7I'm freezing cold and soaking wet. The sun has risen, but is impossible to see through this icy mist surrounding me, clinging to me like a cloak in a thunderstorm. I have been awake for hours, and ate little, my rations depleted severely since I left home weeks ago. At least there is plenty of water to be found in this god-forsaken land.
My name is Owen Slater, from Preston in Lancashire, fighting for the English King against the Celtic scum in Scotland. I don't know where we are, and even if I had been told the names of the towns we passed on our long march, they would have meant nothing to me. Once we had traveled through Carlisle, my knowledge of the land ahead became non-existent.
I am standing in some swamp of a field with my pals, waiting for the word to attack. There is a stream nearby, and woodland surrounding our end of the field. I think everyone is as nervous as I am, but although we are due to fight today, we know it can't be until the mist rises. So we chat together to penetrate the silence of the morning. I don't think I have even heard a bird sing, though I don't see why the pretty songbirds would be hanging around here. I reckon the carrion-eaters are slowly taking up positions ready to observe their feast being laid out in front of them.
We have all been trained in the use of our weapons, weapons that we have practiced with all our lives. I use a long broad sword that takes the use of both of my hands to wield, but that is because I grew up strong in the shoulders and arms. I could have used bow and arrow, I certainly have the strength, but despite daily tutoring and practice, my aim leaves a great deal to be desired.
Our commanders haven't spoken to us, they know that we know how to fight. They just need to get us in the right position and we will do the business. We stand ready now, as we have been since before dawn. There are rows of pike men in front of me, first protection from a cavalry charge. I am standing behind them ready with my heavy sword to do the most damage possible to anyone coming off a horse. There are more around me with the same weapon, but there are some with smaller swords, more able to move easily in the confined space, or chase after anyone fleeing. Once the horses are dealt with we will advance. Behind us is a group of archers, dozens of them, just waiting for anyone to come in range before they unleash a deadly volley of arrows. Behind the archers is the King, surrounded by his generals. Safe. Right at the back, there are reserves, hidden away. Even further beyond, miles away, is the remnants of our camp, where some of us will eat our next meal, many hours from now.
The mist is thinning now, and above the trees to the east, near the stream, the pale sun is becoming visible.
A hush descends and we all strain our eyes and ears to get the first sign of an attack starting from the Scots. They are on the higher ground, so we are expecting a charge from their cavalry first.
We don't have to wait long. Over the brow of the hill we first hear the suggestion of a rumble of thunder in the distance. But it doesn't stop. The rolling in the distance gets louder and louder, until suddenly I can see many tens, hundreds of horses, all running towards me as fast as they can, urged on by their riders. I was expecting the glint of armour in the morning sun, but as the horde approaches I can see ragged clothes and bare skin, some of it painted blue or green. Although I am very frightened now, it is quite a relief to know that I won't have to work as hard to get my sword to strike home, no need to squash metal arm guards or helmets to splinter bone and break limbs. We hear behind us the shouted order to the archers and the unleashing of arrows. Above us a cloud dives towards the on- coming mass, blanketing the field, to hit as many targets as possible. Some riders fall, the horses continue almost unflinching.
The attack is almost upon us now, getting ready to stampede though our ranks. At the last moment the pike men lift their long straight spears from the ground with a shout. The first horses rear up and throw their riders. They avoid impalement, but the horses behind can't stop and continue on their path, trampling horse and rider alike, before falling to the ground. Some have necks, chests or bellies pierced. Already there is a fearsome noise filling the air, the screams of dying horses, the shrieks of injured riders. For a moment I feel relief, we have succeeded in repelling the first advance. Close behind though, there is a second wave that simply rides over the bodies of the fallen, jumping through gaps in our pike wall where our dead or injured soldiers haven't been replaced.
There is now only a tiny distance of a couple of yards between me and my foes, but I can not wield my weapon. My comrades are closely packed around me, preventing any movement. We have to advance on our attackers to give ourselves some room. Quickly those nearest the oncoming attack are cut down or move into spaces, I am soon ready to fight, with death already around me and screams ringing in my ears.
I see a fallen horse, his rider getting up, moving slowly, groggily. He is my first victim. He sees me move towards him, and looks up through long brown, disheveled hair. I see his terrified eyes as he realizes that he cannot defend himself. He is about seventeen, but I have to take my chance, and screaming insanely, swing my sharp blade into his neck. It gets about halfway through before stopping with a crunch at his spine. Blood from the artery gushes from the new, clean, deep wound. He falls instantly and slides from my sword, landing on the legs of his fallen horse.
I feel a sense of joy at my first conquest, but instantly look round, seeking to know whether to defend myself or to attack. No one is approaching me, so I jump over a horse's neck and a broken pike and approach the front line. I can see pairs of soldiers fighting each other, part of a macabre dance. When an Englishman falls I rush to take his place to exact instant revenge on his killer. As I rush towards him I swing my sword through an arc, downwards towards the top of his head, smashing his skull with the weight of the metal. He falls instantly. Then the man behind him takes up his position and I lose my advantage. We are fighting at close quarters, and all I can do is parry the blows from his short sword. My sword is getting its edge blunted and I need to finish this quickly if I am to remain a competent fighting force. I will die early today with a blunt sword. More blows will be needed to finish off my opponents and I will become tired, vulnerable to attacks during a prolonged battle. To my right a fight ends with a Scotsman falling to the ground clutching a hole in his chest. This gives me enough room for a second to launch an attack of my own, swinging my sword low into his side. He instantly drops his sword and screams with the pain. His eyes plead with me. Falling to his knees, he grabs at the wound, trying to prevent his innards from slipping out of his body. I don't waste my energy finishing him off. He is a spent fighting force and I must stay fresh for as long as possible. I move past his prostrate body and look for another target.
There is an English soldier nearby who is struggling. He is fighting a losing battle, his right arm, his sword arm, is bleeding heavily and he is trying to fend off attacks by using the sword held in his weaker left hand. I disable his attacker by bringing my sword round heavily on the back of the Scot's legs, just above the knees. His legs broken, he pitches forward into the ground, where a left-handed stab penetrates his heart, killing him instantly.
I have the chance now for a rest, escorting the injured man to the rear of the battlefield where he may be moved on to receive medical attention. Despite the cold I am sweating heavily and am glad of the opportunity to wipe myself down, refresh myself and get ready to rejoin the battle.