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Episode summary:
"In
the year of our Lord 1356 Sir Richard Swann, A young English Knight, has landed
with the King's eldest son and heir; the Black Prince [Son of King Edward III]
in Northern France. This was young Sir Richard's first real war. He was
accompanied by his younger brother; Robert - a Priest - and the pair dream of
great adventures. Sir Richard distinguishes himself at the Battle of Poitiers
[September 1356] and the Black Prince gives the young Knight, a strange and dangerous
mission. That brings Jericho Tibbs on the scene, because Sir Richard was
supposed to have been killed in the battle and undertake no such mission!"
Episode Warnings:
Alcohol – Strong language – Violence [including graphic battle violence] – Some mild sexual references – Strong horror & Demonic references.
Author’s notes about this episode:
[1]
The original Title for this episode was: ‘THE KNIGHT’S UNHOLY QUEST.’
[2]
A ‘Jericho Tibbs’ original story.
[3]
Illustration is an original image discovered in the Public Domain with NO
copyright or ownership details. If you know anything about this please contact
the author via his website: https://stephenjohnwilliams.blogspot.com
[4]
This episode is quite a favourite of the author!
[5] There is NO Alexandra version available.
Episode details:
Concept
date: 23rd December 2018
First
published: 29th June 2020
Status: COMPLETED & PUBLISHED.
Location: BOOK SERIES 5 – EPISODE 6
Revisions: 3 [last revised December 2021]
Version:
Final.
Published Episode No. 050
Previous
episode: “The Viking.”
Next
episode: “The battlefield body snatchers.”
Age
recommendation: 15+
Average
reading time: Approx. 45 Minutes.
Angel-in-charge: Margret
Team Assigned: Team 74
Human Time: 1356AD-0765AH
Mission: 2
- 601572 - 12 - 1356
Episode Preview:
“With the hedge to our front and the ridge on our left with the marshlands to benefit us, they must come direct to our place. No more than half dozen horses can pass the gap that’s offered. The scouts count their number in excess of thirty thousand, maybe even as many as forty thousand with much heavy horse. If we can funnel the bastards through that gap, then we can stack up the dead like firewood. Everything – again – will rest on our archers. We must not commit our horse until the last moment, the very last moment and snatch victory.” The prince lowered his goblet onto the rough travelling table and stabbed at the ornate map with his slim dagger adding; “We should have slipped away, but the ground and position is in our favour here. Jean [King John II of France] will the rue the day he chooses to fight here. If luck and God smiles on us and the fucking archers don’t run short of arrows!”
The small group of commanders chuckled at Prince Edward’s comments and talked softly amongst themselves as Edward strode towards his tent; deep in thought. Standing at the back of the group of Knights stood Sir Richard Swann, gripping the reins of his horse and staring across the marshland towards the tents, wagons and flags of the numerous French armies. “They fucking outnumber us three to one Robert. They are so big they have split into four distinct armies of about ten thousand each and we are just over twelve thousand in total. I hope you can pray hard dear brother because I fear we will need all God’s help today.” Richard said quietly to his younger brother who crossed himself.
The pair turned and walked slowly away from the gathering, joining the small group of men from their shire who were resting beneath a clump of ancient trees. All around, there were men and horses; everyone shouting, talking, drinking and praying. There was a lot of praying; they had seen the size of the French Armies and especially the large amount of heavy horse and the knights that rode them. “The prince knows what he’s doing around the French sir.” John Shortman wiped his face with his sleeve and grinned; showing the five teeth that remained in his mouth. The French had knocked the rest out some years before in yet another battle for the Crown of France. He was Sir Richard’s ‘sergeant-at-arms’ and came from the village where the Swann’s manor stood. He had served Sir Richard’s father at home and on the battlefield; now he did the same for his eldest son.
Richard nodded and slapped the man’s arm; “Let’s enjoy some good English beer my old friend before the bloody French steal it from our dead bodies.” John laughed and shook his head; “Nah, the French don’t like our beer, it’s too strong for them and makes them piss their brains away!” They gathered around the small fire and slowly every man stood around Richard and his brother. Leather flagons were being passed around and each man drank from them before passing it – reluctantly – onto the man next to him. Richard explained the prince’s simple plan which was greeted with soft talk and few smiles of confidence. “I hope the French know their part in the Prince’s plan!” Norman Horselegg raised his flagon and didn’t smile. Like John Shortman he had fought the French before and knew full well what they were capable of. He had buried a brother and uncle after the last fight with the French and couldn’t shake off the morbid thought that someone would be burying him before nightfall. He swallowed down some strong beer and slapped the flagon into the hands of the small man next to him.
James Whitegoose accepted the flagon and drank slowly; he was happy and relieved that his first battle was with men like John and Norman. His longbow was taller than he was, but he was powerfully built and deadly with arrows from his bow. He had won silver pennies last year at the village fete for his archery. He had brought down two wood pigeons with two incredible arrows in just seconds. He wasn’t given any choice in accompanying his liege lord [Sir Richard] on this little trip to France. Nearly every fit man and archer had departed the village behind the Swann brothers.
He wondered if he could actually shoot an arrow into the body of another man. The bible said; “Thou shalt not kill.” But apparently God approved of war and set that commandment to one side, if a King ordered it. After all, James knew that God selected who was King and who was peasant, so King’s must have some kind of divine authority to do what they do. Well, that’s what the village priest’s always said and that – of course – also applied to the Church. He found himself smiling at what his wife – Anne – always said about the King and Church [quietly of course] that they were locked together to steal everything from the bloody poor. But she loved Jesus and the hope he gave peasants like her and James. It was just unfortunate that you usually had to be dead to enjoy it.
Sir Richard sipped his beer and passed the flagon onto his brother who drank with some relish. He stared about the small band and realised that he knew nearly every man standing here; some since he was a boy. He also knew that some would not be going home to their families when this day ended. His brother slapped his arm; “It’s Lord Tillingham.” Sir Richard bowed a little as the big man on a big horse rode up. He was accompanied by five other knights who carried lavish banners. Lord Tillingham was a Herald of the King [Edward III] and could – without fear – ride between the French and English camps, as did the French heralds.
The little group rode past and towards the French camp. “I think the fucking battle is about to start.” Sir Richard said quietly and crossed himself. Several of the men did the same and Father Robert called everyone to knell and pray which every man did. Their prayers were interrupted by trumpets and suddenly the camp was alive with movement. The scattered men were now rushing to take up their positions and Sir Richard leapt upon his horse and gestured for his small band to follow. Father Robert would join several other priests beneath a huge church banner by the little stream. The two brothers both stared at each other before parting without a word being said.
Father Robert walked slowly to the stream with just his curate for company. Young Stephen was clutching the priest’s bag and swearing under his breath. His stomach was churning like it was tumbling around to make butter. He had already emptied his bowels twice this morning and feared another evacuation was on the way. He stared at the assembling English army and swore again quietly. That’s when he heard the rumble like distant thunder and peered up at the clear sky. Father Robert managed a smile and spoke softly; “The French Calvary are coming just as the prince said they would.” Stephen nodded and gripped his buttocks tightly together; never mind the fucking French Calvary, he needed some fucking French bushes!
The French knights crashed through the gap as the English archers let loose their arrows. The long arrows pierced through armour, then flesh and bone. Some of the horseman came off their mounts affixed with several arrows and the English archer’s screamed insults as they drew back their bows. The shouts of; “LIKE FUCKING HEDGEHOGS!” were heard as the French knights and their horses were knocked down under the barrage of hissing arrows. The noise of screaming men and horse’s filled the air as the French dead piled up around the gap. Some tried to jump the thorny hedge and came to grief, crashing to the ground and were easily picked off by the archers. They couldn’t stop or retreat because of the sheer weight of their colleagues pressing them from behind. It was murderous and those that actually managed to break through were quickly killed by the English infantry with sword and axe.
The French crossbow men following the Calvary couldn’t get in position to retaliate and were left to watch the awful spectacle and slaughter with some frustration. The first wave of the French attack was repulsed with heavy casualties, while the English and their allies suffered relatively few dead and injured. But there was little rejoicing amongst the English. The second wave of the French attack was approaching, led by the Dauphin [Heir to the French throne] who marched up the slope toward them, now dismounted, encountering barrages of arrows before engaging the English in fierce fighting. The French almost broke through but were repulsed when Edward brought up his reserves.
Sir Richard led his men into battle; sweating and swearing, as they joined in the bloody hand to hand fighting on the slope. He was knocked from his horse which limped away; a crossbow arrow lodged in its thigh. A large dismounted French knight tried to remove his head and shoulders with his broadsword, but Richard was quick and nimble and parried the blows until John Shortman fired an arrow into the big Frenchman which tore through his armour and poked out his back, just below the left shoulder. Richard quickly drove his sword through the collapsed man’s throat, just where his helmet met his neck. The blood spurted out in thick short bursts and another French knight’s sword came down upon his and the two rolled about the dirt and blood.
Sir Richard had the better of the fight and managed to stab the man under his armpit and found he had part of an arm dangling from his sword. He battered the screaming man with the pommel of his sword until his helmet split a little and blood poured through. Richard, panting and sweating drove his sword into the man’s exposed crotch to make sure and left him for dead; gasping and twitching as he bled to death screaming for his mother. A dead French knight fell across Richard, knocking him over and Richard struggled to crawl from beneath him as another body crashed onto him; the dead and the living were now piled together on the gentle slope. A loose head rolled past with an apparent insane smile still affixed. Richard managed to rise to his feet despite slipping in the mud, blood and body parts that now covered the slope.
“They’re fucking running for it!” Richard could hear several men shouting and pulled off his helmet and indeed, the French were retreating back down the slope. An English archer staggered past him, cursing and crying; he was missing his right arm and the blood was pouring from the open wound. He collapsed at Richard’s feet and stared at him with dead eyes. John Shortman grabbed his arm; “Come on sir! They’re coming again; we need to join the others!” Richard just nodded and followed John back towards the hedge. Bodies were now piled two or three deep around the gap and spread from it for several yards. Many of the English archers were amongst the dead and dying, pulling arrows from the bodies to use again. If they found a wounded Frenchman; they quickly finished them off with dagger or axe. Little ‘quarter’ was being given by either side this bloody day.
Richard gathered his men about an old tree stump and shouted fresh orders. But several of his bowmen were already short of arrows. “Pull them from the fucking dead!” he ordered and watched yet another large wave of French knights approaching led by the young Duc d’Orléans [Duke of Orleans] and they crashed against the hedge already covered with thousands of dead and dying men. A small group of five or six pushed through the mass of fighting men and Sir Richard ordered an attack. They were cut down by arrows from his men and had advanced less than five yards. Norman Horseleggs was quickly among them, swinging his axe at the wounded and severed a head with one swing. He was drenched in blood and his green tunic was now red and soaking wet. He stood with one foot upon the decapitated knight and gestured towards the French lines; “The bastards have already had enough, they’re falling back again!”
Richard slumped upon the stump and stared about him; the dead were in little heaps everywhere. The field of green had turned to mud with streaks of red. The smell of the open wounds, dismembered heads, legs and arms, burst stomachs and bowels filled the air. A three legged horse struggled past him screeching like a lost child and collapsed upon several dead men, kicking and whinnying before laying still. He looked at the young man kneeling next to him and realised the boy had shit himself and was shaking like a sapling in the wind. He patted the boys arm and smiled; “The bastards have only one fight left in them now.” He said quietly and the boy just stared at him with wild eyes, the urine running down his leg. John Shortman pulled the boy up and gave him a couple of slaps across the face, then embraced the sobbing boy like a father.
Richard realised that he was missing about ten men from the village and quickly did a recount in his head and found that seventeen were missing. If they were all dead the village would be in deep mourning upon their return and it wasn’t finished yet. He was shocked to find that tears were running down his face and he quickly wiped them away and rose from the stump. He needed to reorganize his men for yet another French attack. “Fucking brave bastards, you have to give them that.” He muttered and called John and Norman to him.
End of Preview.
IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER
“All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.”
CAUTION:
“SOME OF THESE EPISODES CONTAIN VERY STRONG LANGUAGE, VIOLENCE, HORROR AND SEXUAL REFERENCES. Some are RECOMMENDED suitable for persons aged 15+ years only.”
THE AUTHOR.
Copyright © 2011-2025 Stephen Williams. No reproduction of any part without permission.