go for everyone involved. This is longbow on longbow, and they are setting themselves up like lambs for the slaughter, both sides. You know I've fought in France, trust me I am not exaggerating."
"I trust you," Oisin says, "I would just rather be close enough if he falls and we have to stop that sword from falling into the wrong hands."
"Agreed, but one thing we can count on is, our Prince Hal? We're going to have to pry a sword from his cold dead hands," I say.
"That's true," Oisin scoffs.
"See there? King's army, two flanks, Prince's, he's about to split it. Within a few moments he's going to cut west like he always planned to hem them in, it'll work as well," I say, pointing to the rows of troops reading themselves in the distance.
"Why are both king and prince leading the charges?" Oisin asks.
"Short answer? Lancaster dumbassery. They shouldn't, it's idiotic, they both need to stay out of combat Hotspur even is, you don't do that, but they're both stubborn," I say, "Henry IV does have men out there in his colors so you know, he's at least doing that to protect himself. Probably told Hal to do the same thing, but our Hal is too proud."
"Don't blame him for that one," Oisin mutters.
We both lie in the grass, waiting. It's a sticky, warm evening. And all is remarkably quiet and still. A peafield on the edge of Wales. Night should be peacefully falling. Instead it's about to be stained with blood.
A battle that didn't have to happen, that should never happened, is about to take the lives of thousands. King and Prince are both riding in front of their troops, last minute orders and encouragement for battle. We're too far away to hear their words, but their speeches seem to rally them. Hal's men are tense and ready, they have their orders, and for all his faults they love their bold prince.
And they are about to walk into a bloodbath.
The king's army advances first, though. Prince Hal only waits a hair's breadth to give the order. The tramp of feet is soft and thick in the grassy field.
And then there is the gentle swish of the first arrows. Near silent, and entirely deadly. A rain of black lines against the red sky, as death rains down from above.
The din of battle explodes. Swords clashing on swords. There's no archery duel. Simply a melee peppered by arrows raining down from above. Men scream as they are impaled and cut down where they stand. The arrows punch easily through most armor, taking down horses of the cavalry, and reaching all but the enemy archers. Undoubtedly the men are falling to friendly fire as much as enemy. There is little way to tell.
Darkness is falling rapidly. Prince Hal's flank has effectively skirted around the side of the battle, cutting off any retreat, and pressing Hotspur's army inward. But it does not avoid the arrows.
Like hellfire from above, shaft after shaft, turning the air black with arrows. The men have as little chance as standing before a firing squad. There is simply nowhere to turn. The horses are near panicking beneath their riders. Men are screaming. And metal clashes on metal.
My eyes are on Prince Hal on his thick charger. The horse is keeping its ground, and wading through now the bodies of the dead, as they fight their way towards the center of the conflict. Hotspur's banner is on the other side of the field, working toward King Henry but he's got several banners out so I have already lost him.
There are a few cries that the King is dead. That means only so much while the Prince is not, but of course they've only gotten a decoy. Arrows continue to rain from above. Now the sun is fully dipped behind the horizon, and the dark is just filled with arrows black as the drawing night sky.
The fighting has gotten thick and heavy, neither army makes much headway, they are just cutting the other down while slowly being picked off from above. Horses slowly start to lose their nerve as they too are barraged with arrows. The muddy field runs red with blood.
Another mounted soldier drives what I suppose is a spear into Hal, in the growing dark it's hard to tell. The weapon smacks him fully in the head, but the Prince quickly cuts down his assailant with a sweep of his sword. One of his knights is behind him, also mounted, and moves to protect him from the other side. A reasonable maneuver, but the true danger is from above.
Prince Hal turns his horse, he's trying to see through the dark to properly direct his men, moving his damaged visor to try to stare through the dark. And that is when an ill fated arrow, which the air is thick with, falls true, hammering deep into the prince's right cheek.
Hal recoils, stiffly, his first reaction to raise a gloved hand to his face. Then he gags, blood pouring from his mouth as the wound drains down his armor, staining it red. He gags again, trying to spit out the blood and raising a hand to his lips, like he doesn't know fully where the wound is. Then his fingers feel the arrow still protruding from his cheek. He snaps it off, leaving most of the shaft imbedded, and dropping the rest. He wrests off the visor, trying to still breath past the blood filling his mouth.
The other knight, it is Fastolf, is upon him, grabbing his arm to keep him upright. I can't hear the words, but he's clearly urging him to follow him off the field.
Hal shakes his head, wincing, his right eye is nearly closed in pain. He vomits out another full mouthful of blood, dripping down his chin and splattering onto his horse, which dances beneath him. Fastolf still has his arm, trying to urge him back.
Hal shakes him off, tipping his head away, nearly hanging it sideways in obvious pain. And he resolutely, keeps fighting towards the enemy lines. His men behind him cheer, following him. They are all stuck with arrows. Not a man afield now hasn't been hit at least once. And their prince has. Yet he refuses to yield. So they will not either. They quite literally follow him into hell.
For the battle is hell. There's no escaping the storm of death above in the form of arrow fire. Men fall like and die every moment. One breath is safe the next gone for a fateful arrow. Not a single man is unbloodied. They are entirely encased in raining hellfire. And the damage they do to each other is nearly irrelevant for a friendly arrow could so easily cut them down.
Hal is by far the worse injured of his army. They are all stuck with arrows, pausing often to tug them from their armor, nearly comically impaled like pincushions as the arrows burrow into armor but slowed enough not to be fatal. Hal for his part not only pauses to tug arrows from himself and his horse, but also to spit blood from his mouth. His entire face now is awash with blood and he coughs it up, doubtless running down his throat from the wound. He spits in the enemy soldier's faces if he can manage, but usually he's just near doubled over in pain, gripping his horse and barely keeping up right with a sword in his hand. His bravery in the face of such an injury buoys the confidence of his rapidly dying men.
Another knight, I think Oldcastle, tries to take his horses reigns to get him to retreat. Hal snarls something, clearly pained but too stubborn and practical to yield. If he leaves the field his men will surely scatter, and he knows it. And he's not about to do something like lose.
There are more cries that the King is dead, as another pretender is struck down. Again these are met with denials, including from King Henry himself, which defeats the purpose of having someone pretending to be you if you personally are going to identify yourself but no, I'm not supposed to talk about that.
Meanwhile the prince's men soldier on. Our Hal doesn't give himself the epithet of 'Hammer' for nothing. His assault is quite effectively crushing the enemy forces backward into themselves, and into the onslaught from the other flanks, preventing them from avoiding the arrow fire. Of course, this is at the hazard of entering the most dangerous arrow storm themselves.
Hal's head is bent down, ruthlessly effective in keeping arrows from it and the blood from draining down his throat. The blood is now coagulating on his chin and neck, as well as in his mouth, he's vomiting clumps now, though he can go more like ten minutes between relief, he now has to stick two fingers into his mouth to sweep the clotting blood from it. His men have given up on persuading him to go back, possibly because now they are well into the thick of battle, the worst of the arrow storm. Going back is as certain death as going forward. And most of the men have lost their bearing.
It is a sea of darkness, and corpses. The moon gives no direction nor the stars, for the last gleams of twilight, for all is obscured by the hail of arrows. The knights stay on either side of Hal, recognizing that at this point he's the direction for the assault, and the only beacon the men can look to as they wade their way through the carnage, the horses traipsing on the corpses of the dead.
The battle has now been raging just an hour. And is a third of the way done.
The archers do not cease their onslaught. Men are falling and dying by the dozen. Those in armor are bleeding from every limb as arrows stick mercilessly between plates. By now King Henry will have word his son is injured but not fallen. There have been two more cries that King Henry is dead though of course he lives and is as unscathed as any other, he's well back of his charge and his armor has held. His horse must have fallen to arrows for he's on another mount.
Hal's horse nearly trips on a corpse that falls in its wake, but the Prince clings on, barely keeping seated, the force of it sending him vomiting blood down the animal's side. He has little hope of any relief now, they are deep into the field and he could not flee through the arrow fire even if someone forced him to, the way back is as thick with arrows as the way forward.
There are cries that Hotspur has entered the battle. He likely heads towards the King to end him. A risky, if possibly necessary move that will end the same way for him as it does when Richard III does a similar Hail Mary. Of course Richard will wind up surrounded. Hotspurs fate lies in one of the thousand arrows that paint the sky black.
Now the fighting is so thick that the horses can barely move. They're deep in the mud and blood of the field. Arrows pepper the ground and line the bodies of the dead. The living fight on, hot and heavy, falling if not to an arrow to the enemy arrows.
The King's army is close to scattering. There is cry after cry that the King is fallen, which, I will put out there, is what will happen when you dress someone in your colors and put them in danger. But no, Prince Hal and I won't be allowed to talk about that later.
The Prince's army is holding fast, and firm. Slowly they soldier on, step after painful step through the onslaught and the dead and the dying. They fall one by one but still press on, as they catch sight of their prince. Still astride his horse. The arrows bounce off his armor, he holds his head high, blood black on his face, eyes glinting with the ferocity of a lion, deep and black of endless malice, and a courage not usually bestowed to mortal men. The men know not why this son of Mars leads them on but they'll follow him, as he fights through wounds that would fell a mere mortal.
And onward they press. It has now been an hour and a half fighting. The arrows still rain down from the sky. Longbowmen can shoot easily ten arrows per minute, or one every six seconds. While Hal has lines cycling off to rest others may not. They may grow weary and have to pause. But not yet. The Black Prince's longbowmen labored for over nine hours at Poiners. This is nothing to them yet. The longbowmen have unfathomable stamina and while they may rest then another line will take their place. The arrow assault will not cease anytime soon.
So there is nothing left to do but fight on.
Hal's voice is raw and bubbling with blood as he shouts orders to his men, bidding them stay fast as they quite literally wade their way into the deeper melee. Hand to hand, sword to sword. Metal falls upon metal, the clangs of the weapons, drown out by the screams of the dying. The rebel army is fighting furiously, they are not yet losing ground, they are the superior force and have the high ground.
Word has spread the field that the Prince is injured but fights on like a madman. No, not a madman. A madman does not have the poise of a misplaced god. If blood were not down his face and staining his colors they'd think him an immortal. Tall upon his horse, easily visible, still shouting orders, wielding a great sword, at one point cutting arrows from the air then going back to hacking through the assuming force.
And the battle rages on. Both Hotspur and King Henry have called to take no quarters. That is, no prisoners. All are slain on the field.
As if any would have survived the arrows.
The first longbow on longbow assault on English soil. And it is as bloody as could be expected. A death sentence to any on the field in anything less than the finest armor. They raise shields over their heads, but the shields are now filled with arrows, like so many porcupines limping through the muck and death, bodies trampled beneath the horses.
And on the western front the english look to their prince fighting on. Ruddy face stained with his own blood, eyes glowing and merciless, a machine of war through and through, no place else has he looked so alive, born for the blood of the field and these terrible mechanisms of death. A man most at home ending lives.
And his men love him. A love that will carry him for the rest of his life, born here on this field as he refuses to desert them with an enemy arrow still lodged in his kingly face. Heavy features permanently disfigured from a shattered cheekbone.
On the other side of the field his father has surely gotten word that his son is injured. But he will note it little. As his boy has not left the field he's fine. And besides there's little Henry can do to aid his son anyway. There is no back up, no force remaining. There is just them, this once quiet field in Wales, forever now haunted by the thousands dead.
Like Edward III, who also once got news his sixteen year old was in the midst of battle, Henry IV does nothing. Our Henry can't, he is in fighting himself, albeit farther out from the thick of it. Edward had, intentionally, been running the battle from safety as befits a king. When he got word his crown prince was dehorsed, but uninjured, he perhaps callously refused to send aid. He was right his prince did live, and theoretically he could have died as well and done little good by going in. Henry will have no word but that the boy is injured but stays afield, and having kept no force back he can do little to nothing. Both men have more sons at home. Though in Edward's case he'd waged war with his son for months and knew his abilities. Henry has only hope that the prince will not fall, if only because it would mean losing that side of the field.
But this prince does not fall.
We are nearing now two hours of fighting.
Prince Hal has overcome the Earl, and his forces are circling him and his men. A handsome captive, and half of Hotspurs army is now about to scatter.
Hotspur has fully entered the battle, working his way towards Henry IV. So we have three Henries afield, all three with the hearts of kings. One already wounded. The other has marched the three days and is exhausted. The third? Filled with rage, cunning, and backed by a larger army with better terrain.
The fate of the battle hangs on but one arrow.
If any Henry falls the tide of the battle will turn.
If King Henry falls, then our Prince becomes a King and must rally and win alone. He can, but he's already lost over a litre of blood, and despite how he may appear this son of Ares is in the body of a mortal man.
If Henry Hotspur falls the day is won. One single arrow is all it will take. He is the leader, and with the earl down to the Prince's army, then he is alone on the field. Douglas is with him, but a prisoner, he commands nothing. Hotspur is alone, his father's reinforcements almost a day away. He must live through this night otherwise his cause is lost.
If Prince Henry falls then they lose the western flank, his men will fall apart without him to guide them, they hang on little but his word. And if he falls then the King will turn fighting to recover his body, a fine prize for Hotspur who would undoubtedly leap on the chance to scatter the now leaderless army.
Why are any of these Henry's in the battle when they are close to defeat? Stupidity. Hotspur and King Henry both should have remained outside, and off the field. The prince, that's a bit more understandable, to quote Edward III when endangering his own crown prince "Let the boy earn his spurs". However, Hotspur and King Henry by all military logic should have stayed off the field. A king is the most powerful piece, but so easily felled.
Just one arrow.
All it takes is one arrow to kill a king. Not a prince apparently, no. He's immune to arrows, like most other concerns of the flesh. His mind is bent to war and little else ignoring even pain. The arrow shaft is clear protruding from his shattered cheekbone. The skin on that side of his face tense in pain and slumping in what will be lifelong disfigurement. And he cares not, for all appearances. Shouting orders, wielding his sword with terrifying power. He was fighting right handed, now left. His hand and a half, cursed, sword at his side. He wields a great sword with two hands but favors his left now as his right eye is nearly crusted shut with blood.
Fastolf is by his side, moving to flank him and protect him from the right as he's refusing to yield. They are now well into cutting their way through the side of the army, arrows still pelting them from above. Prince Hal pauses to tug arrows from his armor, spitting blood as ever. Fastolf is little better, pulling arrows from his poor horse, and his own plate armor. Undoubtedly he too is bleeding.
The horses stay true. Hal's is solid and steady, he pets it's neck and comes back with blood from one or other of them, leaning with now disgust as he once again is forced to spit clumps of blood from his mouth. The bleeding is likely coming from the back of his throat, since the arrow is six inches deep into his skull, from his cheekbone above his nose. Somehow it missed brain stem, and anything equally important just shattering bone. Undoubtedly intensely painful, and he's not only conscious but riding and still fighting with terrifying accuracy.
On the other side of the field, King Henry is near the back of the arrow fire. There is still hell raining from above. The sky is dark now, the sun has fully set. Which means that the arrows simply appear from the dark to cut down indiscriminately.
One arrow. One arrow for one Henry is all it takes. That is all to win the day and start a course of history.
One single arrow.
Which fated one shall fell a king?
One has defied such odds already, refusing to be cut down by a mere arrow. The other two Henries? Well. Their lives hang in the balance.
Two and a half hours. That's longer than an entire movie. I have been informed I spent the entire time visibly vibrating with excitement with my fist in my mouth, and apparently Oisin spent the whole time watching me have a good time rather than watching the battle which is odd the battle is much more interesting than I am but that's what he did apparently.
Two and a half hours. Hal has had the arrow in his face since the first half hour. King Henry has been in combat a decent portion of the time, great sword in hand. Hotspur has been working his way towards King Henry. He's no fool. He knows he needs to end this and now his men are being slaughtered.
Over two thousand english soldiers are dead in the field. The horses must step over, or trample over their bodies. Seven hundred rebels easily lay dead already. More will die before the night is out. The mud in the field is red with blood. And the stench of the dead and dying is easily detected even from our distance. Those on the ground will be choking from it. There's three thousand odd corpses already on the field. Being trampled under foot, and impaled with arrow upon arrow.
It is now pitch black. Just arrows, raining down in the dark.
Man by man is cut down. There is no ceasing. Prince Hal, dogged, is leading his force towards Hotspur's advance. But Hotspur is heading for the King, who is slightly heading for Hotspur. A weird, almost comical dance as they work their way at a snails pace through the onslaught of the melee.
Hotspur has a solid fresh wave of men behind him. The english are being crushed.
More arrows.
Arrows rain from above. Prince Hal once again wrests an arrow from his poor horse's shoulder, then one from his own thigh. Again he spits out blood, this time vomiting with it. His voice his dry and raw from the blood, which surely is turning his stomach as it runs down his throat. He restlessly pushes on, even as his men fall around him to enemy arrows. Enemy swords don't reach them. It's ever arrows first.
Nothing but arrows raining from the sky. So thick that Hal loses Fastolf for a moment before they go back to working in tandem, another knight or two has joined them on horseback so to protect the Prince as best they can.
King Henry at this point only knows his son's flag still flies. So he will assume the Prince lives. He knows Hotspur lives. But now in the growing dark he's about to lose the Princes' flag as well. Dark and arrows blind the night.
Till there is nothing but arrow shafts, piercing out of the blackness to bring quick and humiliating death here in this muddy field in Wales. Not even cut down on English soil. A fool's errand and fool's war, for a usurper king now fighting with those who put him on the throne.
But in the west they fight for nothing but their prince. Their prince who has not left their side who somehow against all odds fights on with what should be fatal injures. But he speaks orders, his eyes flash, an angel of war and nothing more. Certainly not an ordinary man. And as they die for him they love him. For they see him bodily face death along side them. But for him death turned away. Death would not dare take their Harry.
Two hours and forty five minutes. That is a really long time to do anything. But to stand in a storm of arrows praying that one is not fated for you? It's an eternity. The men are staggering. They look up to see the man next to them fall an arrow through the throat, face, gut. Blood and all manner of innards spill to the earth. Heads roll at the swing of the great swords.
But an arrow is all it takes. One arrow. One arrow and you die. And there are so many arrows.
It is truly a bloodbath. Violence, cruelty, and all manner of evil all summed into one hellish night. Now so dark the King can make out no banners. And he no longer knows if his son fights on or has succumbed to the wounds. He knows well that this battle could go long into the night. That if he does not reach Hotspur then they will battle on. And he doesn't know how many of his men even still stand when visibility is barely fifty feet around him. Not due to the dark and the torches, no. Due to the arrows. The sky is black with arrows. Thick with the death. The field now reeks of dying. The clash of swords and the screams of the men form an odd cacophony, almost, terribly melodious. The rhythm of war and battle.
There is once again the call that King Henry is fallen. The prince hears it this time. He cannot see his father's colors and he pauses, indifference in his face as he waits. Then he hears his father's voice shouting that he has not fallen. And the prince moves on, inconvenienced if anything, going about his bloody work of war which some god shaped him to so very well. Arrows fly overhead but they hold no fear for him now. That he knew a touch of fear to begin with.
He has already met his arrow. And found it wanting. It was not enough to claim him.
But he's the exception.
One arrow, is, in fact, all it takes.
And Hotspur's arrow comes for him. Noble Hotspur who was cheated. Who shall not come home to his wife. Noble Hotspur, who like Prince Hal, will at some point in the dark raise his visor, only for a fateful arrow to fly true. But unlike our warlike prince, that arrow will claim his life.
He falls from his horse, in the dark. To the dark cold ground. Death claims him well before anyone realizes he is dead. Bleeding out, the light gone from his eyes, as he lies in the mud with so many other dead.
Someone calls that Henry has fallen.
King Henry shouts that he is not dead, that it's Hotspur.
And there is no answer from Hotspur. Nor shall there be. He met his end to one of ten thousand arrows.
And the men echo the cry, heralding Hotspur's death.
Just over three hours from it's start. The battle is over. The rebels begin to scatter. And King Henry shouts to his own men to take no prisoners.
Prince Hal works on, determined to find Hotspur's body before returning from the field. He'll find it. They'll find it. Lying in the mud, an arrow to his noble face. Unable to cheat death, this time. Unlike our Prince. He's quite cheated it this round, his own arrow still buried in his head.
And as softly as they began, the arrows cease. At some point the last one falls from the sky. The stars are out again. As though nearly six thousand dead do not lay in this cursed field.