Owre Kynge went forth to Normandy With grace and myght of chyvalry Ther God for hym wrought mervelusly; Wherefore Englonde may call and cry Deo gratias!
Henry the Fifth, King of England, watched the French delegation approach from Harfleur. It was the 22nd of September in the year of our Lord 1415, and the French army at Rouen had failed to relieve their garrison at Harfleur. Honoring their promise, the French garrison now chose to surrender. God had given Henry victory, but it had not been easy.
"How many dead?" Henry demanded quietly.
Edward, Duke of York, looked over from his place beside the King and leaned in. "Majesty?" he questioned.
"How many dead?" Henry repeated.
A flicker of understanding washed over York's face. He spoke gently, "The bloody flux has been bad, your majesty. At last count, I believe it was two thousand buried, and another few thousand made invalid."
Henry sighed, "A high price for a small town. Let's hope all of France is not like this."
York raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. "We are to continue campaigning?"
Henry held his hand out, feeling the chill of early autumn, and shook his head. "Not this year. At least not extensively. We should return to England before winter, but to do so now would look like defeat." He shrugged. "So we'll march to Calais first, demonstrate to the French that I am the true master of Normandy, and then we can return. If we are lucky, perhaps someone will come out to fight."
"We'll need rest first, your majesty," York said with a nod. "The men must recover from this ordeal if you wish them to walk across Normandy."
"Of course," Henry replied, "we can wait."
His eyes settled on the French delegation again. They wore no armor and carried no weapons. A pair of men-at-arms bedecked in shining steel harness escorted them through the English siege lines.
"Have those fine gentlemen ransomed along with the rest of the garrison," Henry ordered. "Then have it announced that inhabitants of Harfleur who swear an oath of loyalty to me will be permitted to stay. Drive the rest out. This town must be an English town if we are to use it for future campaigns."
York hesitated for the tiniest moment. But then he responded, "Of course, your majesty."
Henry watched him for disloyalty. Only two months ago, Henry had stopped a plot to assassinate him just as his army was preparing to sail for France. But York had always been steadfast in his loyalty despite certain hesitations about Henry's policy.
Henry gave a curt nod. "On you go then."
The Duke of York bowed and left Henry to his musings.
That evening, the English army moved into Harfleur's walls. Their siege encampment, rank with disease and rot, was burnt to cinders while the twelve great English gonnes were dragged past the very walls they had demolished. Men-at-arms and archers found quarters in the now abandoned homes of those who had refused to swear loyalty to the King.
Atop the tallest tower still standing, the cross of Saint George was flown to announce the English victory. The Royal Arms of England were then draped from the gatehouse. King Henry personally gave thanks to God in the Church of Saint Martin with a dozen of his retainers as witnesses.
It took two weeks until the English army was fit for campaign again. The conditions of a proper town helped some recover from their illness, but many more continued to suffer. For those able to move from their beds, their time was spent preparing for the coming march to Calais. Food had to be stockpiled. Sheaves of arrows were distributed to archers. Men-at-arms hired smiths to hammer out dents in armor. Fresh horses were brought in. Squires and pages worked to remove rust from their masters' equipment.
Then, on the morning before Saint Denis's Day, King Henry ordered the army out of Harfleur and into the Norman countryside.
A small garrison was left to hold Harfleur and protect those still unable to walk. The rest of the army, a thousand men-at-arms, five thousand archers, and several thousand more camp followers, moved out with archers screening their frontage.
Every man knew that there was a French army at Rouen which outnumbered them drastically. To confront it directly was insanity. Speed was their only ally here. If they could outrun the French army then they could prove that Normandy was theirs while avoiding a lopsided battle. If not, then they would be crushed by the flower of France's chivalry.
With this in mind, the English army had no heavy carts in its baggage train. Its supplies were carried on the backs of mules and draft horses or by the men themselves. The gonnes that had broken Harfleur's walls were left with the garrison. Most men were mounted, even if only on cart horses. They could never hope to go fast enough purely on foot, especially with many still sick with the bloody flux, and there were plenty of horses to spare. Only the most able men were made to walk.
And it worked. The English moved at a rapid pace, twenty-three miles the first day and twenty-five the second.
But while they moved at an impressive rate, it was built on borrowed time. They carried food for a few days at most. The rest had to be pillaged from Norman peasants.
They were good for the week-long journey to Calais. Any longer and things would get messy.
But on the third day of their march, they found that the French were blocking their path. Speed had not been enough. The Constable of France, Charles d'Albret, had managed to assemble men to guard bridges and crossings over the Somme River, preventing the English from reaching Calais. Worse, the French army at Rouen was now reported to be on the move to catch them from behind.
King Henry was undeterred. He ordered the army southeast, up the left bank of the Somme to find an unguarded crossing. D'Albret shadowed his movements, but his men lacked the same speed as the English and were outmarched by Henry's men.
At the villages of Béthencourt and Voyennes, two unguarded fords were discovered which both led across the river. King Henry's men moved through the shallow waters and emerged north of the Somme. D'Albret was too slow to stop them, and the road to Calais was once more open.
The English were still in a dire situation, though. Their detour had cost them several days and nearly doubled the distance they were forced to march. Any food they'd carried was gone. Their rations now consisted of whatever could be stolen from the countryside. Many went hungry. Some were killed by the very peasants they were trying to steal from.
King Henry ordered an even faster pace. His only hope now was to outrun the main French army and reach Calais. For three days, the English army conducted a forced march through unrelenting rain, exhausting horses and riders alike.
But it was in vain. D'Albret had joined with the main army which cut across a bridge over the Somme and made a march directly north to once more block the English route. The French army was larger and slower than the English. Nevertheless, it had a much shorter distance to cross.
Only thirty miles from Calais, English scouts reported to King Henry that the French were in their path. The French had twenty-four thousand fighting men to King Henry's six thousand, and there was no way around them.
That night, King Henry prayed to God for victory.
The English camp was quiet. Henry had ordered absolute silence throughout the army in case the French attempted a night attack. This order proved prudent when a brief skirmish occurred between ranging French horsemen and the English archers on watch.
That was, however, the only action of the night. As the hours passed, the unusual silence of the camp became oppressive.
A torrent of rain poured over both camps, yet the archers on watch could still hear the French laughing and feasting just a little while away. Their campfires illuminated their conversations, and, at the places closest to the English camp, archers could see the faces of French knights.
Meanwhile the English were miserable. They were cold and wet. Sick and hungry. Sore and tired. Few men could sleep in such conditions.
But Henry did more than pray for victory that night. He sent out Sir John Cornwall, one of the best knights in England, with a handpicked band to scout tomorrow's battlefield in the moonlight. Sir John returned, reporting that the battlefield had been plowed for winter wheat and would be a muddy swamp by morning.
With this in mind, King Henry summoned his council. The English men-at-arms would form three dismounted divisions the next morning. They would array in a line between two forests and dare the French to attack them over the muddy ground. Henry himself would lead the main battle in the center. The Duke of York had the right. The Baron of Camoys had the left. Archers would be placed in between the divisions and on the far flanks with sharpened stakes to protect against cavalry. The archers were led by Sir Thomas Erpingham.
The English were outnumbered, starving, and exhausted. They had no reserve nor any mounted divisions. But they were desperate, and they had a plan.
So the next morning, on the feast day of Saint Crispin, the English army arrayed for battle at a place called Agincourt.
Perrin, sire de Godefroy, watched the English battles forming opposite them from next to his horse. He was a knight. The order of knighthood was all he had ever aspired to. He was eager to do battle against the English and prove his worth in front of the finest gentlemen in France. Perrin's strength in arms would earn him glory on the field.
It was all perfect, as God had certainly intended for him. His warhorse, a vicious mare he had named Charlotte, was magnificent in the morning light. He himself was covered head to toe in full plate harness, not perhaps the most modern armor but brilliantly made and constantly cared for. The men around him were the best France had to offer. Certainly, they would charge and disperse their foe in one blow.
And what better foe than the English? Perrin was not one to dismiss their skill at arms like some of his compatriots, but they were certainly a foul enemy. For weeks now they had pillaged Normandy, stealing from the peasantry and leaving families to starve through the coming winter months. At Harfleur, they had displaced the populace, leaving them destitute refugees, for no reason but their loyalty to their true king. And of course none could forget the actions of their prior campaigns into France. The horrid chevauchées which had burned the countryside and murdered thousands.
It was God's will that these fiends be brought to justice, and Perrin was eager to obey. For he was a knight, and he carried justice in his scabbard.
Perrin stroked Charlotte down her mane. The warhorse snorted and stamped her hoof, just as eager as he was. He gave her a pat and turned to his squire, an able young man named Marcel.
"Give me my lance then head to the rear and arm yourself," Perrin ordered. As Marcel, eager to partake in his fight, began to move, Perrin added, "And tell young Daniel to prepare accommodations for the ransoms I take."
Daniel was Perrin's page, a boy of twelve who would not take part in the fighting on account of his youth. In truth, although Marcel was eager to win glory and owned his own plate harness, it was doubtful he would be in the fighting either. The French outnumbered the English by an absurd amount, and there was simply not enough room on the field for the lesser men. Already, the crossbowmen of the army had been moved to the back so as to make room for the men-at-arms. The front ranks were filled by the noblest men in France: princes of the royal blood, dukes and counts of great importance, renowned knights from as far as Languedoc.
Perrin himself was not high nobility. He was part of the cavalry contingent who would scatter the English archers on the wings then converge on the men-at-arms from the side while the rest of the French nobles advanced on foot.
He, and every other man with him, had been chosen for his professional experience. A few years earlier, Perrin had served in the company of the Count of Armagnac against the Burgundians. He had been knighted during his service, but it had soured his taste to the mercenary bands that Armagnac employed. Still, it was this experience with professional soldiers that allowed Perrin to take his place with the cavalry and for that he was grateful.
The leader of the cavalry, Clignet de Brabant, was one rank ahead of Perrin. He was an old professional soldier, and he seemed unconcerned by the English divisions. His squire had a feed bag over his warhorse's mouth and his page was holding his helmet and gauntlets. In fact, most of the cavalrymen were in similar states of unreadiness. Some weren't even on the field.
Brabant yawned and looked back to Perrin. He rubbed his hands together to fight the morning chill. "Must you always look so serious, sire de Godefroy?" Brabant asked.
Perrin de Godefroy was armored cap-à-pie with his horse's reins in his left hand and his lance in his right. He wore his gauntlets and his visored helmet. He even had sabatons on, an article many knights chose to forgo.
"We are on the eve of battle," Perrin replied.
Brabant rolled his eyes. "We have time," he said, yawning again. "Constable d'Albret is in no hurry. Besides, If nothing else, hunger will destroy the English."
Perrin's skin writhed at the suggestion, but he mastered himself. "I would prefer to fight," Perrin stated with a thin smile.
"I'm sure you would," Brabant snorted. A moment passed before he pointed at some distant figures in between the two armies. "Look, the English have sent envoys to negotiate, and d'Albret has sent representatives to meet them. We'll be here for some time."
There was indeed a party of Englishmen speaking with a group of Frenchmen under the flag of truce. Perrin couldn't be sure, but he thought he recognized the surcoat of Jacques, sire de Heilly, a man who had broken his chivalric oath by violating his parole when he was imprisoned by the English. Not a man you sent to make peace with the English.
"What is the point of this?" Perrin demanded. "They will achieve nothing but delay."
Brabant looked at him dryly. "That is exactly the point. D'Albret is delaying. The longer we sit, the weaker they get and the more reinforcements we gain."
"We can crush them now," Perrin insisted.
"I think I prefer waiting."
Perrin opened his mouth to retort. But then there was a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder that silenced him.
Every man winced as a blinding light appeared near the English envoys. It lasted six seconds, during which men's ears rang from a deafening noise that resembled the sound of an avalanche. No one could look into the light. It was like a second sun had materialized on the battlefield.
But then those six seconds passed, and the light disappeared.
In its place was a giant structure of marble.
Commotion was quick to spread through the entire French army. Men stared at the marble structure with awe. It was formed like the temples of Ancient Rome with coffered columns and a great pediment extending backward into pure darkness. Yet those who had seen the ruins of Rome could see it was clearly not Roman. There were huge cerulean crystals embedded between rows of columns, each glowing with some mystic force. And despite only being a few dozen yards long, the interior darkness seemed to be impenetrable to the sun's light.
"God's mercy," Brabant muttered. "There are men coming from that… thing."
Perrin squinted his eyes. Indeed there were men marching out of the structure. They were dressed like the ancients with breast plates coming only up to their collar bones and short red capes pinned over their shoulders. Those on foot carried spears and massive rectangular shields like the pavises of urban militias. One rode forward on a horse with a long white cape and a red plume on his helmet.
But behind them were not men. There were… creatures. Beasts that stood like men yet had the heads of pigs or were simply misshapen. Their skin was green and grey. They held crude blades and wooden clubs.
The French and English peace envoys, who had been meeting only a few dozen yards from the structure, shook themselves from their stupor. They raised their flag of truce and moved to greet these ancient strangers who had appeared from nowhere.
Yet, when they approached the strangers, the man on horseback drew his sword. In the time it took to say Ave Maria, he cut the head off one of the English envoys.
Perrin blinked. He blinked again to be sure he was really seeing this. That man had just killed a peace envoy under the protection of the flag of truce.
The ancient footmen surged at the remaining envoys. As peace representatives, the envoys carried no weapons but their swords. They wore armor, but none had worn their helmets or gauntlets as a sign of good faith. As the footmen swarmed them, the envoys, both English and French, formed a circle to defend themselves.
Perrin watched it all in horror. He shook Brabant's shoulder and demanded, "Order the cavalry forward. We must save those men!"
"I…" Brabant started, but then he bit his lip. "I don't have the authority."
"Then who does?"
"Not me," Brabant hissed. He turned to his squire. "Go to d'Albret and see if he has orders for us!"
"Gentle Christ, they will be dead by the time we hear from d'Albret!" Perrin snapped.
As the squire sprinted down the French line, a giant beast emerged from the marble structure. It was a winged serpent with purple scales. A forked tongue slithered from its mouth of dagger-sharp teeth. Steel plates were layered from its neck to its tail, and on its back was a man with a long lance.
A dragon. The essence of evil. The embodiment of Satan.
A hundred questions were answered in that instant.
"This is the Devil's work," Perrin barked. "Those are the Devil's minions, come to destroy Christendom. God wills us to fight!"
The cavalrymen around him shifted uncomfortably.
"Abide!" Brabant spat. "We have no orders."
"We have God's orders," Perrin growled. In one motion, he vaulted into Charlotte's saddle and pushed his way past Brabant to the front of the cavalrymen.
Many mimicked him, pushing through those who chose to obey Brabant over God. They hurriedly put on their helmets and gauntlets while squires handed them lances.
In front of them, the Devil's servants only seemed to multiply. Columns of men marched from their portal to hell and formed up facing the French army. The circle of envoys was pressed inward by the weight of numbers.
Perrin raised his lance over his head, no mean feat in full armor, and called out to the whole French army.
"God and Saint Denis!" he roared.
"Montjoie! Montjoie!" the cavalrymen roared with him.
Perrin slapped his hounskull visor shut, and his world became two slits of light.
Perrin had four hundred mounted men-at-arms at his back when he started at the heathen army. He should have had a thousand, but the full contingent was unprepared to go forward. Some were at the rear, not having expected the battle to begin so soon. Others remained with Brabant.
They began towards the heathens at a walk. The ground was muddy, and it was impossible to keep cohesion while riding through it.
But Perrin was a knight. He pressed his knees into Charlotte's side, and the warhorse increased her speed despite the mud. The men-at-arms behind him followed suit. They went faster and faster, like a runaway cart down a hill.
The heathens saw them and formed their spearmen. But their ranks were messy. They too suffered from the mud, and they had to reorient their line to face the charge.
Charlotte never quite reached a full gallop. When they were close, Perrin dropped his lance into the lance rest on his breastplate and lowered the point. He aimed at an officer with a big plumed helmet who was barking orders.
Perrin's lance point was steady. It was aimed at the top rim of the officer's rectangular shield. At the last moment, he moved it just a touch higher.
Perrin's lance swept over the officer's shield. The tip went into the top of his brow, just below the peak of his helmet, and smashed through the officer's face.
Charlotte thundered into the disordered line. She knocked two men off their feet then reared and struck another down with her hooves.
Perrin's lance was stuck in the officer's helmet. He dropped it, instantly drawing his longsword while a pair of heathens pounded his armor with spears. One tried to kill Charlotte, but Perrin dropped him first with a hard cut into his open face.
Behind him, d'Albret must have made a decision. A collective cry of, "Montjoie Saint Denis!" erupted from the vanguard of French men-at-arms.
The French army advanced to face the heathen strangers.
King Henry was tempted to let the French face the foreign army alone. It was a miracle for the English. He could easily slip away while the French were distracted and reach Calais as he had intended. Part of him really did believe these foreigners were God's answer to his prayers.
But their Devil-spawn nature was unmistakable to Henry. They fought alongside demons with the heads of pigs and the bodies of men. They attacked envoys under the flag of truce. They fought beside a dragon, the symbol of Satan himself.
No, these foreigners were not God's miracle. They were the servants of the Devil, and Henry could not let them pollute God's earth.
So King Henry stepped out from his formation and turned to face his entire army. He raised his poleaxe so all could see and shouted, "Fellows, let's go!"
The sound of trumpets and drums immediately rose to the air. Henry's command, the main battle, was the first to advance. Men-at-arms trudged forward through the mud to follow their king forward. Then York's contingent on the right and Camoys's men on the left rushed to catch up. Sir Thomas Erpingham ordered the archers to pull out their stakes and carry them forward.
They went ahead just as the French vanguard was entering the melee in support of their cavalry contingent. The whole of the foreign army seemed focused on the French, backs turned to the English.
Two hundred and fifty yards from the foreigners, King Henry called a halt. The archers replanted their stakes and nocked arrows.
Sir Thomas Erpingham, now by the King at the front, threw his baton of office into the air, shouting, "Now strike!"
Five thousand English longbowmen raised their yew bows together. They loosed in one great volley that arced over the battlefield. There were so many arrows that they created a shadow like a cloud. The arrows streaked down into the backs of the foreign spearmen.
A thousand men dropped from the first volley. But by the time the first arrows were landing, the longbowmen had already loosed two more.
The hail of arrows peppered the rear of the foreign infantry. Their massive shields were of no use facing the wrong direction, and their armor was made of mass produced wrought iron unlike the steel harnesses of the English and French men-at-arms. Steeled bodkins pierced through backplates or struck exposed flesh. Men died in droves.
Individual archers shot at their own pace, some faster and some slower. What started as unified volleys quickly devolved into a constant rain of arrows. Men grunted, loosing as fast as they could. The gap between the two lines was a blizzard of archery.
Whoever commanded the foreigners was not blind to this development, however.
As soon as the archers began shooting, officers with plumed helmets began roaring at their men. The foreign army effectively split in two with half moving to face the English while the rest continued to fight the French. Their monstrous infantry screamed cries and tumbled toward the English men-at-arms. A river of reinforcements flowed out of the marble structure they'd arrived from.
And of course the dragon came at them as well.
Nat Miller had thought he'd seen it all.
He'd fought Scottish reivers on the border. He'd put down Welsh rebels in service to the then Prince Henry. He'd faced Cheshire archers at Shrewsbury. He'd dueled Genoese crossbowmen while a mercenary in Italy. And, of course, he'd served in France twice before this as part of garrisons and had already shot at French knights on their precious warhorses. By all rights, Nat had seen the military might of half of Europe.
But the dragon was certainly new.
"Mary, mother of Christ!" Andy Waller screamed as the dragon flew at their line.
Another longbowman, Oliver Shields, ducked when its shadow passed over the contingent of archers.
"Shut your damn mouth and keep shooting!" Nat snapped. Then he sniffed the air and laughed. "Someone shit himself!" he called.
A few of the archers managed a chuckle.
Nat nocked another arrow on his heavy yew bow. It was a good needle point bodkin with a finger-long, steeled head which tapered to a wicked point like that of an ice pick. The dragon had flown to the other end of the field, so Nat picked a target from one of the demons on foot. The creature was two heads taller than a man, with yellow skin and the face of a pig. It carried a club in two hands and snorted as it ran.
With strength built from decades of experience, Nat drew the bowstring back to his ear and loosed.
The arrow flew through the air. It struck the creature in the chest two inches to the left of center and passed through an ugly leather jerkin and through a layer of tightly packed wool. Through skin into a thick layer of fat. Through fat to muscle. Muscle to bone. Slid from bone and into more muscle, finally stopping an inch into the beast's heart.
The creature fell. Its comrades trampled over the corpse without a thought, but Nat Miller had already loosed two more arrows by the time the first had struck and two more beasts were felled in quick succession.
Nat took a moment to look around. Fast shooting was tiring, and he needed to rest his arm if only briefly. He could see the dragon had swept through the left wing, carving through a dozen archers in one swoop. It now circled in the air, threatening to return to Nat's side of the battle.
"Listen up!" Nat roared above the din of the battle. "Listen, you fucks!"
Men stopped shooting to look over. Nat was a master archer, and the younger longbowmen knew to listen to him. They also knew he'd give them an earful later if they didn't.
He pointed at the dragon, still circling. "When that thing flies for us, I want every man to give it three shafts. Aim for the wings where it's got no scales. Wait for my command; I'd prefer we bring it down the first try."
Men nodded. Oliver Shields readjusted his helmet to look upwards. Andy Waller flexed his right arm and rubbed his shoulder.
The dragon began its descent toward them. Nat nocked an arrow from his quiver. He chose an iron broadhead, made for hunting and shooting unarmored men. He looked around him and saw the others mimic him.
An ear-piercing screech swept over them, and the dragon's rider angled his giant lance. The dragon itself rapidly descended, increasing speed with its wings fully extended. In twenty seconds, it crossed half the battlefield.
"Fast as you can now, boys!" Nat yelled.
Nat leaned down then drew his longbow all the way to his ear. He held it as long as he could then released with a grunt.
Then he did it twice more, emphasizing speed over accuracy, as the dragon swooped into their line. It went straight into the storm of arrows, and its wings were almost immediately ripped apart as broadheads cut into the sinews. What started as a controlled glide turned into a sudden plummet, and the dragon smashed into the earth. Its neck snapped with an audible crunch while its rider flew from its saddle and broke every bone in his body.
"Blessed Saint George, slayer of dragons!" Oliver Shields cried, ecstatic.
"Now kill the rest of them!" Nat roared.
The demons on foot were closing on them despite heavy losses. However many English arrows killed, twice that number was quick to emerge from their marble structure. Nat judged he had maybe five more shafts before the monsters closed with the English men-at-arms.
With a shake of his head, he plucked a steeled bodkin from his quiver and nocked it on his bow.
Drew back to his ear.
Loosed.
King Henry closed his visor just before the pig-headed demons hit his part of the line. He stepped his left leg forward and moved his right back. He held his poleaxe butt forward, the head cocked over his right shoulder, and watched the demon directly opposite him. It was a fat and ugly thing with green skin and tusks hanging from its mouth. The mass of demons charged full sprint at the English.
Henry swung the instant before contact. His poleaxe dropped into the demon's shoulder while he passed his right leg forward. The steel axeblade cleaved through leather, fat, and muscle, ending the miserable thing's life in the blink of an eye. Then he moved his right leg back and ripped his poleaxe from the demon's corpse.
"Saint George!" he screamed through his visor.
Henry killed two more demons with the exact same swing. They never adapted. Never parried. Wore no real armor. His poleaxe swung and they died like slaughtered hogs.
"For the King and Saint George!" men around him cried.
Spears and poleaxes reaped the demonic horde. Some men-at-arms drew longswords and hacked apart their unarmored foes. Others crushed bone with warhammers and maces. The beasts were strong, but their crude weapons could do little against steel plate. Only the concussive force had any measure of effectiveness, and that was hampered by the unwieldy nature of their giant clubs.
A cleaver glanced off Henry's helmet, gouging the gold circlet inlaid in the steel that showed he was the true King of England and France. His head rang at the force.
Henry retorted, jabbing the butt of poleaxe into the offending beast's face. The steel spiked butt punched through its skull, jerking the head back and sending the dead beast onto its back.
He stepped forward, and the man next to him opened the chest of a yellow demon as he did. To Henry's left, a man-at-arms crushed a fallen demon's throat with his steelclad foot. Both men advanced with Henry, moving over the corpses of slain demons.
Henry thrust his poleaxe at the next rank's monster. The spike penetrated straight through the thing's sternum, and Henry ripped it out to chop through another demon's head. The man to his right parried an axehead meant for Henry then dispatched the attacker with a hammer blow to its jaw.
"Saint George! Saint George!" the English cried, hacking away at the demons.
Their line pushed forward. Whatever foul creatures they fought were both immune to fear and lacked any reason. The demons refused to flee despite clearly being outmatched and as such were cut down in droves. Their ranks thinned and grew shallow. If they would not run, then they would simply die.
Henry growled and cut the head off a demon with three eyes. He stepped in, thrust, killed, then cocked back to swing again. He refused to slow, and his men followed him forward.
He cut upward into the chin of a grey demon holding two axes. The beast stumbled back at the blow, so Henry turned to thrust at the demon next to it. That one lashed out with its cleaver even as it died. The jagged blade bounced uselessly off of Henry's spaulders. Henry advanced once more. He dropped a smaller demon, only half the size of the others, with the butt of his poleaxe.
And then Henry was through. There was nothing more to fight in front of him. He had cut his way all the way through the demon horde. Around him, the English men-at-arms were finishing off the remaining demons. Not one of the demons fled; they were systematically butchered until none remained.
Henry lifted his visor. He sucked in air and, for the first time, realized how tired he was. Then he looked at the enemy army and considered that he might have made a mistake joining the battle.
In front of him were the Devil's human spearmen, advancing on the English line.
There were so many of them. Henry had no time to count, but it had to be thousands. And those were only the ones facing the English. There had to be more facing the French. Many more. It was as if they had endless reserves coming through their marble structure.
Henry looked back at his thousand men-at-arms. It was too late to change his mind now.
He dropped his visor.
"Saint George and England!"
Nat Miller used his last arrow putting down a pompous bastard with a horsehair plume.
It was a beautiful shot. Too beautiful to miss. Nat nailed the officer right through the bridge of his nose, snapping his head back and causing him to fall like a puppet with its strings cut. The officer's men panicked at the sight, just as Nat had wanted.
But then his quiver was empty, and he could do nothing but watch.
Other longbowmen loosed their final shafts as well. Arrows flew into the packed ranks of spearmen, and only some of them struck true. The spearmen had big shields which softened the effect of English archery.
They advanced in their many thousands, and Nat knew what the English nobles leading the army seemed reluctant to admit. There was no winning this fight.
Still, it was only when the second dragon emerged from the marble structure that Nat decided it was time to cut and run. Whoever they were fighting had far more than they did. And Nat didn't intend on a last stand. Sir Thomas Erpingham was supposed to be commanding the archers, but he'd fucked off to fight with the other knights. So Nat shook his head, spat on the ground, and raised his voice as loud as he could.
"No sense in dying here, boys! Let's get clear!" he called.
Then Nat turned his back on the field and started running.
Soon enough, every archer on the right wing was running with him. They didn't want to die for a lost cause anymore than he did. Other archers down the line saw them. When two thousand men suddenly flee from a battle, men don't stop to ask why. They immediately joined the retreat, because only a fool wanted to be the last man left on the field. The retreat flowed down the line like water. Finally, the left wing noticed the commotion and took to their heels as well. In the span of a few minutes, the English archers had all collectively decided to run for it.
The English men-at-arms had actually been advancing when the archers chose to flee. Many cursed them as cowards or weak-minded peasants. But the fact was now only a sixth of the English army was still on the field, and their enemies dwarfed their numbers by an insane magnitude.
Camoys's contingent was the first to start pulling away. Then York's moved to follow him. Slowly but surely, men-at-arms also decided that this fight was a lost cause, and that they'd be better off running while they could.
In the center, King Henry had decided to fight till the end in God's name, but even he could no longer deny the reality of the situation when both his supporting divisions turned away. He could not in good faith demand that his loyal subjects die with him in what was now clearly a doomed battle. With a heavy heart, he ordered his men to fall back to the baggage train. And so the English began their retreat from Agincourt.
Perrin was the last man-at-arms still mounted when the English fled the field. The envoys he'd tried to save were all dead by now, and Perrin had joined with the rest of the army facing the heathens. It was a miracle he'd managed to stay on horseback so long with the thick mud and constant threat of spearmen. In those moments, Charlotte had been the greatest warhorse in the world. She'd fought with hooves, bit with her teeth, and reacted nimbly to Perrin's constant commands that kept the two of them from being speared in the back.
But both of them became tired. As fatigue set in, it was increasingly difficult to watch for every threat. Perrin's sword arm grew weary. Charlotte slowed.
And then Charlotte shuddered and stumbled. A spear jutted out from her neck. Blood flowed from the wound. Charlotte whined softly, her legs losing strength. She reared her head as she collapsed into the mud, and Perrin was forced to jump from her saddle.
Perrin felt his breath leave him. He was caught in the press of French men-at-arms, but he shoved his way to Charlotte's side. He placed a hand on her head and stroked her even as the blood continued to flow. There was nothing else he could do. Finally, her head slowly drooped to the ground.
Perrin stepped back from Charlotte's body.
He gripped his longsword in two hands and inhaled deeply. Then he faced the enemy, breathing with cold rage.
Perrin pushed through the press until he was at the front. He uttered no war cry and roared no saint's name. He silently went forward, hands tight on the handle of his sword.
The first man to face Perrin didn't know what was coming.
Perrin threw a heavy overhand cut which forced the man to raise his shield. Perrin kept going forward, and he grabbed the rim of the shield with one hand. A man in the second rank thrust at him, but the spearhead deflected off Perrin's bascinet. Then Perrin ripped the shield down. He smashed the man's nose with the pommel of his sword, one handed. The man went down, and Perrin stomped on his face to keep him there.
The man in the second rank hit him again with his spear. It bounced off Perrin's breastplate. In response, Perrin flicked a rising cut at his jaw that skimmed past the man's shield and lacerated his face.
The man fell backward. Perrin immediately cut down the men who'd been next to him. They were too distracted by other men-at-arms to resist.
Someone else thrusted at Perrin with a spear, and this time Perrin parried it. He advanced two steps and swept his sword up. It cut into the spearman's wrist, where for some foolish reason they wore vambraces but not gauntlets, and severed it cleanly. While the spearman screamed, Perrin finished him with a thrust to his throat.
Perrin was now two ranks into the enemy line, and they had noticed him. Half a dozen spears rained down on him. Perrin parried one and relied on his armor for the rest, but each time a spear pounded his helmet, it shook him with more force than he'd like. Every time he tried to strike back, he failed. His sword was outranged, and their shields were effective.
With only one choice left, Perrin backed away from the spearmen. He parried as he backpedaled, stepping over the corpses of those he'd cut down.
Finally, he reached the French line. One of the spearmen tried to pursue, but, as soon as he came too far forward, a French man-at-arms crushed in his helmet with a bec de corbin.
For ten minutes, Perrin continued to fight in the front rank. He was more cautious now, no longer charging forward into the enemy ranks. Anger no longer controlled him. Instead, he stayed with the rest of the French line, flicking cuts and exchanging thrusts.
It was a stalemate. The French had better armor and individual prowess, but the heathen spearmen were very disciplined and far more numerous. Their reinforcements coming from the marble structure had still not yet ceased. And while the French had thousands more in reserve, it was nowhere near enough to match their numbers.
Even Perrin had to admit that perhaps this day was not theirs.
So when the call finally came from Constable d'Albret to fall back, Perrin was one of the few who formed a rearguard against the spearmen. Thousands of French men-at-arms streamed away from the fighting. The heathens made a half-hearted attempt to pursue them, but they were tired too and trudging through mud to face the French rearguard was something they gave up on quickly.
So, as the French marched away from Agincourt, the foreign heathens simply let them go.
By sunset, the full might of the Imperial Army had arrived through the Gate.
Ninety thousand men were arrayed on the muddy fields they had found themselves on. Initial losses had been far higher than expected. Ten thousand legionaries and orc auxiliaries lay dead on the field due to their initial contact with the otherworlders. The vanguard legion had been attacked on either side by enemies, obviously a planned and coordinated ambush. They had even lost one of their scout wyverns to the otherworlders' archers. It was only the skill and discipline of the legionaries that had carried the day.
Now the banner of the Saderan Empire flew over this field. A nearby abandoned fort had been seized by legionaries and several locals were taken to be questioned about the region.
It was discovered that a common language was shared with a priest of a local god called Saint Michael. The priest spoke a butchered and heavily accented version of Saderan which was, as far as could be discerned, only utilized by religious figures of this region. The peasants spoke a different language, one with some passing similarities to but which was ultimately a barbaric derivative of Saderan.
More in depth interrogation was necessary before a greater picture of the world they were in could be painted. From what had been gathered, the otherworlders called themselves the French, and this land was the Kingdom of France, situated on the continent of Europe. How these French had known to ambush the Gate was still a frustrating mystery.
Still, the Empire had achieved another great victory. And, as the last cohorts of legionaries marched through the Gate, the rest of the Imperial Army arrayed itself in parade formation.
A dozen Imperial heralds stepped through the Gate. Behind them, a cohort of praetorians marched in lockstep. Several dozen Imperial senators arrived next, and then Princess Pina Co Lada with a bodyguard of Rose Knights. They took their places in the procession.
Finally, astride a pale horse, Prince Zorzal El Caesar entered this new world.
Ninety thousand men knelt immediately. They bowed their heads as the prince rode past them. He trotted past the entire army, his resplendent armor a beacon to all.
When he reached the end of his path, Prince Zorzal halted before two Imperial legates, the men who had commanded the first battle against the otherworlders.
Both legates knelt, and one offered a sword that had been captured from the otherworlders.
Prince Zorzal took the sword in one hand. It was impressively balanced and tapered to a far finer point than Imperial swords. He turned his horse back to the army. Without a word, he raised the sword into the sky. In one voice, the army cried out.
"AVE, IMPERATOR!"
"AVE, IMPERATOR!"
"AVE, IMPERATOR!"
For the invasion of Europe had begun.
I swear I had planned to take a month's break between finishing Terror Belli, Decus Pacis and writing the first chapter of this story. I guess when you get in the groove of writing, it's hard to stop.
I also suppose that I enjoy writing unique Gate fanfictions. It started with Terror Belli, Decus Pacis then I wrote The Rage of Achilles, and now here we are with Deo Gratias Anglia. I think it's just that so many Gate fanfictions are endlessly repetitive. The Empire invades the author's favorite country/time period, gets utterly destroyed in the first battle, and then the plot of the anime is played out again with different characters and a fresh coat of paint.
Well, this story will at least be different. The Empire is no longer at a technological disadvantage, at least not majorly. Their fantasy elements mean that they actually have a big advantage over early 15th century France and England. Still, the Empire won't just be able to breeze through an invasion of an entirely foreign world. This is an aspect that I think was just looked over entirely in the source material. Did the Empire really think it could just walk into a city and start sacking it with no resistance? Even against enemies with identical technology that's just ridiculous. This story will be a struggle for both sides, and I'm excited to write it.
Also this is yet another period of history I have a particular interest in. You may note that the first part of this chapter is essentially just a retelling of Henry V's Agincourt campaign. I love the history, and if you are interested as well then I highly recommend Juliet Barker's Agincourt which provides a fantastic overview of the famous battle and its lead up. I also happen to love arms and armor of this period, and I practice Historical European Martial Arts (HEMA) every week to further that love. If you see particular details included in the story, this is where they're from.
Anyways, that's all I have to say. If you liked this then please do review. If you didn't then also review and tell me what I did wrong. Whatever your feelings, just review. It encourages me to write more and helps me get better.