The Crown of the Hundred Years' War

Chapter 12 Sergeant Martin

On the way to Dilthal, LeBron chattered on and on to the others like he was teaching a child.

"Just keep one bag of oats to feed the mules. Besides blankets, you don't need any tents. Letting you put that junk back is perfectly fine; if we lose and have to run for our lives, we'll have to throw it away anyway, right?"

Martin and the others could only agree.

"But if you tell us to put the sausages and bread back, what are we going to eat?" the young man leading the mule asked.

LeBron laughed: "Don't listen to bards' stories. Do you think this is the Crusades? Food, horse feed, arrows—these things were provided by noble lords during wartime at least ten years ago. If they didn't provide them, they would have stolen them!"

"Would they send us to rob it? LaFlesh is so close, will they get robbed?" Martin suddenly asked.

LeBron hesitated for a moment: "It depends on where the battlefield is. I'm not very familiar with the royal cavalry. I came to La Flèche after Vernej, and I only heard about the formation of this army when I married Anne. But I imagine they're not much different from the previous royal army; they don't usually plunder. Didn't you see them last year?"

"But I've heard that in wars, no matter which side fights, they loot wherever they go. It's just that the British kill everyone and burn down houses, while the nobles take all the food," another young man asked.

LeBron nodded: "Don't say that when you get to the camp. Nobles hate being called English. But it's generally true—nobles and knights do less, but their mercenaries are not much different from the English. When we're sent to raid for grain, we can at most avoid killing people, but we must bring the grain back."

LeBron stopped, turned, and stood on a rock by the roadside. Addressing the five men, he said sternly, "In the camp, don't talk nonsense. If anything happens, Martin and I will speak first. If anything is missing, tell us first. Also, keep a close eye on your belongings; with so many people, things can get messy—I told you not to carry silver coins because if they're seen, it could lead to death! We can't show weakness in the camp, but we absolutely cannot be the first to stick our necks out. Understand?"

Everyone nodded and said no more.

As the sun began to set, they finally saw the main camp. It wasn't large, seemingly enough for only four or five hundred people. After reporting their arrival to the guards, they were directed to the central tent. Inside, they saw an officer and several assistants writing something at a large table. The officer only looked up when they entered.

"What are you doing here? Those delivering grain, go directly to the quartermaster at the back."

"I am a armored soldier of Laflesh, responding to Marshal Attil's call, and have come with five infantrymen to report for duty," Martin stepped forward and replied.

The officer stood up upon hearing this and scanned Martin from head to toe: "Never been on the battlefield before, have you? Were there knights in your family? Who gave you the armored soldier status?"

"I served as a squire for a few years. My armored officer status was given to me by Marshal Attil last year when I stopped some Englishmen in Laflesh," Martin replied.

Several attendants looked up at Martin upon hearing this. The officer, however, showed no reaction and continued, "I was in La Flèche last year and heard of you, so I won't check your armor or martial skills. You infantrymen behind you, bring out your armor and weapons; I want to see them."

Upon hearing this, Martin and several young men hurriedly returned to the mule cart, hastily donned several sets of leather armor, and took out several spears, two axes, and a longsword.

The officer looked around from inside the tent, then had them line up and turn around. "Iron-plated armor, quite good stuff. Left over from the British last year, right?" Before Martin could answer, he pointed to LeBlanc, who had been watching the show with great interest, "You're a crossbowman, aren't you? Shoot a couple of arrows and see."

LeBron chuckled, put down his backpack, pulled out a string, easily nocked it, and with a push of his foot, loaded the crossbow. He raised the crossbow, barely aimed, and pulled the trigger. Everyone looked in his direction; the crossbow bolt was firmly planted atop the flagpole by the door.

The officer nodded. "Good archery. During the battle, you'll be in the rear guard, with those Genoese. Do you know the Genoese?"

LeBron, while releasing the string, said, "Sir, I've been to Vernej. I shot as fast as all three of them combined!"

The officer returned to his tent, sat down again, picked up a booklet, and wrote as he spoke: "Armored soldier Martin, seven sous a day; crossbowmen, five sous; three infantrymen and grooms, three sous each. Payment will be made after each battle, monthly when there is no battle, and all will be settled before returning home. You will be under the command of Sergeant Adam and assigned to his pikemen unit."

As the officer spoke, he ordered his attendant to fetch reinforcements, then continued writing to Martin: "Your entire unit will share tents of ten, cook together, and eat two meals a day, provided by the army. One person will serve as a sentry every three days; a sentry sleeping in the sun will receive twenty strokes of the cane. Robbery and theft are strictly prohibited; the first offense results in one hundred strokes, a second offense in hard labor. Desertion in the face of battle results in hard labor the first time, and hanging the second. Do you all understand?"

Martin paused for a moment, then replied, "I understand, sir. Are there any other rules?"

At that moment, a middle-aged man with red hair walked into the main tent. The officer pointed at him and said, "This is your Sergeant Adam. Ask him if you don't understand anything. Report any situation to him first, and come find me if you can't find him. Also, go and get a few hammers; longswords are useless on the battlefield."

The newcomer didn't stand on ceremony, directly taking the sheet of paper from the officer and handing it to Martin: "Let's go, five of our men have already arrived, we got here earlier than you, let's get to know each other first!"

Martin followed Adam, completely bewildered.

Upon arriving at his assigned tent, Martin discovered that the armored soldier was actually a former squire from the neighboring village. The soldier had somehow acquired a set of armor and had been recommended for the position by an old knight who had once led them. Past grievances couldn't compare to seeing a familiar face in the military camp. The two villages were already close, and they quickly became acquainted.

Sergeant Adam, though living with them, seemed to prefer spending time in the other tents. LeBlanc said, "That's how Scots are."

As night fell, Adam went to sleep in another tent. The rest of the group huddled together hesitantly, pulling LeBron aside, the only veteran of many battles, and bombarding him with questions. LeBron replied impatiently, "The sergeant isn't your father! To be honest, these officers are more like overseers, responsible for watching over us. Who cares who they are, just don't cause trouble!"

After a moment of silence, Martin asked, "If we're afraid on the battlefield, will he kill the deserters?"

LeBron sat up, checked the commotion outside, and then lowered his voice, saying, "This officer only talks about fighting and killing, but he doesn't know what peasants are like. If they really run away, they can always come back. But you two armored soldiers are different. You're the ones who will be holding the line. Anyone who dares to run away will be caught and hanged, even if you win the battle!"

Martin and the armored soldier turned pale. After that, they couldn't listen to any of the questions LeBron asked, and they couldn't sleep all night thinking about it.

After camping there for a few more days, gathering about five or six hundred men, the army finally set off. Martin and his men spent their days marching, setting up camp, training, and keeping watch. They hadn't seen the enemy once in a week, and their daily lives were almost like farm work. Martin, having become familiar with the town mayor, managed to keep the group well-organized, even though Adam didn't manage things much. Sometimes they would ask where they were going, but Adam always remained silent, and they could only guess that they were probably heading northwest. The army only stopped advancing after they met up with another five or six hundred men.

Martin was preparing dinner when Sergeant Adam walked in, counted the heads, and handed Martin a package: "The fighting starts tomorrow, and we'll all be going to the front lines. There's no need for sentries tonight. I've distributed some salted meat and cheese here; take some too. We need to assemble at dawn tomorrow, so start cooking early."

The tent was silent at first, then erupted into a cacophony of questions. Everyone surrounded Adam, bombarding him with questions. Adam, finally losing his patience, pointed at Martin: "You answer, I'll answer. Everyone else shut up!"

Everyone had no choice but to shut up and stare longingly at Martin.

Martin thought for a moment and asked, "Sir, who's on the other side? Where have we been assigned? What are we supposed to do?"

Adam replied, "The British are on the other side, of course. The three of us armored men will go in the first line, and the infantry in the second. LeBlanc will follow the other crossbowmen. As for what we'll do, it'll be nothing more than poking at the British horses and smashing their heads. Let me just say this: the military police are all noblemen; anyone who deserts will be hanged! When the officers tell you what to do, just do it."

Seeing that Martin wanted to ask something more, Adam didn't want to answer anymore and fled in panic.

The group dared not approach Adam again, and instead turned to LeBron, the only one who had ever been to the battlefield. But he kept repeating the same few phrases: "Follow orders, don't be afraid," which only made the group more and more anxious.

Martin listened for a while, then clapped his hands. Everyone turned to look at him.

"We're all just farmers, never been on a real battlefield, and I'm just as scared as you are. But I can't escape; my name is on the nobleman's radar, so you'd better not even think about it. Since we all live relatively close by, let's each leave something for the groom. He doesn't have to go to the battlefield, and even if he loses, he can still bring something back, or at least pass on a message. If anyone dies, the survivors should take his pay and belongings back with them. What do you all think?"

The crowd echoed their agreement, and then gathered around the groom who only had a mule.

Martin couldn't think of anything to say, so he simply handed over the money bag containing a few copper coins.

As Martin slept, he heard someone crying secretly in the tent. But he kept thinking about the tall knight who had charged towards him from the bridge.

The next morning, everyone finished breakfast early and began putting on their armor. Martin looked at his suit of armor—aside from wearing his chainmail a few times while on guard duty, the rest had been carefully wrapped in sheepskin and never taken out. With LeBron's help, Martin began to slowly put the armor on, unaware that the armored fellow countryman next to him was staring wide-eyed.

He even ran over and touched it, only feeling somewhat relieved when he saw the messy patched-up hole. LeBron laughed when he saw this, but Martin just kept thinking about the lance he used to charge at the bridgehead, and started sweating after putting on his armor.

They had just finished putting on their armor when bugles began to sound outside. They hurriedly lined up in front of the tent according to training protocol. After three bugle calls, the officer—Martin now knew this was their lieutenant company commander—began inspecting the troops one by one with the flag bearer. Reaching Martin, he suddenly stopped, looked him up and down, and asked, "Where did you get this armor?"

Martin, sweating profusely with nervousness, replied in a trembling voice, "It was bestowed upon me by Marshal Attil... as a reward for my time in La Freche..."

The lieutenant glanced around a few more times, then chuckled, "I remember you, but I didn't expect the Marshal to be so generous. With such fine armor, you'll stand in the front row today. Don't embarrass the Marshal!"

The lieutenant continued inspecting the troops, oblivious to Martin's pale face. Adam, however, slapped him hard on the shoulder, laughing and scolding, "Good lad, you've been hiding it well! I've been on the battlefield for decades and never worn a suit of plate armor like yours. Go to the front line and kill a few more British pigs!"

Martin couldn't answer, and was silently assigned to the right flank of the first line, already lined up at the camp gate. Each person was given a wooden shield, to cover their upper body as much as possible, but several threw the shields back. Moreover, most of them didn't carry spears like Martin, but rather halberds or long axes. However, most of them, like Martin, did have a hammer hanging from their waists.

They lined up and advanced slowly under the command of another officer, while their company commander led the cavalry in another direction. The line was rather long, filling the clearing between the woods and the creek. The first line was thin, consisting of only four ranks. Martin could not see the infantry behind them at all.

The officer rode his horse through the ranks, shouting, "Stand shoulder to shoulder! Not a single apple can fit in! The closer you are, the safer you are! Leave the creek exposed, line up on the outside!"

A short while later, people from another camp arrived, but instead of many infantry, they brought a large number of crossbowmen. These crossbowmen were positioned in front of them, in groups of several, leaving large gaps between them. Only when he saw the huge shields stuck in the ground did Martin feel somewhat at ease.

As the sun climbed high overhead, sweat beaded on Martin's forehead. After the officers whipped several deserters, the English arrived. At first, there were dozens of dark figures, then a neat black wall stretched out from the north. The men stopped at a distance, and scattered archers burst from the lines, carrying stakes and planting them in front of the lines.

The stakes were sparsely planted, but the number of archers increased, gradually forming an iron curtain from the black dots. There was no declaration of war, no messengers, and no bugle call; Martin was not prepared at all when a dark rain of arrows pelted down upon him. The officer shouted, "Raise your shields! Hold your ground!"

Martin crouched low, shield raised above his head. Most of the arrows struck the large shield in front of him, with only two or three landing beside him. One arrow clattered against his leg guard, startling him but not really making a sound.

The volleys continued for several rounds. The opposing side seemed dissatisfied with the results and began maintaining a series of volleys while their armored soldiers advanced. The French crossbowmen also began to return fire. Martin had never seen this firing method before—three men in a group, one holding a shield and cocking the crossbow, another crouching behind and cocking it, while only one person peeked out to fire continuously. Each group's crossbow bolts were fired in rapid succession. But some were unlucky; they were struck in the eye socket the moment they peeked out, the shaft penetrating deep, dying before they could even scream. Martin's heart pounded.

The iron wall opposite was closing in. The officer gave an order that made Martin's heart stop:

"Crossbowmen, cease fire! Move behind the infantry! First wave, prepare for battle!"

Martin's legs felt like lead. Seeing the crossbowmen abandon their shields and retreat, he tried to retreat too, but those behind him held him back. He could only press closer and closer to those beside him, seeking a nonexistent sense of security. Arrows clattered against the nearby armor. Several unfortunate retreaters were struck by arrows and fell to the ground, howling in agony.

No one had time to pay them any attention, because the British armored soldiers had already pressed forward. They were becoming somewhat scattered as they tried to break through the shield formation, but everyone held their weapons high, their blades gleaming coldly. Martin copied the soldiers beside him, raising his spear high and forming the same line. The armored soldiers on the opposite side hesitated for a moment, then were forced forward by roars Martin couldn't understand. Men from both sides tried to strike each other's weapons. Martin suddenly felt that the two sides were more like a group of farmers threshing grain than fully armed warriors.

"Forward!"

Someone on the other side started yelling, but Martin couldn't understand a word. He only saw the other person roaring and charging towards him. Martin was so frightened that he involuntarily retreated, but was blocked by the person behind him. It wasn't until someone on the other side was in front of him and swung a halberd at his shoulder that he reacted and stabbed the person in the abdomen with his spear.

Martin suddenly stopped being afraid. He just gripped his spear tightly and pushed forward, not even looking at the halberd that was already coming at him. But his opponent clearly held back, turning his body slightly and using the halberd shaft to deflect Martin's spear, while the blow landed squarely on his left shoulder.

Ouch! But it's not broken, and it doesn't seem to be bleeding? Martin watched in surprise as the halberd slid across his smooth shoulder armor. But this thought didn't affect his actions. He dropped the spear, drew a hammer from his waist with his right hand, stepped forward, and smashed it down hard on the man.

The hammer blow missed again. His opponent released his halberd earlier, dodged the blow by sidestepping, and then drew an axe from his waist, slamming it into Martin's chest.

The impact was much smaller than Martin had anticipated, not even as noticeable as the pain in his shoulder. It didn't even hinder Martin's movements; this time, he didn't miss, smashing the hammer into the man's shin. The man screamed and fell to his knees, but still desperately swung the axe in retaliation. Martin stopped looking at the axe, and instead struck the man's chest with another blow. The man coughed up blood, which seeped from the gap in his helmet. Martin didn't stop, hammering down again and again until the man was completely still.

Before he could catch his breath, Martin saw someone swinging a long axe at him. Martin mimicked the man's movement, turning around as the axe slammed heavily to the ground. Martin nearly fell, but luckily his teammate deflected the attacker with a halberd. Martin swayed, regained his balance, grabbed a spear from the ground (whose hand it was), and began wildly stabbing at the man.

Just as Martin thought he was going to be worked to death, his own officers suddenly started shouting, "Clear the creek! Clear the creek! Don't go in!" Martin and the men around him were a little surprised and looked at the creek, only to find that several squads of armored British soldiers had somehow crept across from the creek and were about to attack them from both sides.

But then a familiar tremor came. He would never forget that sound in his life—he looked back and sure enough, a cavalry unit was slowly emerging from the slope behind him, carrying that familiar banner, and advancing faster and faster, finally crashing straight into the scattered group of armored soldiers along the creek.

Martin heard the familiar cracking sound and screams, but he didn't look any further. He turned and roared, raising his spear and thrusting it at the equally stunned English soldiers opposite him. Only after he had killed another man did he realize that there were no more Englishmen in front of him.

The Englishmen retreated, or rather, fled. Martin took two steps forward to give chase, but his strength suddenly vanished. He stood there, leaning on his spear, panting heavily, his whole body—especially his left shoulder—was wracked with excruciating pain that contorted his face.

Immediately afterward, a volley of arrows swept away several French infantrymen who had been sent in pursuit from the flank. Martin quickly grabbed a shield from the ground and crouched down, watching the English armored soldiers retreat into the stakes, slowly withdrawing along with the archers. The cavalry in the ditch on the right did not pursue either, seemingly as if they too were being blocked.

Cheers only broke out after the British had retreated further and further away. Martin, as if all his strength had been drained, collapsed to the ground—but that wasn't shameful; most of the men around him were in the same state. Cavalrymen slowly passed by them. An officer, leading a few men, came to them; it was their lieutenant, who, like Martin, was half-covered in blood.

The lieutenant scanned the entire formation, then looked in their direction. Martin, unsure who he was looking at, nervously struggled to his feet, gripping his spear for support.

"Well done, Laflesh's armored men. Adam has been complaining about wanting to go back, so from now on you'll lead that pikeman unit. Report directly to me. You're a sergeant now, and your daily wage is ten sous."

Before Martin could reply, the lieutenant had already gone to inspect other areas.

If the villagers knew I could earn a gold coin in four days, they'd probably all be scrambling to come here, wouldn't they? Martin was surprised to find that this was the only thought in his mind right now.