Earning the Love of a Princess-Chapter 148: Sacrifice
14 April, 1360. East of the River Caine, Northern Islia
William sat on a flat grey rock near the riverbank, his blood splattered helmet at his side as he surveyed the scene in front of him with bleak eyes.
For the first time in decades, the Royal Army of Islia had been routed by Moraigth. He could scarcely believe it.
All around him, William could see dozens and dozens of his men, some injured, some simply dazed with the shock of what had just happened.
It was almost impossible to understand.
Undiscovered by King Edward’s spies, King Kenneth had engaged hordes of barbarian warriors from Moraigth’s wild northernmost regions to join his army and help fight the Islians. The barbarian tribes held the misguided belief that to die in battle would bring a man eternal glory in the afterlife, no matter how debauched or godless his life had been before that.
These pagan men, more animal than man in nature, had launched themselves at King Edward’s forces with astonishing force, happy to provide the ultimate sacrifice. They had surged forward, fighting on and on with reckless abandon, until they had at last driven through the middle of the Islian forces and split them in two. Countless barbarians were slaughtered in the process but that would’ve been no great loss to Kenneth. He would’ve rejoiced at achieving his aim - to scatter and separate his opponent’s forces.
The Islians had fought back hard, but their forces were still weakened by the vicious waves of fever that had swept though their ranks over the last couple of weeks. Wracked with fever himself, William had struggled to find the strength to even mount his warhorse. But he knew if the men under his command had seen him falter, their morale would have plummeted. So he had clenched his jaw and driven himself forward into the battle lines.
It had been a brutal, bone crushing clash. There was something unsettling, almost unnatural in battling an enemy who had no regard or instinct to protect their own lives. The pagans had thrown themselves into the fray with such wild passion that William had asked himself if they were possessed.
He had never been amongst such frenzied violence. Surely even hell had to be less ghastly than what had surrounded him that day. It felt like he had fought desperately for hours on end, feeling the blood roar in his throbbing, feverish head.
William had only narrowly avoided losing his own life during two separate strikes. As it was, he had a jagged stab wound near his left shoulder that burned, but things could’ve been far worse.
When the noise and carnage had ceased after an eternity and the Moraigthian side had finally retreated, only then could William and the other commanders truly assess the damage inflicted.
It was horrifying. And humbling.
Even King Edward’s face, usually so steely, had trembled with shock.
The injured men had been carried into a haphazardly erected tent which would serve as an infirmary. The clerics who had accompanied the Islian army did their best to treat them with poultices and herbs but it was clear that many men wouldn’t survive to see another dawn. Stepping into the tent, William had seen the most appalling of injuries. Death would be a mercy to many of those poor soldiers.
Inside the tent, William had found Leo, whose face had been dripping blood at an alarming rate. It was only after one of the clerics had managed to wipe his face somewhat that a deep gash was revealed running from Leo’s right ear to nearly the corner of his mouth. It would need stitching closed immediately. William had clapped his cousin on the shoulder briefly and trudged out of the tent, unable to stand the stench of blood and imminent death any longer.
Most of the dead remained where they lay on the battlefield as the possibility of burying so many men was impossible. Some of the bodies had been dragged and pushed into the river, to try and minimise the risk of illness spreading once they started to rot in the warm, humid spring air. Unable to issue prayers over the body of each dead man, the clerics had hastily issued prayers to cover entire groups, requesting peace and mercy for the souls of so many.
William had been saddened to hear the names of some of the fallen men. Several knights under his own command, as well as under Prince Thomas’s. A young squire that was very friendly with Robin Sainsbury. Even the eldest son of the Marquis of Niarnol had been slain.
But it wasn’t until he’d heard Richard’s name listed among the dead, that the shock of it almost made him drop to his knees. He had refused to believe it until Richard’s bloodied surcoat had been brought before him. With eyes that stung, William had stared at the emblem of the House of Rhie, the black snake wrapped around the golden sheaves of wheat. The surcoat itself looked like it had been shredded by wild beasts.
Ignoring the voice in his head that had told him to treat Richard’s death as if it were that of any other man, William had ordered Richard’s body to be carried into the tent and laid in a corner, instead of just being left behind to rot on the river’s edge.
Now, after taking a moment to compose himself, William stepped back into the shadowy tent, following the young soldier who knew where the body had been placed. He tried to close his ears to the cries and groans of the wounded, fearing they might drive him to madness.
When they reached a far corner of the tent, the soldier quietly departed, sensing his presence would be an unwanted intrusion. William looked down. He’d seen many dead bodies in his twenty years of life, including his father’s. None hit him as hard as this one.
Richard’s corpse lay on the dirt floor of the makeshift tent, his burly frame which had always twitched with energy and brute strength, now utterly still. He had been clumsily wrapped in another soldier’s tunic, presumably to hide his injuries. The tunic was drenched in blood and the dead man’s eyes were frozen open in shock.
Death had obviously come as a surprise to him.
William felt himself shaking as he continued to stare at his old friend’s pallid, blood speckled face. Different emotions battled for dominance within him - sorrow, disbelief, anger, regret. "Goddamnit, Rich. It wasn’t supposed to be this way." he gritted out as he reached out and closed his disloyal brother’s eyes with an unsteady hand.
It hit William like a boulder on his chest that the two of them would never reconcile. He didn’t think he would’ve ever been able to forgive Richard for all that he’d said and done. But now, the possibility, no matter how small, was gone forever. That knowledge hurt more than he had expected.
William swallowed down the lump in his throat and said his final choked goodbye, before calling instructions to several soldiers in his battalion for Richard’s body to be taken to the nearby Eberelle Monastery for burial. William would give his former friend as close to a nobleman’s funeral as was possible under the circumstances. He would also pay for masses to be said by the monks for Richard’s soul.
The poor bastard would need all the help he could get to avoid the gates of hell, the told himself dourly.
- - -
The afternoon she heard of Richard’s death, Camilla sat down at William’s desk in their bedchamber and scribbled another note to him, this time letting him know she’d heard the news and how sorry she was for him in losing a lifelong friend.
She knew that despite almost a year having passed without a single bit of contact between the two men, their estrangement was a wound that had never quite healed in William’s soul. No matter how much William swore that he’d never utter another word to his former brother, Camilla knew that deep down, Richard’s passing would hit him hard.
She picked her words carefully as both of them knew she wouldn’t grieve the death even a little. She scrawled that she hoped William could eventually find a measure of peace, despite the loss.
Camilla wrote very little about herself except to briefly mention to William that she was well. She had already written to her husband twice before to tell him about the baby. He must already know so there was no point raising the matter a third time, especially when he would likely be in shock over Richard’s death.
Camilla rushed to the ground floor of the palace, parchment clutched tightly in her hand. She was determined to find the messenger that had arrived from the battlefield late the previous evening, knowing he’d likely be returning north within a day or so. He was her safest bet for getting her letter to William.
