This morning starts with promise. Dread sits in the base of your belly, but as you prepare for battle, deciding to deal with whatever God will put in your way, your epithet is honour. The page tidies up the tent and brings your food, but the porridge is indigestible and you refuse to eat. Your squire, a thirteen year old boy, is trembling in fear. He’s polished every inch of your armour and helps you put it on. A long and laborious task made more difficult because the enemy attacks before you’re ready.
When a small group of soldiers rout your foot soldiers, slaughter begins in earnest. You clumsily mount your horse and go to face the opposition. Arrows rain down, your squire dies in the first round of hits. Small fights erupt chaotically. Moments of waiting, and then the enemy reappears. They attack, you defend. You attack, they retreat. You corner them and systematically begin the decimation.
The endless clash of swords, clang, clang, clang. Hefting your weapon in arcs around your body. Stabbing, slashing, cutting, slicing, killing. Endless killing. The wails and moans of victims writhing in agony. Bodies lie broken and scattered like petals across the blood soaked ground. You pause for a second’s respite. Aren’t you tired of fighting? Admit it, you’re exhausted, want to give up, but you carry on.
The sun has slid towards it’s nadir. This has been the longest day. Your horse tramples the dead. The ground is uneven beneath its hooves, stumbling over bodies like rocks. The voice inside you urges you to, “Lay down your weapons. Surrender.” Clang, clang, thrust. The last opponent crumbles, his breath escapes in a groan. Turning toward the encampment, with a weapon in one hand and the reins clasped in the other, you ride slowly over fragments of people. Your armour seemed lighter at dawn now it crushes you with its weight. You can hardly raise your arms and breathing is nigh impossible. The helmet rubs your ears, presses your nose and in this heat, cooks your brain like an oven. Seeing a familiar standard, red against black and white you approach with both caution and curiosity.
Taking your eyes off the bloody spectacle, your mind wanders. You feel relief that the princess is safe. The horse plods on. Just over the rise, you admire the setting sun, throwing the tents on the hill into sharp relief. Think of the celebration. Tonight you will feast and drink before taking the princess home.
People from nearby villagers have come by foot, cart and pony to search for spoils and drag the bodies away for rough burial in unmarked mass graves. They work quickly and quietly, vying with birds and wild animals as they pick over carcasses.
Sweat drips down your face. Exhaustion reigns. Vision is limited by the holes cut in your helmet. Being the only knight still standing, you remove it. Across the fields, the occasional whimper from severely wounded soldiers pierce the quiet. Then you hear it. The far off clipping of horse’s hooves gaining speed. You try to twist round to see, but a lance knocks you off your horse onto the ground. Winded, you struggle to rise. Your attacker dismounts. You’re an insect in honey. Can’t stand quick enough to face your enemy. Helpless on all fours. A hand grabs your hair, pulls your head up with one hand and with a knife held in the other, your throat is sliced from ear to ear. You gargle your own blood. The enemy kicks your back and you flail face down in the mud. It takes minutes to die. But those minutes are an eternity as you realise the battle was in vain and the princess may never make it home.
