Knights, Cannons, and Longbows

On April 24, another English fleet entered the Garonne River, including thirty large merchant ships.

The garrison in the city had received reinforcements twice, and now outnumbered the French army. While the English were still assembling at the docks, Arthur ordered the commanders of every unit to organize an orderly retreat.

Retreat?

Easy for you to say. What was he supposed to do about his heavy siege guns?

Before long, most of the commanders had left the tent. Piero tugged at Vitus's sleeve. "Don't just stand there. They're all a bunch of fair-weather friends. If we leave any later, we won't be able to get away."

Fuck!

Vitus jogged all the way to the Tuna Mercenary Group and told Marcus and Damien to assemble the troops for a retreat. "Forget the heavy siege guns. Take the baggage and the Three-Pounders. Hurry!"

The French army under Arthur was a complicated mix: troops belonging to French nobles, volunteer militia organized by civilians, Scottish reinforcements, and unlucky mercenaries sweet-talked by the Dauphin. None of the commanders had the self-sacrificing spirit to put others before themselves, and one after another ignored Arthur's planned retreat order.

Vitus lacked experience in running for his life and was ultimately a step too slow. By the time he had assembled his troops, most of the friendly forces had already fled. Forced to abandon the tents and part of the provisions, he nevertheless insisted on taking all eight Three-Pounders with him.

Fortunately, Vitus often made his men run. So long as the weather permitted, he drilled them every morning and evening. As a result, the Tuna Mercenary Group marched faster than ordinary troops and, without realizing it, caught up to the Rotten Herring Mercenary Group.

"Hey, looks like you trained them well." Piero looked back at the city walls fading into the distance and let out a long breath. "Good thing the English lack cavalry. They can't catch us."

Vitus was in a foul mood. "I was hoping they'd come out and pursue us. If we return to Italy without fighting a single battle, wouldn't this whole trip have been for nothing?"

Vitus was not the only one. Those young, reckless French nobles also felt stifled and humiliated. That afternoon, when they learned that the English army had marched out in pursuit, they fiercely demanded a decisive battle.

According to the mounted retainers' reconnaissance, roughly eight thousand enemy soldiers had left the city. Arthur was unwilling to let his first battle after returning end in retreat, so he ordered the army to turn around and head for an open stretch of ground two miles to the north.

After more than half a day of rushing about, the French army had only six thousand soldiers left, including over five hundred well-equipped noble cavalrymen and an equal number of mounted retainers. Their flaw was the poor quality of their infantry, which was packed with poorly equipped conscripted peasants.

Arthur found Vitus and asked him to command the artillery in suppressing the English.

"The key isn't the artillery. It's whether you can control those knights." After surveying the battlefield, Vitus proposed changing the formation and placing the cavalry behind the infantry, preventing the knights from charging on their own and reenacting the tragedy of Agincourt.

At two in the afternoon, the English army arrived on the battlefield. More than half of them were longbowmen, wearing plain kettle helmets and padded armor. This soft armor was sewn from multiple layers of linen or wool stuffing and offered a certain degree of protection against slashing blows and stray arrows.

In terms of equipment, every longbowman carried a yew bow, a quiver of arrows at his waist, and a one-handed weapon—a sword, hammer, or dagger. Furthermore, having learned from the Battle of Agincourt, each man also carried a two-meter-long pointed wooden stake.

At a distance of roughly two kilometers, the English army deployed in a classic broad formation. Heavy infantry stood in the center, longbowmen on both wings, four cannons positioned before the line, and a tiny number of cavalry wandering along the edge of the battlefield.

On the southern side of the battlefield, the French formation was exceedingly strange. Several thousand infantrymen spread themselves evenly into a horizontal line, quietly waiting for England to attack.

"Forward!"

At the English commander's order, the entire formation slowly advanced. The artillerymen struggled to push their four Bombards and were quickly left behind.

Sunlight pierced the thin clouds and lazily spilled across the open grassland. The breeze carried the scent of earth and wildflowers. As the distance between the two sides gradually closed to a little over two hundred meters, the English halted. The longbowmen planted their pointed stakes at an angle in the grass before them, forming an effective barrier against cavalry.

While the English busied themselves setting up their position, the French began to move instead. They strode toward the enemy, the left wing and center advancing more slowly while the right wing quickened its pace, making the entire line look like a diagonal slash.

"Draw!"

The English noble gave the command. The longbowmen drew a type of light arrow from their quivers, its slender four-sided arrowhead poorly suited for piercing armor but ideal for long-range arcing fire. They raised their yew bows with their left arms, pulled the strings taut with their right, aimed forty-five degrees into the sky, and waited for the noble's next order.

"Loose!"

In an instant, thousands of arrows flew toward the French lines. Vitus lowered his head slightly, and the next moment a dull thud sounded above him, as though a piece of gravel had struck. All around him came a dense barrage of muffled metallic impacts.

Before long, the second rain of arrows came hard on the heels of the first. The right wing where Vitus stood continued advancing, and his troops' plate armor was enough to withstand this level of attack.

As the distance shrank further, the English switched to heavier arrows with thick diamond-shaped or triangular heads, capable of piercing armor far more effectively. Scattered casualties began to appear among the Tuna Mercenary Group.

At last, Vitus ordered the advance to halt and had the artillerymen push out the eight Three-Pounders. Their muzzles aimed at the longbowmen behind the pointed stakes, firing canister shot without pause.

After ten rounds of bombardment, he raised a blue fleur-de-lis flag and waved it from side to side. Seeing this, the Rotten Herring Mercenary Group, which had been following behind, began to circle around for a flanking attack.

According to his plan, the eight cannons would attack head-on while the Rotten Herring struck from the flank. That would be enough to crush the longbowmen directly ahead, after which they could join the friendly infantry in attacking England's heavy infantry...

The idea was beautiful. Reality was cruel.

Just as the Rotten Herring launched its attack, the knights at the rear could no longer sit still. These young and reckless nobles mounted their horses one after another and led their companions around the infantry ahead. As nobles of noble blood, they would never allow these lowly peasants to steal their glory.

Feeling the ground tremble faintly, Vitus looked from side to side. Through the narrow slit of his helmet, he saw his own knights launching scattered charges.

"A bunch of idiots! Who told them to charge?"

Very soon, the French cavalry lowered their lances and crashed into the English ranks. They wore heavy, magnificent plate armor, with colorful feathers fixed atop their helmets. Their warhorses were draped in bright caparisons embroidered with every kind of family crest, like a flock of restless male peacocks.

Seeing their knights break into the enemy ranks one after another, the remaining infantry charged as well. Only the Tuna Mercenary Group remained where it was, as though the clamorous world had utterly abandoned it.

Under the blazing sun, the two armies descended into a bloody and brutal melee. Vitus cursed at the top of his lungs. Left with no other choice, he had his soldiers push the cannons northeast around the battlefield, found a suitable low hill, and fired solid shot into the English heavy infantry square until the last organized enemy unit broke and fled.