The archer’s success did not go unnoticed by the Luccan army. Even in a force of several thousand, a hundred bodies will draw notice. The fort found itself surrounded three days later, and Sir Edward was once more in his harness and looking over the wall at the army that intended to wipe them away like a bad stain.

There is no greater penance for one’s sins than in wearing a harness of iron upon your body. This agony is only exacerbated when the body has been infirm with sickness for a week. Sir Edward could not be described as emaciated or thin, but a week in his blankets had stripped him of some of the muscle mass and strength on which he relied. All about him he saw the same amongst the men who would attempt to hold the fort with him. Some already resembled scarecrows and others could barely lift their heads under the weight of their helms.

It distressed him no end to see the effects of the disease that ran rampant in the fort and the lack of nutrition that the hard winter had inflicted upon them, the very audacity of the strategy that had seen them gain so much ground on the city of Lucca now seemed set to kill them all. All this and more went through Sir Edward’s head as he watched the Luccan militia fall into some semblance of array with the professional men-at-arms on their flanks.

Sir Richard was at Edward’s elbow and the young knight looked to his companion with a question in his eyes, “I could use your advice on how we do this,” he said. Sir Richard looked at Edward and for once was reminded of just how young the boy was and the expectations that had been laid upon his shoulders. He gripped the boy’s spaulder and nodded.

“It’s going to be a rough fight, but it would be best to open the gates,” he informed his erstwhile captain, “before you protest hear me out,” Sir Richard continued, “we don’t want to be rebuilding the fort if we win, leaves us too open, with the kind of money this lot have they’ll have a second force in the field before we can have the repairs any kind of finished, so open the gates and fill it with men-at-arms, each gate can be held by five men, we pack it deep with six or seven ranks, they’ll charge the gates and forget their siege engines, mark my words,” the merit of the plan became readily apparent as Edward thought it over in his mind. The young man nodded once as he made up his mind.

“It’ll work, one exception, I want fifty men at arms with horses ready to ride on my signal, mount the quarter guard, I want a hammer ready as a reserve for whoever breaks first,” Edward ordered, “get everyone armed, once we’re ready we can throw open the gates and invite our guests in.”

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Even with their losses, the Company still had twelve hundred men and women in harness ready and waiting to receive the charge from Lucca. The northern wall of the fort had two gates that men could march through five abreast, this was where Edward and Richard decided to draw the Luccan army. Each was packed five deep with men at arms and squires in the best harness Edward could find. Rust showed in places but discipline had been good and it was only a light brown tinge on the fringes of the shining steel host that called their challenge to the army of militia.

Edward could see a trio of mounted Luccan knights riding up and down their front calling orders he couldn’t understand in the very distinct Luccan Vallarese dialect. If he survived the next hour he promised himself that he would learn the language, and then in the confines of his helm he smiled, because for the first time that morning he had contemplated a future beyond this battle. Sir Richard had the right most gate while Edward had the left, as the man with the best harness Edward stood in the front rank, with his best knights on either side. Men-at-arms and archers alike slapped him on the shoulders and called encouragement as he took his place. Arturians more than any other nationality on the continent, drew heart from their leaders being among them, on the field and in the mess. Edward was no exception, he slapped down his visor and took his spear in a determined grip. No one said, you’ve never fought in a real battle, or you can’t possibly hold this line, but for certain the thought flew through Edward’s mind, with his sweat beading over his brow and his linen coif already soaked by his hair.

Sir Edward saluted his Master Archer, who gave a nod that was unseen, his rumbling order was heard along the line though as the archers rose behind the blocks of men-at-arms, “Let’s invite them in for tea!” The old archer roared as he bent.

“Nock!”

“Draw!”

“Loose!” As the order rang out across the still morning air four hundred shafts leapt of their strings and hit the sky like a thousand hissing snakes. Edward watched as one of the mounted officers took a cloth yard of ash through his back all the way to the fletchings. The hardened steel head punched clean through mail, skin, fat and meat and the knight fell from his steed in less time than it takes to tell it.

The city militia gave a roar of outrage as the hail of shafts that fell like a wicked sleet hit them. The came on like an undisciplined mob, although Edward noted they were the best armed mob he’d ever seen. Each man had a shirt of good mail, a tall shield, and a good sword. There was a company of crossbowmen slightly behind and to the left of the militia blocks and the charge took their own men to directly in front of their lanes of fire. If asked later, Sir Edward would say this was the moment the Luccans lost the battle. Their well-paid crossbowmen never got to soften the company’s defenders with a hail of bolts, instead he saw one man loose a bolt into the back of their own men in frustration.

The lines of the Militia backed by the professionals narrowed to a sharp point as they rushed the open gateway of the fort. They collided with the waiting company men at arms with the sound of a hundred pots and pans being smashed together. Edward was in the centre and the impact was jarring, he felt the man behind him press his shoulder to his back and like some great back rest on a throne, the rear ranks kept him up. His spear haft shattered between his breastplate and the impact of the man who faced him, so that Edward simply stabbed upwards with the shivered end of the haft, the splintered oak came away bloody, and the man fell at the young knight’s feet.

Blows rained on Edward’s head and shoulders from all around, but an armoured man can take any blow that does not kill him, and he weathered them all like a stone under a waterfall. With his weapon broken and borne to the ground by his first opponent Edward had to rely on his armoured fists, lashing out with power that would not be stopped by simple mail. One steel clad fist took a man in the face, while the flange of his couter flayed the cheek from another. It gave Edward enough space to draw his dagger, the steel rondels covering the openings of the sides of his gauntlet to completely encase his hand in good, hardened steel.

The long spike of the rondel dagger is triangular in cross section and only good for combat, and Sir Edward used it like a pick as he stabbed downwards at any man who came within reach, his fist flashing in the sunlight of the early morning. Blood rose like a gruesome mist over the stour in which they pressed.

Edward was blowing like a dragon when he threw a last great stab downwards and managed to only stab air. The militia were brave men in the initial rush, but the average man can only see his friends and neighbours shredded by superior arms for so long before they lose the stomach for the fight. They ran back through their own professionals who struggled to make their way through the fleeing press.

With room to breath at last, Edward resheathed his dagger and drew his longsword in one fluid motion. A page ran to them on confident feet as he pressed a skin of water into Sir Edward’s hands, he nodded his thanks to the boy who could have been no older than ten as he drained the skin. He smiled at the young lad, “Thank you lad, what’s your name?”

The boy ducked his head, “which it is, William my lord,” the page answered.

“When this is all over, come see me, before that though, please ensure my horse is saddled and waiting with the quarter guard,” and with that said the Page was forgotten and Edward turned his attention to where the professional men at arms of the Luccan army were forcing their way to the front in a single unbroken line to match Edward’s own. He saw the militia had yet to break at Sir Richard’s gate, although they were already wavering, and it would fall on his battle to hold the better armoured men, “reform!” He roared to his men and slammed his visor back down.

In a fight between close packed men-at-arms, armour counts for more than skill. Edward’s first thrust was turned by a breastplate, his second, thrown with his left hand close to the point and using his longsword like a short spear, found the aventail of his opponent and came away bloody, before a stout blow with a short mace collided with the side of his helm and the young knight saw stars. The close packed stour had blood flying like a red mist over their heads and it was the most savage and brutal fighting Edward had seen in his short career. He shook his head to clear it and planted his pommel in another man’s face.

In the space of a minute Edward had downed or killed at least eight men, and in return he had taken three dagger wounds, and taken a second blow from the mace that had dented his rerebrace and left his right arm feeling oddly numb. As a last-ditch effort to stay in the fight, Edward drove his head into the face of his next opponent, the steel of his visor driving hard into the bone of the man’s forehead, before a third mace blow dropped the acting captain to the ground.

Edward felt an armoured foot stand on his hip with a burning agony as his own tortured body was crushed beneath dozens of men-at-arms who pushed forward. He felt his breastplate flex under the weight of armoured men, and his wounds screamed as dust and blood and other even less desirable substances clogged the breaths of his visor. A scream tore its way free as another trod on his no doubt broken arm.

As quickly as it began, the panic and fear began to ebb as arms wound their way under Edward’s armpits and dragged him away from the gate. His saviour revealed himself as his own squire, Murk. The boy dragged his master off behind the gate and rested him against the stout planks of the wall before collecting his spear and returning to the front.

As the heat of battle fled from Edward’s body, to be replaced by the ache of his numerous wounds and the near debilitating burn of his broken arm, he watched in horror as men he knew were cut down and the Vallarese men at arms were put down with stout blows of axes and thrusts from spears. The defensive line at the gate began to bow, men were forced back first one step then two, and in moments a deep crescent had formed and eight of the Vallarese were inside the gate.

As swiftly as the enemy gained their foothold inside the fort, they lost it. With a shout Murk forced his way into the front line of the Company’s defence and drove his spear point into the breastplate of the first man he saw. The steel of the plate held and turned the point, but Murk had practiced this at the Pell many times and he followed it up with three more quick thrusts, each searching for a weak spot in the man’s armour, and eventually he found it, the point of his spear driving into the Vallarese knight’s collar bone through his aventail where apparently no spaulder was present to protect him. The man went down and was dragged away by a Page to be ransomed later if he survived his wound.

Edward stood slowly, his back pressed to the wooden boards of the wall for support, and gestured to a page, “bring me my horse!” He ordered and waited for his orders to be obeyed. In the time it takes a man to sing a prayer to the Worthies, Edward was mounted in his high-backed saddle on Bohemund and sat at the head of the mounted quarter guard with his arm tied to his body with a long sash of blue linen from one of the men at arms.

He watched the inevitable collapse of the Vallarese with a critical eye, he was new enough to campaigning and war to appreciate that there was something to learn now while he had the chance. The enemy had charged through the rout of their militia and could not muster the numbers to truly press the defenders to start and in that time many of them had been killed or taken so that when the time had come that they could truly press, their best fighters were already gone.

The Vallarese commander must have seen the writing on the scroll, because a trumpeter sounded their retreat even as Edward had the thought, and instantly the pressure on the two gates had lessened and fell away entirely as men backed and ran for the safety of the Vallarese lines, “gentlemen, we will now win this battle,” Sir Edward told his waiting reserve of mounted men with what he hoped was an inspiring tone of leadership.

The defenders slumped in an exhausted heap to the side of the gate as the mounted men rode out at a trot. Sir Edward rode with his reins tied over his saddle’s cantle and relied on his knees and heels to turn Bohemund in the right direction, instead he held a short mace in his left hand that he had taken from one of his exhausted men at arms. It would take a fairly significant force to stop the charge of fifty mounted knights and that was not present in the retreating backs of several hundred Vallarese men at arms.

Sir Edward and his charge blew through them all like a summer wind through a wheat crop, their blows dropped men on the ground and they did not rise, though less than one in ten was dead, they had simply used up any energy they had. The charge hit the unarmoured Crossbowmen before they could span their weapons and it was all over in less than an hour as Edward accepted the surrender of the Vallarese Captain.

Weapons were thrown down and the Company men collected them for use and resale. Sir Edward had the Vallarese stripped of their armour and horses, it was a veritable fortune in steel and in an afternoon, men went from unarmoured valets to full men-at-arms with this new windfall. The enemy captain spit venom when he was stripped of his own arms and horse, but Edward merely nodded and offered to make him pay ransom for his entire militia.

Without the resources to house and feed the men taken, Edward was forced to turn them out to return in defeat to the city of Lucca as broken men. Edward enjoyed the plaudits of the Company as men slapped him on the back and congratulated him on the victory. He found Sir Richard on a bed of straw in the barracks they had turned into a hospital for the wounded. The man had several cuts and abrasions over his whole body and a nasty gore in his side that the doctors were unsure about. Edward gripped the man’s hand as he reclined against a cushion made from several shirts stuffed with hay, “your plan worked, and they congratulate me,” the young knight said ruefully.

“Let them think as they wish, it was a good fight that went well for us, and now less will question your right to stand among us as a knight,” the great man leaned back into his pillow and let out a sigh, “now leave me to my rest, and go enjoy your cheers,” he ordered with a chuckle and Edward matched it with one of his own before leaving the dark confines of the hospital barracks.

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As spring returned to the verdant lands of the Vallarese, and the snows began to melt, the men under Edward’s command rejoiced. The warmer weather heralded the passing of the sickness and fevers that had plagued them so and wool gowns were no longer pressed desperately to chest as Sir Clement recovered and returned to the command, a very grateful Sir Edward handed the baton back with some relief.

As if the word was sounded, Sir Felix rode up with an army at his back when the snows broke, and he brought with him a dozen minor captains and the von Rabsburg Feudal host under the command of his lady Sir Eva, now clad in full harness with a golden Knight’s belt worth more than a small castle at her hips. He reined in within the gates of the fort and shook Sir Clement’s hand, “I’ve been told you won a great victory, I intend to hammer it home and take Lucca now, if the Worthies are with us and you are fit, I’d appreciate it if you came with me now,” he smiled and looked like a military saint with his hair finely cropped and his beard neatly trimmed and worn forked like some devil from the fiery pits.

So it was that the remaining three hundred lances of the fort were folded into the army and Sir Edward once more rode to battle with Sir Felix and their force spread like a blanket of glittering steel across the land as they made their way to the city of Lucca. Duke Felix sent his cartels to the City as soon as the army was encamped two miles from the main gates. The camp sprawled over a series of low hills that overlooked a patchwork quilt of farmland and hedges that led to the outer suburbs of Lucca. Edward almost vomited with anxiety when he saw the size of the city, it consisted of five concentric walls the lowest of which stood forty feet high with double gates and defensive towers every fifty feet. All surrounded a central citadel that could hold their army for a decade if it was well supplied. The Vallarese were incredibly wealthy and the city of Lucca was one of the eight major City-States that made up the Merchant’s League, in taxes alone it took in a greater income than the entire western empire.

All of this added up to one thing, the city was well supplied and well defended, it could hold out in a siege against them for far longer than the Companies could find food. Sir Felix knew this, which is why he sent a challenge with his cartel, for their great commander to not hide behind his walls like a coward, to face him man to man, ten against ten, a hundred against a hundred or army against army.

The Vallarese can be accused of a lot, arrogance and pride chief among them, but they are not cowards and it took all of a moment to truly sting that pride. The chief Condottieri of Lucca was a knight called Ruggiero Cane, and he was well known for his victories in the constant skirmishes between the city states. He deployed his army in a heart beat with tight packed blocks of pikes, companies of crossbowmen and squadrons of Vallarese knights to back them.

The chief strength of Lucca was it’s access to the sea and the innumerable supply ships that could enter its waters with ease and help them hold off any attempt at siege, so it was that as soon as Cane marched through the gates, an Imperial Fleet of galleys swooped in and closed all access to the city with a large blockade of fifty ships. The City council lost their ability to communicate with their captain as soon as he was clear of the city, with dozens of archers lying in wait to pick off any messengers who tried to make their way through. Duke Felix’s trap tightened like a noose around the neck of Lucca and he allowed himself a moment of relaxation with his officers as he prepared to meet Cane’s army.

“Gentlemen,” he said, meeting each of their eyes and giving his lady a firm squeeze of his hand, “our victory is almost complete, all that stands before us and total control of Lucca is Sir Ruggiero, if we break his army tomorrow when he offers battle, we claim a new jewel for the Empire, so please I pray you drink your fill and eat well, then retire to your blankets to prepare for the conflict.” He spoke like a hero of the chansons and Edward felt the old hero worship that afflicted every squire grip him in that moment, and he knew that had Sir Felix asked it, he’d have happily stormed the gates of the fiery pits for his Captain.

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The morning of a battle always has an element of unreality to it. Smoke from old campfires and the fog that hangs in the lands of the Vallarese mix and swirl at knee level in the early pre-dawn grey. Edward stood in this quiet time of reflection, too young and inexperienced to yet know that this was how it was and yet he had one foot up on his stool and Murk knelt by him, greave keyed into the poleyn attached to his cuisse and seating the whole against Edward’s right leg with deft fingers, forcing the freshly laundered padded hose to sit comfortably within the encasing steel. Men walked by in various states of dress and arming, Gerald, Edward’s archer, came by and handed his lord a cup of small beer to drink away the morning, and their page began handing out hot sausage from the campfire he had brought back to life. Edward thanked them each for their contributions and patted Murk on the shoulder as the boy finished cinching the breast and backplates closed like an oyster shell over Edward’s torso.

“Go see to your own harness, I can do the rest,” Edward told the thankful squire as he seated his bascinet on his head comfortably and lifted the visor until it rested up with the cunning latch that held it in place until it would be needed. The page from the fight at the fort brought Edward’s horse forward, Bohemund looked glossy in the limited light and he lipped affectionately at the boy’s shoulder. Edward met the page’s eyes, “you didn’t come and see me after the battle, you’ll have to rectify that this evening, stick with Cuthbert,” he gestured to his own page who still sat by the fire preparing food, “even if it goes poorly today, stick by him, he’ll get you on a horse.” Cuthbert nodded in acceptance and gestured for the boy to join him by the fire, the young lads were only twelve or thirteen and would remain in camp, too young to assist on the field.

Sir Felix appeared fully armed at their fire just as the sun began to crest the horizon, the light flared on his shoulders and turned the red of his surcoat to blood and fire, he smiled as he saw the men around Edward rushing to finish their preparations, “Sir Edward,” he called and accepted the bow of the young knight, “I want you and your lances mounted, I’m sending you around the right flank, scouts have confirmed there’s a path you can take and there will be markers for you to guide you to your position,” Edward nodded as he gestured for someone to bring his mounting stool, “take his knights from behind and crush them, there’s bound to be a few good ransoms for you all,” that got a healthy growl of anticipation from them all, “once that’s done, use your best judgement for where to strike next, I’d rather take Cane alive so if you see him, try to avoid killing him,” the Duke said with a hint of humour that translated well. He nodded once and wandered off into the darkness to pass on more orders, Edward in turn sent his pages running to deliver the news and make sure everyone in his hundred were mounted and ready.

Once mounted and arrayed Edward had to contain himself as he sat in his saddle. He had one hundred full armed and armoured men at arms, a hundred squires just as well armed and a hundred archers in various states of armour, twenty of them veterans who wore almost as much armour as the men at arms but without the arm harness that would interfere with their ability to shoot. His heart soared to be commanding this small army on a field of battle, and at a gesture of his arm they trotted out of the camp and over behind the hills it rested upon, the Vallarese would never see them coming.

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Three hundred mounted men, as a rule, do not sneak anywhere. Leather harness creaks as it stretches and plates ring as they connect with each other, and that’s before you take into account the thunder of their hooves. Even at a slow trot they made enough noise to rouse the dead and Edward was grateful for the safety of distance and the sounds of the battlefield that was even now beginning to take form before Sir Felix’s position. They had run through it the night before, the Captain having already decided between which hedges and in which fields he would conduct his battle.

Sir Felix had paid his guides well, like any great city there were plenty of disenfranchised nobles and wealthy merchants who felt cheated and wanted revenge on their former home, and when gold changed hands they were able to focus this hatred in a suitable direction for the Duke’s needs. Even now one of them road with Edward pointing the way as they weaved through back trails and farm lanes to find their way to the correct road that would allow Edward and his men to take the enemy from behind.

Minutes ticked by as they rode and the heat began to increase as the sun cleared the horizon completely and began to burn off the fog. This was the most uncomfortable time for a soldier, without battle to distract him he was all to aware of the heat that his arming clothes trapped within the confines of his armour, the slick sweat that ran down his back and the innumerable flying insects that would find any exposed flesh to bite and sting as the humid air thrummed to life. Edward’s mind raced as he counted the time it took them and he knew he was taking too long. It was the most complicated problem he had yet faced, they needed to hurry but they couldn’t over-exert the horses before they had to charge.

Sir Edward’s breathing quickened as they cleared the last hedgerow and beheld the battlefield. Three fields were engulfed in melee as the two armies clashed across gaps in fences and openings in hedges, from his vantage point Edward could see where a troop of enterprising men in the colours of one of the Imperial Captains were hacking apart a section of hedge with axes while a squadron of Vallarese pikemen set their points at the gap and began thrusting through the thinned foliage.

Edward’s target was the tall banner of Lucca, held by five hundred Vallarese knights on good horses in good armour. They surrounded the large wagon that held the banner and, in their midst, Edward knew was Captain Ruggiero Cane, the lynch pin of this battle. Because of the angle of the trail that brought them in, Edward was just behind and to the left of the Banner. His men fanned out around him to form a line, men at arms in the first rank and squires in the second, with his fist on Bohemund’s rump Edward roared for Gerald, “get the archers dismounted, put three shafts into them before we charge.” Gerald saluted at once and the archers were leaping from the saddle off to the right of the main formation, one in four of the men taking the reins of their mates horses to mind, the downside of leaving the pages back at the camp.

Edward groaned as his men continued to file from the trees even as the first volley of ash shafts plummeted to earth like a thunderbolt to strike the rear of the enemy knights. Few among them wore back plates and none had barding on their horses, unused as they were to facing Arturian longbows. It was as though a giant hand swatted the foe as men and horses went down in heaps, the loud screams of the beasts and the curses of men as clothyard shafts punched through them like wicked sleet. The second wave was halfway through its arc and the third off the string as Edward was finally able to order his men forward, “one more shaft each then mount up and collect the ransoms Gerald!” He shouted before slapping down his visor and getting his lance into the rest on his breastplate. The two hundred men of the Company thundered down on the milling knights of Lucca.

Edward’s eyes narrowed on his first target, a knight in red and blue with a grail on his heraldry. His lance took the man just below the shoulder and sent him crashing to earth, lance point unbroken Edward followed through to the next knight bearing the new knight to the ground horse and all. The lance finally broke as Edward swung it horizontally, and took another knight across the throat. The shivered end of the lance was thrown into the face of the next horse and Edward drew his longsword, now deep in amongst the flower of Luccan chivalry he fought like a man possessed.

Blows rained on his armoured arms like hail on a steep roof, one caught his recently healed arm and smarted terribly, but pain was just pain he assured himself as he threw another man to the ground with his sword around his neck. Another took Edward’s pommel in the teeth before an axe rang against Edward’s head and sent him barrelling over Bohemund’s cantle.

In a battle of cavalry forces, being on foot is a terrible place to be. Edward struggled to his feet before being reacquainted with the ground by the hoof of a terrified destrier. Men shouted and horses screamed as Edward fought to his feet again, to find Bohemund standing by his shoulder like a well trained dog. The horse waited on his master and lashed out with his own hooves like a trained boxer. Edward wasted no time trying to get back into his saddle, the breathing room he had told him that their attack was going well, and he was damned if he was going to miss it all.

Men were at his side instantly as he pulled himself back into the saddle and rested unsteadily against its high back. Their surprise had been complete and the heavy toll reaped by the archers meant the fight had largely gone in the favour of Edward’s men, but Cane’s knights were professionals as well and their retreat was largely to gain room to reform and assess the threat. They reformed into a deep wedge with a heavily armoured knight at their front and Edward roared to redress their front. The attack had reduced Cane by at least a hundred men, scared horses with empty saddles galloped in every direction, and it had not been entirely one sided, Edward knew he was short at least twenty men on his own.

As the two bodies of horsemen reformed and glared at each other across the field strewn with fallen horses and men, Edward took the time to assess the rest of the battle. He could see Sir Felix’s banner in the central field, the man himself was like a walking siege engine, his poleaxe moved like a living thing and everyone he touched died. Further afield he could see Sir Eva with the second mounted battle, her knights were ready and forming behind where Cane was forming to face a second charge from Edward. The surprise could not last and suddenly there was confusion in the ranks as Cane made the same realisation Edward did, his cavalry were his last reserve and he would soon be attacked from both flanks all the while his centre had to bring down Sir Felix if he wanted to salvage the battle.

Edward saw the man he knew to be Cane, he wore a long surcoat with a golden eagle resplendent on a field of black, and he was shouting orders like a man possessed. Squadrons of thirty knights began to peel off from his main block, four of them forgetting their previous preparations and charging straight for Edward while a similar block took off to intercept Sir Eva, Cane himself kicked his horse towards his embattled centre and aimed his remaining knights like an arrow directly for Felix’s banner.

“At and through them, and right on to Duke Felix, that hammer is going to hit him like an avalanche, we will blunt it!” Edward roared to his men as he slapped his visor back down and put spurs to a very undeserving and indignant Bohemund. The company men at arms went from a stand still to a full gallop in three strides and Edward was right at their head, wind whistling through his eye slit and sword held high. The enemy still had lances and they brought them down as they careened towards the front of Edward’s line. The young knight lowered his blade over his left hip and struck upwards with the false edge of his blade, collecting the first lance aimed at him and sending the point sailing uselessly above his head, his own sword blow descended like a bolt from heaven down the same line to slam into the lancer’s helm.

It is almost impossible to cut through steel with a sword blow, but in the right conditions, with a slight fault in the steel of the helm, it can be done. The knight’s helm had such a fault, and Edward’s blade carved down through steel and skull, perhaps three fingers of brain was shorn away from the rest and the knight was stone dead before he even fell from his steed. Men roared in approval all around as the few in the rear ranks were witness to the great blow and Edward was through the line. Bohemund punched out with his forehooves and left broken horses and bloody furrows in his wake, as much the warrior as his master.

Men punched through the line on either side of Sir Edward, but he was already putting Bohemund’s head towards the rear of Cane’s charge. He could see where the knights of Lucca had hit the central fight and knew that as stoic as the men around Sir Felix were, they were about to receive a hammer blow that would shatter them. Once more he pressed his spurs to Bohemund’s flanks and pushed the great destrier to one last burst of speed as they crashed again into Cane’s rear.

While he could not see it with his visor lowered, Edward was not alone in his charge. Twenty knights from his own battle collided with Cane’s rear at the same time along with a wedge of knights including Sir Eva herself right alongside.

The effect of the charge was devastating for Ruggiero’s hopes, his cavalry reserve came apart at the seams and the battle became pockets of fighting as men sought to take rich ransoms and the Luccans tried to escape the stricken field. Cane called on his men to stand and fight, but he was only part of a circle of perhaps fifty knights and men of the companies circled their formation like wolves snapping at a herd of sheep. Edward himself took three men and they joined a string of captures including a further two that were caught by Murk. Bohemund blew air like a dragon, the great horse trembled under his master from his exertions and Edward was wise enough to dismount and hand him off to a brave page who had come forward with a group of camp followers to assist in the aftermath of the battle.

Sir Felix slapped Edward on the shoulder and congratulated him on his role in the battle before giving Sir Eva a very improper kiss in the public eye, but the men of the Company did not care, they cheered their victorious commander and were drunk on the feeling of victory. They had faced down the great Captain of Lucca in a pitched battle, the first they had fought since the Empire had declared war on the Merchant’s League, and they had won.

The cost was high, and bodies were strewn like a child’s discarded dolls across a dozen fields, some still alive enough to moan for succour that would not come for hours yet as fighting continued in small pockets. Edward led his men into the last of these and added another four to his capture total as Sir Ruggiero surrendered to Sir Felix in a formal ceremony, handing his sword to the victorious Imperial Commander.

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A military camp after a great victory can be a dangerous place for captives, as men who have lost friends look to take revenge, or others seek the quick gratification they desire after a hard fought victory. Sir Edward’s pavilion became a fortress against the excesses of the archers, and his captives were seated at his table and enjoyed a meal of sausage and cheese served by his squire who despite having a clean wrap of linen around one arm due to a wound taken in the fight, served happily. Murk was puffed like an adder with pride at having been recognised for fighting well and wore new silver spurs, a gift from Sir Felix, and he walked head held high as he brought food to all and watered wine.

It was well past time that they all be in their blankets and Sir Edward was toasting his honourable foes with a raised cup of wine when his page Cuthbert approached, “my lord, this is William, which it is you asked him to find you,” the young boy said as though he thought his lord may have forgotten what he’d told the boy before the battle. William looked much the same as Edward remembered from the fight in the fort. Sir Edward gestured the boy forward.

“Master William, I hoped you would find me this time, you have impressed me lad, how many years have you?” He asked and was gratified to see the boy met his eye without wilting.

“I’m fourteen my lord,” William answered, “I apologise for not seeing you after the fort battle,” the boy’s voice cracked at the last, Edward noticed the scrapes on his cheeks and realised in an instant the boy expected punishment.

“Who is your master?”

“Which it is, no one my lord, I served Henri d’Jacque, one of your men-at-arms, but he was killed at the fort,” William allowed. Now Edward’s eyes focused more on the boy as he took in the slight frame and thin features. The young knight gestured to his squire.

“Murk, see that this brave young man is fed and find him a sword,” he looked William up and down once more before speaking again, “we will talk more in the morning once you have eaten and rested, but you will be my second squire and assist Murk with his duties when I decide you are ready, understood?” The boy simply nodded, struck dumb by the notion that he was being taken into service by a belted knight who he had all but worshipped from a distance until now, “good, Murk while you’re at it find him some blankets, I dare say you’ve been sleeping under the baggage wagons with no place to go, right William?” The men around the table cheered Sir Edward and thumped the wooden slats of the table with cups and fists in approval. One of those captured was a belted knight and a man Edward had faced once before, Matteo Farneze and he raised his cup.

“While I hate to offer any compliment to you barbarians, that was well said Sir Edward, at least you behave with honour amongst this rabble of thieves,” the knight spat and Edward could only bow to his captive.

“It is a shame that we must make war upon one another, but I hold no enmity for you Lord Farneze, perhaps one day we won’t have to fight and occasions like this can be merely social,” Edward offered as close to an apology as he would come for the arrogant knight. It would be a long night with such sour company, but Sir Edward would not be found wanting on the chivalric field of courtesy.