Poitiers, France
September, 1356
Roger Marchand stood by his destrier, Conquerant, and waited for the order to mount. He watched as the English enemy formed up on the opposite plateau, his French countrymen greatly outnumbering them. What madness possessed the English he couldn’t guess. Why would Edward, the Black Prince, a man said to have a brilliant mind for tactics, choose to stand his ground and fight? The Prince could easily retreat back to Bordeaux, the English held French province. To stay was suicidal pride.
“Comte...” Henri, Roger’s squire, handed him a silver cup of wine. “It’s from the King’s own supply. A taste of wine now. A taste of victory soon according to his majesty.”
“Thank you.” Roger took a large swallow but saved some for the squire. “Have the rest.” He handed the cup back. “No reason for you not to enjoy the royal harvest.”
Henri tipped his chin toward the English side. “I’ve secretly followed a few of them for the past week as they left their camp. They forage for food for them and their horses. They scratch for dandelions to boil and eat. Weeds.” Henri curled his lip in distaste and turned to Roger. “Look at them, tattered and hungry. There’ll be no surprise victory for the invaders today, like at Crecy.”
Roger made the sign of the cross. “You must not speak about such a thing before battle. To give voice to our past defeat is to invite bad fate.” The squire was young, too young to have accompanied Roger at Crecy, ten years earlier. Roger had been twenty-four at the time. Older than his cousins who died in the battle and clever enough to avoid capture and ransoming by the English. But if he had been taken prisoner, his father would’ve paid any price asked for the return of his only son. After the heavy tax imposed by the king to cover the cost of the war, ransom would’ve seriously depleted the family coffers, but of no matter to his father.
“Let us speak prayers this is the battle that will bring an end to the English challenge. I want nothing more than to go home,” Roger said. “I want to tend to my land, sit in front of my hearth, and bed my mistress when the mood is upon me.”
“You will, sire. Soon.”
Priests were blessing weapons and men. Roger waved one over. When he came, Roger unsheathed his sword and knelt, Henri by his side. “Father, I do not ask for my life but whatever God’s will, I ask to meet it with courage and honor.”
“HE will see you through, my son.” The priest sprinkled Holy Water on Roger’s bent head and on the sword he presented. Roger rose and said, “My squire and horse as well, father.” The priest pulled back and looked about to balk. Roger took one step closer to him. “My squire and horse as well, father.”
The priest nodded, said a fast blessing, sprinkled water on Conquerant’s head then eyed Roger seeing if the action met with his approval. Roger nodded in return and sheathed his sword. The priest quickly moved on to another man.
The best of the cavalry lined up behind rows of foot soldiers armed with various weapons. Behind them, but on foot, were cavalry knights who lacked the skill of riders like Roger. All the French ranks were flanked by crossbow men. He had mixed feelings regarding the crossbow men. While their bolts penetrated armor, it took the men far longer to load than it did an English long bowman. The English devils could turn the heavens black with their arrows, and black again, and again. Close in, at fifty yards, their arrows could also penetrate armor. At great expense, Roger had armor for Conquerant made. The terror of an arrow-wounded horse magnified the chaos of battle. Bad enough he had to be aware of the men and mounts around him when one or the other was wounded. An injury to Conquerant could prove deadly to them both.
Roger removed his surcoat from the saddlebag and slipped it on over his armor. The garment bore his family’s coat of arms: a black panther on a field of orange. Like all the knights, Roger wouldn’t put his helm on until the last minute. The helm made even a shouted command nearly impossible to hear. On the far side of the French plateau, when the King put his helmet on and mounted, Roger followed suit and mounted. The dauphin raised his father, the King’s, banner. For those who couldn’t hear the order to charge, the banner would drop and signal to advance.
Henri laid a hand on Roger’s arm. “God be with you, sire.”
“I pray God is with us all this day.”
The first banner dropped and all but the cavalry line charged. The flat field between the armies grew thick with fallen foot soldiers, the English arrows taking a terrible toll. The banner for the mounted knights dropped and Roger rode hard over English and French dead and wounded alike. To ride too slow while enemy arrows rained down Would mean death.
The last column of English cavalry, the Black Prince among them, charged down the plateau. A knight on a large white horse who’d been engaged in a sword fight, killing a French knight, turned to challenge Roger who was almost upon him. In explicably, the Englishman paused, for only a fraction of a second, but long enough for Roger to bring his sword down on the Englishman’s helm hard, smashing the visor into the enemy’s eyes. The blow knocked the man from his saddle to the ground. He crawled from the spot where he fell toward an area of shrubs and stones, his horse trailing next to him and occasionally nudging the wounded knight. The knight finally stopped. Blood dripped from behind his helm, pooling on the ground. He tried to rise on all fours but collapsed.
The white horse pawed the earth and nudged the knight again.
“Arthur,” the knight whispered just loud enough for Roger to hear.
Roger pulled his long sword from the saddle ring and raised it high, prepared to drive through the Englishman’s neck mail and finish him off. “English pig.”
Conquerant pinned his ears and reared. He tossed his head as though the bit pained him. Arching, he positioned himself to lunge and bolt.
The stallion never spooked. Mystified, Roger struggled to control the powerful animal, forgetting about the English knight.
“Conquerant—” Roger tightened his grip on the reins. As he did, a sudden dizziness washed over him and the ground rolled beneath him. The enemy knight blurred and the image of nearby fighting men grew hazy.
He locked his hand onto the pommel to stay astride. His mouth had been dry as sand when he rode into battle but now it watered like a mad dog’s.
The odd disturbance ceased and Conquerant stopped his defiance, although the animal’s mane stood strangely on end. Roger’s vision cleared and the wounded knight came back into focus.
The sounds of war were no more. No clanging of metal on metal or cries from dying men and horses. Battle is many things but never quiet. Roger gripped the pommel tight again. His heart raced as a strange uncertainty settled over him as he took in the sights around him and he tried to make sense of what he saw. Houses were built where the French and English camps existed. The armies were gone. Black material with white lines covered the dirt road that bordered the field where they fought. He twisted in the saddle surrounded by a world he didn’t recognize and worked to hold fear at bay. The sight of the distant Noialles Abbey and the familiar woods gave him some comfort. But even those familiar sites couldn’t keep the worst from his mind.
What was this place?
Where had God sent him?