The Wolves of Aquitaine

The cannon fire shattered the peace of the night.

The darkness was shattered by the flashes of the great muzzles of the guns as they roared forth, sending solid roundshot flying out of the cover of the trees, bouncing along the ground, kicking up the earth as they went, bouncing into the midst of the camp of the Baden troops.

They hit very little. One extremely lucky shot destroyed one of the Baden forces' own guns, another took a colonel's head clean off as he emerged out of his billet, but for the most part the shots, aimed in darkness, with only the lights of the campfires to aim at, did little but knock flat some tents and kick up a great deal of soil.

Nevertheless, the effect was immediate; a great cry, a storm of cries, a tempest of panicked shouts and yells and alarums burst from the Imperial troops as they staggered out of their tents, snatched up their muskets, called for their horses to be saddled and their cannons unlimbered. They shouted, they yelled, they cursed, they called for order, and even while they so called then ran around like a flock of chickens who have just noticed the grinning fox inside the henhouse with them.

In the village of Le Poet-Jerome, in the only inn in the town, the sound of the gunfire caused General Von Strohm's hand to slip, knocking his tankard of beer to the floor with a clatter; the sour liquid spilled out across the floor like… liked blood.

Adam tried but failed to put the distasteful thought to one side.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Von Strohm ignored him, as he got up from his seat at the table, sweat glistening upon his face. "Major?" he cried. "Major Gebhardt?"

The door into the common room opened and an officer, wearing a uniform of Baden blue with medals on his chest and epaulettes upon his shoulders, staggered in. "Yes, General?"

"What the devil is going on out there?" Von Strohm demanded.

"Artillery fire, sir," the man – Gebhardt, presumably – replied. "Coming from out of the woods."

"Mein Gott, they've caught up with us," Von Strohm muttered.

"They?" Adam asked. "It is the Aquitainians then."

"Your Highness, if you will kindly remain here," Von Strohm said. "This unpleasantness… will only be temporary." He sounded like a man desperately trying to sound calm, something that was only proven for Adam when he turned back to Major Gebhardt and immediately started shouting. "Well don't just stand there you blithering idiot! Sound the Long Roll! Call the men to arms! Form line and begin to return fire!" He strode to the door, forcing Major Gebhardt to get out of his way.

As Major General Von Strohm departed, and the door swung shut behind him, Adam heard the man yelling, "Raus! Raus, you spavined dogs, get into formation!"

Adam could not help but remember what the General had been so keen to tell him at dinner about the superior discipline of the Imperial troops. He did not seem so certain of their supremacy at this particular moment.

The whistling of cannon shot interrupted his thoughts; he could hear them whistle as they flew. They whistled… and then there was a great crash from above, a thunderous sound, and a shaking of the earth that made him stagger a little.

"That sounded like it came from upstairs!" shrieked the barmaid, as she cowered on the ground.

"Belle," Adam whispered. He had left her upstairs, left her upstairs while he ate with that pompous ass Von Strohm, left her because of that stupid law and their wretched morganatic marriage.

Left her alone to…

He took the stairs three at a time, bounding up with them his long legs, moving as swiftly and with as much purpose as he ever had when transformed into a beast. Horrible visions flashed before his eyes, Belle's delicate body broken, shattered.

Pray God let it not be so.

"Belle!?" he cried as he gained the upper floor. "Belle?"

There was no answer. Adam's throat began to grow dry. Without Belle, he could not… she was his light, his salvation, his everything. He reached the door into their room, tearing it open to find a hole punched through the wooden wall of the inn, just above the window.

"Adam!" Belle cried, from where she stood on the far side of the bed, which lay between her and the hole in the wall. Amelie, Queen Maria Theresa's woman, was with her, but Belle pushed past her to rush to Adam where he stood in the doorway.

All of Adam's breath emerged at once in a great sigh of relief as he saw her, alive, unharmed. He moved towards her even as she ran to him, enfolding her protectively in his great arms, pressing her close to him. He could feel her soft hair against his fingertips. "You're alright."

"Yes," Belle said soft. "Thanks to…" she trailed off.

"Thanks to Avenant," Amelie pointed out.

"Oh, I'm sure you could have pinched out the fuse yourself, Amelie," Avenant replied. Adam hadn't seen him there, standing beside the door, holding a shell with an extinguished fuse in his hands. "Don't undersell yourself." He smiled, and Adam did not like that smile, it was altogether far too self-satisfied. "But you're welcome, your highness."

Adam exhaled, even as he slightly released Belle from his grasp. "Thank you," he said, through gritted teeth. "But what are you doing in here?"

"I had come to tell your wife that we needed to leave before the enemy attacked," Avenant said. "That advice came a little late."

"Is it an attack?" Belle asked.

"They're not firing the cannons on themselves," Avenant muttered.

"I know that," Belle said sharply. "But couldn't it be a raid or something? A skirmish?"

"It could be," Avenant allowed. "But I doubt it. As I was telling your wife, your highness, what General Von Strohm didn't want you to know but which I found out by talking to other officers in the camp, was that this force had fallen back to this town after their flank was turned at their previous position. The flank guard was assailed with overwhelming force and nearly destroyed. That being the case, there's no reason the Aquitainians wouldn't follow up with everything they've got."

"But they may be repelled," Adam said. "Von Strohm's troops may hold their ground."

"Possible," Avenant growled. "But not likely. Success breeds confidence, retreat breeds despair. Once an army starts to fall back it's a lot easier to keep them moving backwards than it is to get them to stop. All you have to do is keep the pressure on that, unless I'm much mistaken, is exactly what the Aquitainian commander is doing."

Adam was silent for a moment. He glanced down at Belle, who looked up at him in turn with her big, beautiful brown eyes. He felt such a fool for bringing her here; yes, her intelligence, her insight, her good counsel would be great assets to him in Armorique, yes, she was his partner and his equal and in Armorique he might get the chance to publicly treat her as such but at the same time… to bring her into the middle of a war, what had he been thinking?

And not just Belle, either: Lumiere, Babbette, Madame de Garderobe, they were his family and he had put them all in jeopardy.

And he did not know what to do. The Franche-Comte was a little land, it did not fight wars – who was it to fight, all of its neighbours were far larger and more powerful, and in any case to cause trouble with another Imperial state might have drawn the Emperor's wrath upon them. Adam had never been trained in the military arts, his father had not even begun such an education, the servants had certainly not continued, and any esoteric knowledge that he might have possessed had ebbed away from him during his time under the curse, along with so much else of his humanity.

He did not know what to do. Ordinarily he would have relied upon Belle's guidance, but he wasn't sure that she had much knowledge in this area to offer either.

She glanced at Avenant. Her eyes were wide, and a little frightened, and Adam wasn't sure whether it was the situation or the man's presence that worried her more.

Adam felt his eyes drawn to him. He did not want to ask for his advice, he did not want to admit the need for it… but he did need it. Avenant was, after all, a soldier; the only one in their party who could make such a claim.

He did not want to ask for his advice, but…

Adam looked at him. "What should we do?"

Avenant weighed the shell in his hand, shifting it lightly left and right. He walked to the window, ignoring the hole in the wall made by the shell, and looked out of it.

It seemed to Adam, in that pause when no one was speaking, that the Aquitainian cannon fire had subsided, the whole world seemed stiller now than it had been before.

"It would have been good to get out of here, but it's too late for that now," Avenant declared.

"Why?" Amelie asked. "We can still-"

"We'll get caught in the rout," Avenant answered. "Thousands of men all trying to get away down the same road, horses, guns, we might get moving at first but soon we'd be surrounded, stuck, and it will be hell. And then the pursuit-"

"Her Majesty says that only a fool uses cavalry to pursue in darkness," Amelie said. "The horses are too skittish. I can believe that, I've tried riding at night by myself and my horse jumped at every shadow."

"I know what you mean," Belle murmured, stepping half a pace away from Adam; she was still close by him, but no longer clinging to him as she had been.

"Her Majesty is correct," Avenant acknowledged. "But, when you've achieved an absolute rout, sometimes it doesn't matter how skittish the horses are; and besides, it seems the Aquitainian infantry are fast enough, never mind their cavalry. My fear is that if we tried to leave, we'd be first caught up in the retreat and then caught by the pursuit. And, well, in the middle of a mass of fleeing Imperial soldiers, I'm not sure who'd notice that you were a diplomatic delegation until it was too late."

Adam shivered, and with one hand he drew Belle back to his side. "So… what then?"

Avenant looked down at the shell in his hands. "They weren't aiming to fire on the village, I think this was an overshoot; all the same, we'll be safer downstairs. Get everyone together, wait for the Aquitainians to win, and hope they respect your diplomatic immunity."

Adam nodded. It was a reluctant nod, just as it was reluctant acceptance of his words, but what Avenant had just said made sense. If they were caught up in the rout of the Baden troops, and if there was a pursuit, then who knew what fate might be visited upon them in the darkness.

That being the case, their best course of action was to wait here, and hope that they were treated as a prince and his party deserved.

The Aquitainian guns fell silent. They had switched form roundshot to shell, sending their explosives sailing into the Imperial camp as the soldiers of Baden had scrambled to assemble for battle – when they weren't sending their shells through the walls of inns, at any road.

But now the guns fell silent because the infantry were about to attack.

They emerged from out of the woods, the footsoldiers of Aquitaine, the defenders of Gallia, the soldiers of Christ, the ragged wolves of the south. They were dressed in red coats, unbuttoned to reveal the gold waistcoats underneath, with facings in an array of hues according to the regiment: blue for the Regiment du Languedoc, red for the Regiment du Bearn, silver grey for the Regiment du Dax and even aurore for the Regiment du Bourdeaux. Each soldier wore white crossbelts across his cest, and upon the crossbelts he wore a golden badge depicting the slaying of Maleficent, the symbol of the royal house of Aquitaine.

Only two battalions upon the left flank were not so attired: Burgundians in the service of Aquitaine, they wore Burgundian blue, but even they wore a red cockade in their tricorn hats to distinguish them from their Burgundian cousins in the Imperial service, who wore the white cockade.

The Aquitainians advanced in four ranks, with a gap between the first and the rear two ranks. Every soldier bore a rapier at his hip, and each had his musket shouldered, the bayonet fixed and glinting in the moonlight; on the right flank of each company stood a platoon of grenadiers, tall, strong men in ornately decorated mitre caps. Above each battalion flew two standards: the Regimental Colour, bearing the battle honours of the unit, and the Queen's Colour, the silver cross upon the field of black, the flag of Aquitaine since the marriage of Philip and Aurora and the union with Anjou; for let no man forget that this was a godly army, and that they marched about the Lord's work.

They had no skirmishers out in front of their formation; nor, in this instance, did they have cavalry upon their flanks. The lack of skirmishers was the Aquitainian way, their tactics did not allow for skirmishing, in fact they would only be a detriment to the army and its success. The absence of cavalry on this occasion was not doctrinal, and the commander of the Aquitainian army was somewhat vexed by the absence of his horse, but if he had waited for the cavalry to rejoin the army then the element of surprise would have been lost and so, trusting in God and the valour of his foot, General Villars had decided to attack anyway.

And so the soldiers of Aquitaine emerged from out of the woods and advanced upon the Baden troops around Le Poet-Jerome. The colours flew above their heads, even if they were hard to spot in darkness, and behind each second rank the sergeants with their spontoons and the corporals marched, ensuring the ranks stayed in good order, prowling behind the lines to ensure that no one fell behind or slipped away.

The drummer boys behind the lines beat a rapid tattoo, driving the advance forward at a rapid pace, for the Aquitainians moved at a run. Not for them the slow, sedate and steady march, rather they dashed forward, aiming to cover as much ground as they could in as little time as possible.

They were silent, and if it had been possible to see their faces in the darkness then it would have been seen that their looks were grim and determined.

By now the long roll was sounding in the Imperial camp, and the soldiers of Baden swarmed out of said camp like bees emerging from the hive. They wore blue, save for some elite regiments in green or white, but they were cavalry for the most part, and so it was a line of foot in blue jackets and red waistcoats, many of them hurriedly pulled on as men emerged from their tents, that confronted the red of Aquitaine that ran across the open ground towards them.

The men of Baden hastily formed three lines, shoved into place by their sergeants and corporals. Ramrods were shoved into muskets, rose and fell, rose and fell as powder and ball were loaded, but few bayonets were fixed and none of the rankers carried swords. Officers shouted commands, straightened the line, but nevertheless it was nervous, skittish, uncertain line that formed beyond the village: tired men, roused from their sleep in some cases, disturbed from their rest in others, men who had already been forced to fall back before this enemy that now confronted them.

But their artillery was still firing; their cannons were placed in the gaps between the battalions and the companies of foot, and their guns boomed forth, the flashes of their immense muzzles illuminating the darkness as shot and shell were fired. The Aquitainians ran forward, but the guns of Baden breathed defiance at them.

Roundshot bounced along the ground, kicking up dirt with each bounce until they slammed into the Aquitainian lines. Men cried out as they were struck – assuming their heads were not struck clean off their shoulders – they went down with legs shattered or missing, they screamed and cried out, and as they cried the sergeants shouted 'close up, close up' and kept the ranks in order.

Many of the roundshot bounced clean over the heads of the Aquitainian troops, or else they might cause casualties in the first two ranks but bounce over the heads of the second thanks to the gap between them. The shells did more damage, bursting in the air to shower death and mayhem on the soldiers below. The colours of the Third Battalion Regiment du Carcassone fell, the young ensigns assigned to carry them both struck down by a single shell, but two soldiers stepped forward to carry the banners and the advance continued.

The advanced continued. Though their guns fired, the soldiers of Baden began to see that they were not halting the enemy. The Aquitainian soldiers were vague shapes in the darkness, but they as they drew closer those shapes became less and less vague, more and more of a clear line of men stretching out across the battlefield and all bearing down upon them.

They were a mere hundred metres away now, the men in red, the Aquitainians, a hundred metres away with their black flag and their cross and their dragonslayer badges. A hundred metres away and the cry rank out along the Baden line: "Present!"

The Baden line appeared to make a ninety degree turn as their muskets slammed down, the barrels now pointed at the enemy, thousands of little maws waiting to spit fire.

"Fire!"

The line of Baden exploded, fire and smoke emerging from the muskets of the first two ranks in a great fusillade; it was not a perfectly timed volley, individuals firing late, the gunfire rippling across the line, occasional squibs of fire and smoke emerging after the volley was concluded, but nevertheless it was a powerful sight, thousands and thousands of firelocks erupting more or less at once. The Aquitainians had a dragonslaying upon their badge, but it was the men of Baden who produced fire before which any dragon would have quailed, and sufficient quantity of smoke that it covered the ground before them, blinding them as it lingered in the gap between the lines.

"Close up," the Aquitainian sergeants cried, as men fell dead or wounded in the face of the enemy volley. "Close up."

The Aquitainians kept on running. The Baden troops had fired too soon, a hundred metres was too far away to be accurate with a smoothbore musket, it would take time before they could fire another volley.

A good soldier could fire three rounds a minute; a very good soldier could fire four; but the Aquitainians did not reckon their opponents to be very good soldiers, they scorned the German soldiers whom they called flat-footed, dumb as oxen and every bit as slow in body and mind. Slow to think, slow to act, and slow to reload too, and so they pressed forward reckoning that they had time before the Baden troops could fire again.

At fifty metres distance from the enemy, as best as they could judge in the smoke of the Baden volley, they halted. Said smoke was beginning to clear, and both sides could see a little of each other once again, if only indistinct. Aquitainian doctrine said to wait until they could see the whites of their enemies' eyes, but that wasn't going to happen in the darkness and so the line halted at fifty metres and the rear ranks closed up on the front ranks.

The front ranks knelt.

The rear ranks presented their muskets over the heads of the front ranks.

The Baden troops had just finished reloading.

"Fire!"

The Aquitainians fired first, their volley of the rear ranks bursting forth to slam into the Baden line. The soldiers of Baden recoiled as the musket balls – and worse, the Aquitainians packed their muskets like shotguns for the first volley, loading them with stones or nails or anything deadly they could jam down the barrels – flew out of the smoke to slam into their line at much closer range than their own volley. Men fell, men died, men cried out in pain and horror, and the soldiers in their blue coats began to shuffle backwards away from the enemy.

Some Baden muskets replied, and their cannons replied too, firing deadly canister shot at this close range that ripped through the Aquitainian battalions, causing whole files of men to disappear in bloody messes, ripping great shreds in the red-coated line.

But the Aquitainians were not dismayed; at least they did not appear to be so. Their faces were as grim as ever, impassive, stoic in the face of their losses. They did not falter now, in fact they advanced again, closing to a mere twenty metres, and now the two sides really could see the whites of one another's eyes even in the night.

The first two ranks presented their muskets.

The Baden troops shuffled backwards.

The Aquitainains fired a second volley, and then charged with a great shout. A wave of smoke erupted from out of the muzzles of their muskets, and then out of the smoke charged the wolves, silent no longer but howling and shrieking, crying out like furies, letting loose the terrible cry of the Aquitainian soldiers, the blood-chilling yell that struck fear into the hearts of infidels and enemies of goodness the world over. They charged with bayonets, but as they tore into the Baden line many of them left their muskets and bayonets lodged in the bodies of their enemies and drew their rapiers to continue the fight.

And the soldiers of Baden broke.

They were tired, they were weary, they had retreated already and knew that they would be retreating again tomorrow, so why fight? Why stand your ground? Why resist these wolves who could endure such fire and carry on? What was Maria Theresa to men from Baden, what was the Burgundian claim or the rights of Queen Mary?

They broke and ran, flying from the battlefield, casting off their muskets as they went, flying through the streets of Le Poet Jerome and out the other side – where they could. Masses of men got bound up together, horses panicked or became stuck in the crowds, cannon were abandoned, what had been an army corps became nothing more than a mob of immense size, filled with fear and desperate to escape.

And the Aquitainians pursued them, running at their heels, shooting, striking with their swords, coming up through the village.

And bursting into the inn to find Prince Adam of the Franche-Comte, his wife, and his household huddled together in the common, waiting anxiously.