17Part One: The Hero's Exile
CHAPTER ONE
The screams of dying men and the sound of clashing steel filled the ears of Sir Joseph, Duke of Sussex. From atop his warhorse, he could see the chaos of the battle all around him.
The glorious emblems of England and Saint George could be seen emblazoned upon the king's battle standard. The king himself, King Charles the Fifth of England, who was also Joseph's cousin and greatest friend, was skillfully vanquishing French infantrymen left and right.
Wiping his sweat-and-blood-streaked brow with the soft strip of leather on the back of his gauntlet, Sir Joseph replaced his silver helm upon his head and rejoined the fray before him. His job was to protect the king, and even though King Charles was young, quick on his steed, and deadly with any weapon he could handle, he was still mortal.
Plus, his armor had taken a real beating, and could prove useless at any moment.
Urging his horse forward, Joseph cut down every Frenchman in his path as gracefully and as swiftly as a falcon capturing its prey in mid-flight.
He deftly separated the head from the body of an offending French knight with a clean horizontal sweep of his sword. He then stabbed through the chest a soldier who had foolishly hoped to attack Charles from behind, as a coward would normally attempt to attack his enemy.
"Many thanks, cousin," panted Charles.
"You are most welcome, as always," replied Joseph.
They were now side-by-side and facing in opposite directions, literally protecting each other's rear end.
"Has the swine commanding these French rats yet made himself known?" inquired Charles.
"Nay," replied Joseph, as he punched a French foot soldier full in the jaw. "He has not. But considering their losses as of yet, his presence may be expected soon, I believe."
"That is good news," replied Charles, as he polished off the Frenchman that Joseph had punched. "My bones are tired and my mind is weary. It will be a great relief to finally end this battle."
It was true. For the past three days, the French had put up a better fight than either Charles or Joseph had expected.
Atop a nearby hill, something glinting in the sun caught Joseph's gaze. He nudged Charles on the arm and pointed.
"I see him too," said Charles. He smiled. "You were right, Joseph."
"Shall you, or shall I?"
"You go," ordered Charles. "I can still fight for a while."
"How long can you hold them?"
"Long enough."
"But if you cannot?"
"Now what kind of support is that, cousin?" joked Charles. "Now go. Bring glory to England and to all of its people."
Joseph nodded and galloped away towards the figure. The lone horseman turned and fled down the other side of the hill. Joseph grinned excitedly. He always loved a good horse chase.
Joseph dug his heels into Mercury's (as that was his steed's name) sides, and Mercury seemed to fly across the terrain as though he himself was the winged god-messenger of old Roman myth.
The gap between the two horsemen closed quickly. As he came up on his opponent's left side, Joseph stood up in Mercury's saddle. Almost on cue, Mercury jerked to the right, almost catapulting Joseph a few extra inches further as Joseph jumped and tackled his adversary. Both men hit the ground, their armor crunching on the dirt and gravel as they landed.
Both men were on their feet in an instant, each holding their naked swords in their hands.
"Impressive…" said the French commander.
"Thank you," Joseph replied, with a curt nod.
Neither of the two men spoke, or even moved, for a few long moments. Finally, the Frenchman broke the silence.
"I admire your skill on a horse. I had hardly expected you to leap with such accuracy."
"I believe, sir, that you will find that I am quite full of surprises on the battlefield."
"Indeed?" asked the Frenchman, with a frown.
Joseph saw the French commander's sword arm alter its position ever so slightly. Joseph breathed deeply.
My sword is a part of me. It is an extension of my arm. I fear no attack.
"Tell me, sir," said Joseph. "What is your name?"
"I am Jean-Pierre, LeViscompte de Bordeaux."
Joseph raised his sword, ready to attack if necessary.
"I am afraid, sir, that I must ask you to surrender."
"And if I decide against it?" asked the Viscompte.
"Then you forfeit your life. It is your choice entirely."
The Viscompte hesitated for a moment, as if appraising Joseph's sword.
"Very well," he said at last. He handed his sword to Joseph. "You win."