Tere de France, mult estes dulz païs, Oi desertét a tant ruboste exill! Barons franceis, pur mei vos vei murir, Jo ne vos pois tenser ne guarantir.

Oh land of France, oh blissful, pleasant land, Today laid desolate by such cruel waste! Brave French, I see you die on my account, And I unable to protect your lives!

Perrin, sire de Godefroy, rode an ugly stallion through the rainy fields of Normandy and found himself missing his old mare.

Charlotte had been the best warhorse he'd ever owned. His new stallion, by contrast, was a stupid brute, ill-trained and temperamental. The stallion had belonged to a Norman knight who'd died at Agincourt, and Perrin's page, Daniel, had retrieved him for Perrin while the French army retreated. He wouldn't have taken him under any other circumstances, but with Charlotte dead, he needed a new warhorse and couldn't afford to be choosy.

The stallion didn't like him either. He snorted often and occasionally bit at Perrin's fingers. Perrin used his spurs ruthlessly to gain obedience.

He would have preferred to be on his riding horse, a fine black mare who was a joy to ride, but Perrin's contingent had orders to be ready for battle. The heathens were pursuing them relentlessly. They were fast marchers, faster than the French, and their cavalry was a constant sight for the rearguard. Even through the rain, they came on, nipping at the French army's heels. Worse, their every movement was watched by one of their fiendish dragons which circled overhead at all hours.

Under such circumstances, Constable d'Albret had decided they would march to Calais. There was no other option. Calais was an English city, but the heathens had trapped them, cutting off the roads to Paris and the rest of France. They could not hope to escape to anywhere else. D'Albret had announced that it would be better to offer the English terms than the heathens.

It was, Perrin loathed to admit, the correct course of action.

He was in the vanguard where the best of the army was positioned, and even they were in a sorry state. Men-at-arms wore rusted steel harnesses. Horses drooped their heads as they walked along. Men were dejected, demoralized from both defeat and the misery of the retreat. If this was the vanguard then the rest of the army was surely on its last legs.

Perrin sighed as he looked around him at the retreating French army and rubbed his hands against the cold. His stallion snorted in derision.

"Marcel," Perrin called to his squire.

The young man rode forward on his mare, armored nearly as well as Perrin was. His father was wealthy and had insisted Marcel have armor imported from Milan, where the best armorsmiths were. He kept it shining as well; there wasn't a speck of rust on the whole harness despite the rain and marching. Perrin assumed Marcel often stayed up at night polishing it.

"My lord?" Marcel asked.

"Have you got any more of that spiced wine?"

Marcel nodded and retrieved a wineskin from his saddle bag. He threw it over, and Perrin caught it in one hand. He took one long drink, felt the liquid warm his body, then threw it back to Marcel.

"You are a godsend," Perrin praised.

Marcel beamed at the compliment and took his own drink from the wineskin. "I aim to please," he said, wine dripping from his chin.

He passed the wineskin back.

"Good man."

They rode along through the countryside sipping wine. Rain had turned the dirt road they were on into a river of mud, and their pace was excruciatingly slow. The baggage train was further down the road, and it was constantly getting stuck, blocking the road for everything behind it. Norman camp followers, mostly women, had to haul the wagons out of ditches and puddles in order to get things moving.

About an hour before nones, Clignet de Brabant called a halt for the vanguard in order to allow the baggage train to catch up. Men dismounted to rest their horses and stretch their legs. Daniel, ever the dutiful page, brought forward fresh horses for Perrin and Marcel then took their tired horses to the rear. Perrin's new gelding was more tame than the stallion, but it still wasn't Charlotte. They halted for half an hour then went forward.

The vanguard rode for another hour before Brabant called for a halt again.

"De Godefroy!" Brabant called from the head of the vanguard.

Perrin immediately rode forward. Brabant was still mounted, speaking to a man on foot with a heavy crossbow leaned against his shoulder. The man was clearly an Italian by his dress, but he spoke French clearly and fluently. Perhaps a mercenary in a nobleman's retinue, driven by greed rather than honor to fight.

Perrin bowed in his saddle to Brabant. He refused to acknowledge the Italian.

Brabant rolled his eyes. "This is Niccolo," he introduced. "He commands the crossbowmen I ordered forward as scouts."

Niccolo looked up at Perrin and grinned. "A pleasure," the Italian said mockingly.

Perrin ignored him.

"Niccolo's men are half a mile ahead of us," Brabant continued, pointing to a distant ridgeline ahead of them. "But they've spotted something and want some assistance checking on it."

"The enemy?" Perrin demanded, sitting up in his saddle.

"A flash of metal," Niccolo chuckled. "Maybe the English. Maybe the heathens. Maybe nothing. I want someone to flush it out, and I'd prefer it to be one of you aristocrats rather than one of my men." He gave an apologetic smile. "If it is an ambush, you'd have the armor to survive it."

Brabant shook his head. "It's probably nothing. The heathens are behind us, not in front, and the English garrison at Calais isn't large enough to try an ambush. But just in case, I-"

"I'll do it," Perrin said instantly. He turned in his saddle and shouted, "Marcel! My helmet, gauntlets, and lance!"

Brabant leaned down to Niccolo and muttered, "I told you he'd agree."

Marcel came forward with Perrin's helmet and gauntlets. Daniel hurried behind him with a long lance. Perrin donned his helmet and gauntlets then took the lance in one hand. He checked his longsword in its scabbard then raised his visor and looked at Brabant expectantly.

Brabant sighed, "Niccolo will show you the way."

"Let's go then, mercenary," Perrin ordered.

The Italian scoffed and said, "Of course, my lord."

The two of them went forward while Marcel and Daniel went back to the rear of the vanguard. Niccolo led Perrin to the ridgeline in front of them. It was lightly forested with foliage stretching all the way to the top. Twenty men with loaded crossbows were crouched at the base of it looking up.

"Giovanni here saw metal flashing at the very top, just for an instant," Niccolo informed him. "We just need you to ride up there and make sure there's not an ambush waiting on the other side."

Perrin nodded seriously. "Anything else?"

Niccolo shrugged. "If it is an ambush, don't expect us to come save you."

"Of course not," Perrin sneered, "I'm not paying you to."

With that, he walked his horse forward up the ridge. The crossbowmen watched him go.

Perrin's gelding climbed the ride easily. It was fairly shallow, and the foliage was light. Most of the trees had begun shedding their leaves for the coming winter months. The road Perrin followed was still intact, not yet turned to mud by the rain.

He looked back down at the crossbowmen for a brief moment.

A shout suddenly erupted from Perrin's right and an arrow rang off of his breastplate. Two dozen men rose from their hiding places in the autumn leaves. They were on either side of him and wore the alien clothing of the heathens.

Another arrow skidded from the point of Perrin's bascinet. More swept past him.

"Saint Denis!" Perrin roared and slammed down his visor.

He put his spurs into his gelding and went after the heathens to his right. They scattered instantly, but Perrin rode one down. His lance went right through the back of the heathen's chest. The man tumbled as he died, and Perrin had to drop his lance.

Three arrows impacted his backplate. Whatever bows they were using were weaker than the ones used by English archers. He barely felt them through his steel harness.

Perrin drew his longsword. One group of the heathens were fleeing, but the others continued to loose arrows at him. He turned his horse and pricked his spurs.

The remaining archers loosed one final round of arrows and fled towards the top of the ridge. Perrin galloped after them. He caught one to his left and cut through the man's shoulder in one swing. Then he rode down another, trampling him with his warhorse.

The heathens went over the ridge, and Perrin followed. He crested it, his warhorse panting heavy breathes, and there was suddenly a wide field in front of him with a stream running through it. And across the stream was…

An army. Thirty thousand men at least.

The heathens were formed into deep blocks of men, stretching across the field, the very legions of hell themselves. Armored spearmen formed the center and wings. Clouds of archers screened their frontage. Five thousand cavalrymen waited far out in the front, probably there to ensure the heathens had adequate warning of any approaching force. They'd been waiting for the French army. They must have. There was no other reason for them to be arrayed for battle.

Which meant this was a trap.

And, somewhere, there were thirty thousand more men moving to close it around them.

A detachment of heathen cavalrymen were alerted by the cries of the fleeing archers, maybe twenty horsemen in all. They saw Perrin at the top of the ridge and came at him immediately. The archers stopped running; they began to loose arrows at him.

Now was not the time for a glorious death. Perin grabbed his horse's reins and turned away just as the arrows started to fall near him. He spurred his horse down the ridge.

Behind, the detachment of cavalry began to gain on him. Their horses were fresh, and they had less armor than Perrin. One man came within the length of a lance from him.

"Hardy Victrix!" the heathens screamed.

A surge of bolts suddenly flew in Perrin's direction. None of them hit him, and it was only a moment later that Perrin realized they'd been shot by Niccolo's crossbowmen.

Eight of the heathens dropped behind him. Some of their horses toppled over, falling into the cavalrymen around them.

The volley gave Perrin breathing room, and he surged to the base of the ridge. Instantly, Niccolo's men were fleeing from the pursuing cavalry. They didn't bother trying to stand against men on horseback. Men sprinted away from the ridge.

They wouldn't be fast enough. No man could outrun a horse. Even now, Perrin saw the heathens moving to converge on the crossbowmen, himself forgotten in the flurry. Perrin had an opportunity to flee for the vanguard. He could sacrifice their lives for his own. Militarily it would be the correct decision; Brabant and d'Albret needed to know what was waiting for them on the other side of the ridge.

Militarily it was the right thing…

But Perrin was a knight.

It was easy for a man to be chivalrous when he was at his best. When he had eaten a full meal with good company. When he was warm and dry in a keep. When his test was with blunted weapons on a tourney ground, surrounded by comrades he admired and cheered by adoring crowds. When his armor was bright and polished. When he knew that, after all was done, he may rest in a feather bed for as long as he likes.

But here, on the muddy fields of Normandy, when his armor was rusted and his clothes were damp, when he had been beaten at Agincourt, when his legs ached and his body was bruised, when his comrades were scornful mercenaries, and when there was no one who would cheer his deeds. When he was outnumbered twelve to one. When failure meant death and success only meant more pain.

That was the true stage of chivalry. That was when a man's honor was tested.

Perrin turned his horse to face the heathens. He was a knight.

With determination, he charged.

The heathens seemed surprised to see him coming at them. There were twelve of them and only one of him. They had intended to cut down Niccolo's crossbowmen first. None of them were expecting Perrin's charge.

At the last moment, Perrin urged his horse left, so that he attacked the man furthest from the center instead of the one he'd been aiming at. The man was entirely unprepared, and Perrin's longsword swept him from the saddle, not dead but out of the fight.

Perrin swept around to the right, forcing the others to turn to follow him. His horse was not flagging, thank God almighty, and he galloped at the heathen closest to him.

The heathen was more prepared than the one before him. He had a spear and an oval shield. He couched the spear as one would a lance and came at Perrin straight on.

Perrin was an excellent jouster. As the heathen came by his side, Perrin's sword found the spear point, and he performed a magnificent parry, sweeping the spear shaft across the blade then wrenching the heathen from the saddle with his free hand.

Immediately, Perrin was faced with his next foe and had no time to prepare. The heathen's couched spear broke on Perrin breastplate, putting a dent half a finger long into it, and it was only years of jousting that allowed Perrin to stay in his saddle.

Then the fourth man came at him. Perrin had more time now and tried to parry the spear like he had before. He missed. The spear struck him cleanly on the visor, and then Perrin was falling.

He hit the ground hard. Every part of his body screamed in pain. His ears rang.

Perrin's gelding rode off from him. The heathens began to circle to finish him off.

Perrin whispered a prayer.

He stood, longsword in both hands.

The heathens lined up on him, and Perrin forced himself to face the terror. Their horses caused the very ground to tremble. He was one man on foot, and they were going to trample him where he stood. It was too late for mercy.

"Saint Denis!" he screamed to drown out the ringing in his ears.

But then a volley of crossbow bolts rained down on the heathen cavalrymen, and their charge collapsed into nothing. Horses fell with bolts in their chests. Men were shot to the ground. Only two of the cavalrymen remained on their horses, and they decided that killing Perrin wasn't worth facing more bolts. They turned for the ridgeline, leaving their fallen comrades behind.

Several of the cavalrymen survived their falls. Dismounted, they were no longer such a serious threat, and Niccolo's crossbowmen ran at them with swords and axes. Men trapped by their horses were murdered. Those standing fared no better, and they were quickly overwhelmed by the crossbowmen.

Perrin had to shake himself out of his stupor. He blinked several times. Then looked around for Niccolo.

The Italian was berating his men. "We could have taken prisoners!" he spat at them. "Do you fools think information is that easy to come by? Do you have some great need to kill everything that moves?!"

Perrin put a hand on Niccolo's shoulder. "You saved me," he shuddered.

Niccolo flinched from Perrin's touch but then shrugged. "You saved us."

"We need to get back to Brabant," Perrin said suddenly. He rubbed his face. "There's a heathen army on the other side of that ridge."

"Gentle Christ," Niccolo muttered, crossing himself. "Let's move then!"

The Constable of France, Charles d'Albret, arrayed the French army to face the heathens once more on the field of glory.

The heathens had advanced from behind the ridge to confront the French, no longer hidden thanks to Perrin's actions. Their thirty thousand men now stood opposite d'Albret's fourteen thousand across a flat, though somewhat muddy, farm field.

D'Albret had spoken briefly to Jean le Maingre, Marshal of France, before arranging the army. It was decided that they would have to break through the heathens in order to reach Calais. Their position was too tenuous for any other action.

They knew now that the heathens had outmarched them and that, in addition to the thirty thousand men blocking the road, there were another thirty thousand heathens coming up on their rear. The French army was going to be squeezed between the pincers of two heathen armies, both of which outnumbered it greatly. Even now, the eight thousand man French rearguard fought to keep one occupied so that the main body could focus on the army ahead of it. There was only one option now.

Forward.

Forward to Calais. Forward through the heathens. Forward to victory.

The French army was formed into one massive wedge. It stretched from the main trade road all the way to a tiny Norman hamlet called Audrehem. Every man in the wedge was mounted. Even those too poor to own a horse had been given spare warhorses and riding horses to join the wedge. Perrin himself was back on his ugly stallion since his gelding had bolted from him. They could not afford the time to fight dismounted.

If they took too long, the heathens to their rear would overwhelm the rearguard and tear into them from behind. A mounted attack was the only option. There would be one great charge to break the heathen line and open a path to Calais. One great charge to win the day. All or nothing.

Perrin was at the front of the French wedge, where the best riders had been placed. The front face of the wedge glittered with the plate armor of every proper man-at-arms in the army. Behind them, hidden from enemy view, were the lesser men. Poor men-at-arms, squires, armed pages, archers and crossbowmen, even some camp followers.

It was so desperate that Marcel, despite being a squire, was in the front rank next to Perrin on account of his brilliant Milanese harness. Daniel, a twelve-year-old page, was only two ranks behind them because he owned a decent brigandine and could ride better than many grown men.

Constable d'Albret rode out across the front of the wedge. He looked magnificent in his gilded armor and with his golden spurs, but from the front rank Perrin could see deep concern on his face.

The constable looked from the French wedge to the heathen line. He bit his lip.

Any man would hesitate when faced with such odds.

But Charles d'Albret stood in his saddle, raised his lance to the sky, and called out.

"Forward! To glory or to hell!"

A jolt of energy went through the French wedge. It was perfect. Every man knew what was at stake. They weren't just fighting for France. They were fighting for God's dominion over earth.

And then, because they were French, d'Albret roared, "Montjoie Saint Denis!"

The wedge exploded into cries echoing him.

"Montjoie! Montjoie!"

"Montjoie Saint Denis!"

When fourteen thousand men shouted at once, there was a feeling of invincibility unlike any other. Perrin's armor was rusty, and his stallion was an ugly brute, but at that moment he knew that nothing could stop their charge.

The French wedge started toward the heathens at a walk. Perrin's stallion fought him as they went forward, forcing Perrin to pull his bridle to regain control. Some men had never been part of a mounted charge and so accelerated too quickly or too slowly, but the more experienced men kept them in line with barked shouts and quick reprimands.

The heathen formations stood deathly still, even as the earth began to shake with the hooves of fourteen thousand horses. Their center was a thick block of armored spearmen. The heathen archers weren't even going to stand for a volley. Instead, they'd gone to the rear to allow their spearmen to absorb the charge. Further behind, a reserve of cavalry waited with professional discipline.

As Perrin approached the coming heathens, he didn't think of strategy or tactics. Not of honor or chivalry. Not even of God or glory. His last conscious thought was that this would have been perfect if only he'd been riding Charlotte and not his ugly stallion.

The French wedge reached a gallop, and they thundered toward the heathens like an avalanche of steel and horses.

Perrin lowered his lance.

The French knights ripped through the first ranks of heathen spearmen. Lances swept down and massacred the men who were unfortunate enough to be at the front. The heathens' spears were too short to ward off the men-at-arms, and their shields were pierced through by steel tips backed by the force of a galloping horse. Armor crumpled. The formation buckled. A thousand men died in the span of three seconds. Some lived through the initial impact, only to then be trampled to death as thousands of horses poured forward. For several glorious moments, the French cavalry destroyed the heathens like God's fury made manifest, and there was absolutely nothing they could do in retaliation.

But the heathens were formed into a very deep rectangle, and their discipline was legendary. Any other infantry would have routed in their place. The heathens refused to break. As the French went forward, they drove further and further into a mire of spearmen. Even the strongest destriers could not keep up such a glorious charge forever. Their charge slowed and slowed.

And then the heathens began to fight back.

Perrin found himself in the middle of the heathen formation. His lance was shattered in his hand, and he was drawing his sword as men tried desperately to pound him from his saddle with spears.

Marcel was at his side, distinctive in his shining armor. The boy was reaping heathen spearmen who were stunned by the charge with his sword.

Perrin got his longsword in one hand. He swung as hard as he could at a spearman going for his horse and cut through his right shoulder like a gardener pruning branches.

A heathen's spear slammed into Perrin's breastplate, sliding easily. He retorted by severing four of the man's fingers. Then he flicked a cut through his neck.

More men came at him, and Perrin cut at them from his saddle. His armor made him almost invulnerable to simple thrusts. He only bothered to parry when the spear tips got close to weak points in his harness. Marcel fought beside him. They covered each other's sides, making it that much easier to fend off the heathens that surrounded them.

And as Perrin fought, his ugly stallion fought too. For all his other failings, the beast loved to fight. He swung back and forth, pivoting on his forefeet and kicking with his back hooves like a bull in heat then rearing and punching violently with his front. A hoof to a man's chest sent him straight into the ground. Another to the jaw killed him instantly.

For once, Perrin and his stallion were working together. Perrin covered the stallion from spear thrusts. The stallion in turn cleared a space around them with his tempestuous hooves. Together, they killed more than a dozen men as Perrin and the rest of the French men-at-arms advanced.

Goliath, Perrin decided as he thrust into the helmet of a man who'd gotten just slightly too close. He would name his stallion Goliath if they survived the battle. And he would never complain about Goliath's temper ever again.

They pushed forward. The heathens seemed entirely unwilling to break, so the French were going to cut their way through them.

Perrin had no conception of time as he fought. He only knew how tired he was becoming. It went on and on.

At some point, Daniel shifted forward to join Perrin and Marcel at the front. He looked somewhat ridiculous on a massive destrier, but Perrin watched the twelve-year-old page carve into a man's neck as easily as he carved meat and decided to hold his judgement. The boy was loyal, and his help was welcome.

Marcel pushed ahead of them with his sword in constant motion. Daniel was quick to join, and the two of them gave Perrin time to breath.

Goliath snorted, eager to get back to fighting. But Perrin lifted his visor and sucked in precious air. He stood in his saddle and looked over the battle. The French wedge had almost pushed entirely through the heathen spearmen. There were only a few ranks between them and open air. So close.

"Saint Denis!" he shouted before bringing his visor down again.

He gave Goliath his spurs and sent the stallion crashing into one of Daniel's adversaries. The man was no match for a ton of horseflesh charging into his side.

Perrin's sword took another, and then Daniel nearly lost his life as he missed his parry against a spear. Only fortune and God's will kept the spear tip from going just an inch further and entering Daniel's armpit. Instantly Perrin turned and cut at the man who'd almost killed Daniel, forcing his page behind him. Perrin swung down again, his sword splitting open the man's face as more French men-at-arms pushed forward to support them.

Then, like a dam bursting in a flood, something gave way, and the French cavalry punched through the back of the heathen line. Men flowed into the gap, widening it with every passing second.

Now the heathen infantry finally broke. They began to peel away from their collapsing formation. Their stubborn resistance was over.

Perrin emerged from chaos to be greeted with open air. He rode ten paces, popped his visor, sucked in air, and looked up.

Just in time to see the heathen reserve coming at them.

Because of course the heathens had a reserve. All the old Roman manuals said to keep a reserve. And of course the French had no reserve.

Perrin had very little left to give, but he lined his horse up with Marcel and Daniel anyway. Men came to join either side of their little group, because no one knew what else to do. More and more men joined. Soon they became a real unit, and they faced the heathen reserve cavalry charging at them.

Perrin wanted nothing more than to give up. To just ride away and accept that he'd been beaten. His entire body hurt; armor could do a lot to keep a man alive but every blow was still felt underneath it. He could barely raise his arm at this point. He'd fought more than any man that day, and he just wanted to be done with it all.

And the worst part was that Perrin knew it was all pointless. They'd taken too long to break the first formation of spearmen. Even if they broke the heathen reserve, they would immediately be set upon by the other heathen army which had surely overwhelmed the French rearguard by now and was probably coming to hit them from behind. In all likelihood, they would just get bogged down in the reserve and then be smashed apart from the rear.

But Perrin was a knight. And chivalry was all about when a man was too tired to fight and facing insurmountable odds.

So instead, Perrin looked at the heathens coming at them before turning to the men with him.

"Montjoie Saint Denis!" he yelled as loud as he could and started forward.

"Montjoie Saint Denis!" they echoed and followed him forward.

The second French charge was nowhere near as orderly as the first. Many of the proper knights were nowhere to be seen. Instead, the bulk of Perrin's line was made up of squires and pages, archers and crossbowmen, camp followers and servants. And yet, to Perrin's immense surprise, he was also leading men of high rank. The Duke of Orléans was three horses to Perrin's left, and the Duke of Alençon was two horses behind him. Just one man over, Perrin could see the gold on blue fleur-de-lis of the Duke of Bourbon. Even Constable d'Albret had joined the line near the rear.

So as Perrin spurred Goliath toward the heathen reserve, he did so under the eyes of the noblest men in France.

It was the height of his chivalric career so far. It was, perhaps, the highest he would ever reach.

God himself gave Perrin the energy to go forward. He thundered into the heathen cavalry reserve like an avenging angel despite his fatigue.

The two cavalry lines struck each other at a gallop.

Perrin cut one heathen from the saddle and was then flying past the dying man. He got a spear to his arm harness which hurt but did little else. A shield struck him in the shoulder. Someone's thrust slid off his visor.

By some miracle, Perrin stayed in his saddle, and then the charge slowed and a sprawling cavalry melee emerged.

Goliath went chest to chest with a heathen warhorse, and Perrin's big brute proved his worth once more. While Perrin frantically hacked at the heathen rider, Goliath ripped into the other horse's neck with his teeth. The other horse wailed and reared back, and Perrin cut right into its chest. The horse toppled. Its rider was crushed underneath it.

Onward.

Perrin pushed Goliath ahead. Marcel and Daniel were covering each other, so Perrin joined them. He rode to Marcel's right and immediately cut at one of the heathens opposite him.

The heathen cavalryman had an oval shield. He used it to cover Perrin's cut then retorted with the spear he had in his other hand. Perrin made a hasty parry and cut again.

For twenty heartbeats, Perrin exchanged blows with the heathen. Perrin couldn't get past the heathen's shield, and the heathen couldn't land a thrust that got through Perrin's armor. Around them, the melee became more compact as men and horses closed with their comrades for mutual protection. A knight with heraldry Perrin didn't know came to his right and began swinging with a flanged mace. More heathen cavalrymen joined the press opposite them.

But as the melee dragged on and on, the French line started to waver. The heathen reserve cavalry was fresh. By contrast, the French had already charged and cut their way through the heathens' armored spearmen. Horses began to tire. Men became fatigued.

Perrin finally managed to land a cut on the heathen opposite him. It went over his shield and into his unarmored neck just enough to spill gouts of blood. He died and, as Perrin took half a second to regain his bearings, he saw Constable d'Albret, four horses to his left, take a spear to his armpit.

The Constable of France slumped in his saddle. Then he fell to the ground. Dead.

Another heathen pressed forward, and Perrin went sword to sword with him.

Three horses to Perrin's right, a heathen wrenched the Duke of Bourbon out of his saddle and into the dirt.

Two horses further, the Duke of Alençon received a thrust into his aventail which broke through two layers of mail and gouged out his throat.

Perrin felt desperation taking hold of him. His cuts were now powered more through force of gravity than muscle. Individual combats began to blend together as he merely cut and thrust as best he could. Two heathens pressed close against him and tried to throw him from Goliath, their arms reaching for his helmeted head. Like a man swimming through tar, Perrin pushed through their efforts and ripped free his rondel dagger. They died, and Perrin fumbled to get his gore covered dagger into its sheath again.

He was beyond the point of exhaustion. Beyond the point where fear could take him. Now death just seemed like a rest from this endless exertion.

Marcel was still fighting. His longsword rose and fell like a blacksmith's hammer against the anvil of heathen helmets.

Daniel was still fighting. He was battling men twice his size atop a horse double his height.

So Perrin kept fighting too.

The French knight to his right died. The Duke of Orléans fell. The Count of Marle and the Count of Roucy were dragged from their saddles and murdered with daggers. The Viscount of Puisaye died trying to rescue them.

But their deaths were not in vain. For all their exhaustion and losses, the French were pushing the heathens back. They had good armor, and they had good horses, and they could only go forward.

Eventually, a hole opened in the heathen line, and Perrin surged toward it with all the energy he had left.

Fifty men went toward it with Perrin. The hole widened into a gap which led out through the back of the heathen cavalry. To open ground. To their salvation.

Perrin and fifty men held the gap while exhausted Frenchmen spilled out of it and the heathens tried their best to force it closed. He was not really fighting anymore. He merely survived while heathens tried to kill him. He held the gap for others to escape with Clignet de Brabant on his right and Marcel to his left. Daniel was to Marcel's left, and next to Marcel was Jean le Maingre, marshal of France.

It could not last, however. A sudden cry emerged from the heathens as their second army finally arrived to support them. The French army became pressed between two forces, and it buckled under the pressure. Men who could not flee through the gap began to surrender. Others tried to push their way to the gap in panic.

Jean le Maingre was watching the French army collapse when he announced, "There is nothing more we can do. Let's ride clear while we still can!"

Perrin hated how relieved he felt at those words. He hated that he was relieved it was Jean le Maingre, not him, who was condemning the rest of the French army to death or capture.

Le Maingre spurred his horse and began to ride away. Daniel and Marcel were quick to move with him. Then Clignet de Brabant and twenty other French knights.

Perrin took one last look at the battlefield and then he followed them away.

The list of casualties following the disastrous Battle of Audrehem read like a roll call of France's military and political leaders.

At least a hundred great lords had been slain or captured. Three of the great royal office holders had died. The bailiffs of twelve of France's largest cities and towns had been killed alongside their supporters and relatives. Entire noble families had been wiped out in the male line.

Of the eight thousand man rearguard, six thousand had retreated away when the heathens overwhelmed them. Of the fourteen thousand men who had joined the great charge against the heathens, a mere thousand had managed to escape through the gap in the heathen line.

It was a disaster in every sense of the word. French leadership had been carved apart by the heathen army. France's military might was a flicker of what it had once been.

But France had suffered disasters before. It had been defeated many times. And France had always recovered.

In the aftermath of Audrehem, Jean le Maingre took charge of the remnants of the French army. He marched them toward Calais while the heathens rested, reorganized, and decided what to do with their numerous prisoners in the aftermath of such an overwhelming victory. Then, as night fell over a solemn French camp, Perrin was called to le Maingre's fire.

Perrin was as tired as he had ever been. Daniel and Marcel had stripped off his armor, and he'd been ready to collapse on the ground. But Jean le Maingre called for him, so he went.

The marshal was sitting next to Clignet de Brabant with a cup of what looked like wine in his hand.

"Ah, sire de Godefroy," Le Maingre greeted when Perrin dragged himself to the fire.

"My lord," Perrin replied, too exhausted to say more.

"I am told you are a brave knight and a skilled man-at-arms," Le Maingre said.

Perrin glanced at Brabant. The man had a small smile on his face, and he gave a silent shrug.

"You flatter me, my lord."

Le Maingre nodded. "I have a mission for you then."

Perrin instantly perked up.

"I intend to march this army to Calais to give ourselves up to the English. But doing so means that we will remain isolated from the rest of France." The marshal shook his head. "The royal court needs to know what has happened here. They need information to mobilize some kind of response. I intend to send a dozen couriers to Paris tomorrow morning, and I pray that at least one of them will be able to evade the heathens and arrive with news of these events. I want you to be one of them."

"I would be honored," Perrin said without a hint of hesitation.

Brabant gave le Maingre a knowing look.

"Listen," Le Maingre said gravely, "the king is… not well. He suffers from madness, and it is up to God if he is lucid enough to act. But the Dauphin is competent enough, and he can be trusted to respond well. Go to court and tell everyone what has happened. These heathens are more dangerous than our petty squabbles. Tell both Burgundians and Armagnacs; these factions must understand that they must unite if France is to be saved."

Perrin nodded, new energy filling him. "I will, my lord."

Le Maingre bit his lip and said, "I must ask of you one more thing. This threat is to all of Christendom, not just France. The Church must know how grave it is. You are aware of the division in the Church, yes?"

"Of course, my lord. The three popes are meeting in Constance to decide who is the true pontiff."

Le Maingre spat on the ground. "Christendom is divided amongst itself. But perhaps this threat can heal the schism. I want you to go to Constance and impress upon the popes the danger we face. We will need more than France's might if we are to fend off the heathens."

"A crusade!" Perrin exclaimed.

Le Maingre gave a thin smile. "Perhaps."

Perrin knelt before the marshal. "I swear on my honor I shall go to Paris and Constance. I shall tell them what has happened here. I will make sure Christendom knows of the danger posed by the heathens."

"Good," Le Maingre said. "Go get some rest before your journey."

Perrin left the fire with newfound energy despite the exhaustion in his body.

Behind him, Clignet de Brabant quietly said, "I told you."

There's something about a cavalry charge that is just so exhilarating. As I've mentioned before, I love writing cavalry scenes and this story provides plenty of opportunity. Of course this period's cavalry is very different from Napoleonic cavalry and often plays a different role on the battlefield, but that just means more variety to write about.

Regardless, thank you to everyone who has reviewed. I do read every review, and they're fantastic motivation to write more. If you liked (or disliked) this chapter then please leave a review. I appreciate it.