Chapter 23
The Pretender in the Field
Liguria
February 1524
The sun was setting, and the pavilion was almost packed to the brim when he entered. Secretaries carrying folios hurried desperately back and forth, circumventing a gaggle of gentlemen who strutted around like full plated roosters in a chicken pen.
In the centre of the tent, King Francis stood huddled over a wooden table, deep in conversation with his generals and seigneurs. As Francis rose to greet him, Christian of Holstein was struck by just how gawky the king was. A royal beanpole indeed, he thought.
Whilst he nimbly stepped around the table, Francis cooed a happy welcome, extending his arms in a theatrical embrace.
“Ah, mon cheri cousin. Please, join us. I want to formally introduce you to our gracious kinsman and very dear friend.” Standing next to the serious countenance of the Seignuer de Bayard, was a stout bearded fellow, sporting a pudgy nose, not much taller than himself and on the better side of forty. For all his martial appearances, his eyes had a haunted look, like a roe catching the hunter’s scent. In his lapel, a small white rose fashioned of nacre, sparkled in the torchlight.
“Cousin Suffolk, meet Cousin Denmark...” Francis began, before adding with ill disguised malice “... and Cousin Norway and Cousin Sweden. If Brother Emperor or this all-consuming army doesn’t bankrupt me, my aid in restoring all the crowns my friends have misplaced surely will.”
The giggle from the king’s sycophants were polite, but subdued. Such is the fate of the exile, he, Christian, mused contemplatively. To face scorn, even from those who call themselves your friends. To his credit, Richard de la Pole did not rise to the bait, but made a slight bow and a curt grunt by way of greeting.
Christian returned the courtesy, before turning to face the French king’s droopy eyes, clinging to the mountainside of an aquiline nose.
“Sire, I glory in the first pair of names, but as to the third, my cousin the pretender is welcome to it. Much good it will do him.”
De la Pole nodded, understanding. “I say, cousin, nay brother, Denmark, we are truly kinsmen, for we share the same misfortune of seeing our native land subjugated under the evil misrule of tyrants and knaves. Come the spring, we shall have brought the emperor to heel and then woe be on the scorpions poisoning our birthright.”
Annoyed, Francis flung his arms around them in an awkward embrace. “Ah, my Achilles and Patroclus, you are so eager for battle. It is
most exhilarating and I am pleased to announce that I have good news on that score. Show them, Lautrec.”
At this, Odet de Foix stepped forward and placed a scrawled map on the table, while his brother Thomas deployed coloured wooden blocks on top of it. When they were done, Bayard approached the table, his back as straight as if he were on parade.
“We are but half a day’s march from His Grace’s city of Genoa. The Spanish emperor,
the Batard de Bourbon and their pet German schismatic are apparently coming to greet us,” the seigneur said emotionlessly, whilst Lescun, gently pushed a handful of red pieces across the board.
Cool as the buttocks of a marble Madonna that one, he thought to himself.
“We expect them to arrive come morning. His majesty is pleased to give battle. A victory here will surely deliver Milan into his majesty’s hand and reopen our lines of communication with the Venetians.” Murmurs of agreement permeated through the tent. Anne de Montmorency even clapped his hands in anticipation, nudging his elbows into the ribcages of his fellow peers in the process.
Francis released his hold on him and de la Pole, and addressed the flower of France’s chivalry with voice full of anticipation, pointing at the map as he spoke.
“We shall command the
gendarmes ourselves. Montmorency and general de la Trémoille, you will have the Swiss and royal foot in the centre. Lescun and Lautrec, the light horse and artillery. The German companies, I entrust to our noble cousin, the Duke of Alençon.”
As his captains revelled in their commands, Francis turned to him and de la Pole. “It is our wish that you, Bayard and our vassal Saluzzo join our household in the melee. Your banners shall advance alongside that of France and together we shall show brother Charles what Christendom truly thinks of his imperial pretensions.” As Christian made his thanksgivings, he caught the eye of Bayard, who stood unabashed in the back, pondering the red pieces on the table with a curious look. Could it be possible that the
Knight Without Fear was worried?
King Beanpole saw nothing. Joining his commanders in applauding the advent of slaughter and mutilation, Francis loudly declared for all to hear, “Now, messieurs, prepare your stations. Tomorrow:
La Gloire!”
“La Gloire!” came the thundering response.
* * *
The morning fog floated over the field ahead, as he trotted his destrier towards the amassing gendarmes. His small entourage of Holsteiner men-at-arms fell in behind, Jürgen von Uttenhof carrying a woollen banner bearing the escutcheon of his unredeemed kingdom.
As he passed a row of tents, where grim Landsknechts were readying themselves by playing dice, Richard de la Pole joined him with his own retainers.
“Good morning to you, brother Two-Crowns!” He called out amiably.
So the White Rose was apparently in good cheer. A good quality in a man, standing on the brink of carnage. He nodded in response, already tired of the crude joke.
“Come now, don’t be coarse with me. Francis really is a kind sovereign, but tiring at times, I suppose. Besides, strictly speaking, I could argue to have misplaced a pair of crowns surpassing even yours.” He leaned in, conspiratorially, his morning breath stinking of sour wine and garlic. “After all, I could very well claim the throne of France for myself.”
He almost smiled at that. “I hope your grace doesn’t think of invading France when all of this is over?”
“God died,” one of de la Pole’s knights interjected with a savage grin, “... what Englishman doesn’t?”
The White Rose snorted and turned to grin at the man. “Indeed, Master Ludlow, but given our present situation, I think it best that we save that conversation ‘till the bastard Tudor lies dead in a ditch.”
When they reached the marshalling area, they found Francis accompanied by the King of Navarre and the Marquess of Saluzzo, surveying the slowly deploying infantry from atop a knoll of grass. In his right lobster-gauntleted hand, he carried a lacquered baton, spotted with white
fleur-de-lis. He laughed with delight when he saw them approach.
“Jesus Maria,
messieurs, Scaramella is truly off to war with you two!”
Richard fastened his helmet before replying “... with lance and buckler, your grace! Is the enemy in the field?”
The king turned his head towards the mist-covered field.
“Bayard seems to think so. The scouts have not yet returned.” Francis gestured with the baton across the squares of Swiss pikemen below them, “We believe the Marquess of Pescara is deploying his men somewhere over that ridge, preparing for an attack. As soon as we have established their position, Lautrec will scourge them with our ordnance.”
Francis reared his horse around to face them, his eyes shining bright with excitement.
“Suffolk, our dear friend, I ask that you take charge of the left flank of the
compagnies d'ordonnance. Bring cousin Denmark and Norway with you. Sangüesino will take the right, whilst I hold the centre. Wherever our banner go, I charge you to follow.”
As they both nodded in response, a messenger galloped his horse up the low hill and delivered a scrawled note to the king with a sweeping bow. Glancing over the contents of the message, the king handed it to de la Pole with a serious nod.
“Vescun reports that Pescara’s infantry are advancing shakingly, under a screen of light horse. Apparently, the Duke of Terranova is struggling to bring his artillery in position. We must exploit that and strike before they regain their formation.”
Turning to the waiting messenger, Francis quickly drew his ornate sword. “Relay our compliments to Marshal Montmorency and the Viscount Lautrec, and tell them that we ourselves will strike the first blow. Lautrec is to cover our advance immediately. When our knights break the enemy formation, Montmorency is to bring the foot in as support. The Lord is my rock, but today I must rely as much on their expedience.”
In the horizon, Christian could see the contours of a lone scout, riding through the mist. Was he friend or foe? No matter. He would now soon enough. All around him, pipes and drums began to sound the alarm. Captains roared at their men, kicking them into formation, spit and curses flying. Richard and Francis embraced affectionately, their plate armour almost caressing.
He could have sworn the king was almost crying with happiness when they rode towards the front.
* * *
The excruciating noise of thousands of armoured horses thundering down the field resonated through the padding of his burgonet. Through its slit he could see the lines of gendarmes methodically advance, their shining panoply and gilded military skirts shining in the pale Italian morning light.
Before he knew it, they had broken through the mist and slammed into a detachment of outriders. His lance snapped upon impact with a breastplated scout, the metal bending bizarrely through the dead man’s chest, where his spearpoint had pierced it. With a flurry, he drew his sword and hacked away at a rider whose horse was panicking wildly. Before he could check if the man had fallen, the tide of the French cavalry swept around them.
The ground ahead was rugged and beyond the fleeing imperials, a forest of pikes was lumbering towards them. Their approaching formation momentarily obscured by the whining impact of Lautrec’s guns as great cascades of fire and earth erupted from beneath them.
“To me! To me!” de la Pole cried out, waving his sword around. “Rally to me! Francis and Milan! Francis and Milan!” Obeying his command, the compagnie steadied itself behind The White Rose with incredible precision. Further back, the Swiss foot were advancing in support, their drums striking up a sombre march of death.
Urging his destrier onwards, Christian sped ahead of his own detachment - keeping his eyes focused on Richard’s banner of three roaring leopards. As he pulled up next to de la Pole, the two exiles exchanged grim looks. Francis was about to give the signal for a second assault, the centre compagnie already formed into a wedge.
The White Rose extended a gauntleted hand, stained with blood.
“Francis and Milan.”
“And Richard and England,” he replied as he shook it.
De la Pole smiled as he slammed his visor shut.
“Just England?”
The Englishman raised his sword in salute, his voice seeping through the air-holes.
“Brother, you are right. Let us be humble on this day of wroth. Richard and England and Christian and Denmark. Onwards!”
The main banner had come down three times, signalling the charge. As one, the heaving mass of riders and mounts set in motion, thundering towards the imperial position. He felt his destrier give way under him before he heard the loud crack of the musket volley. From behind the Spaniard line, smoke blossomed forwards and the first row of gendarmes went crashing to the ground.
Christian tumbled to his feet, staggering under the weight of the plate armour. Dumbfoundedly, he reached for his sword, only to close his fist around thin air. In a flash, Jürgen was there, handing him his own blade without a word. Around them utter chaos reigned. Bloodlust and adrenaline were pumping through his veins. The screams of the wounded, the crying of the dying, the rolling of drums and the thunder of gunfire all came to a crescendo as they launched themselves into the melee.
The battle-line was shifting back and forth as the first rows of Swiss troops began to shore up the French formations. Catching sight of an unhorsed de la Pole, he fought his way across the field, felling anyone and all who dared come before him.
Battered by the cavalry charge and pounded by the Swiss onslaught, the enemy began to buckle. Suddenly, the Marquess of Saluzzo was there, miraculously still mounted.
“Hold the line! His majesty is soon to break the centre. Bourbon is at their head! If he is taken, the enemy will surely abandon the field.”
Richard de la Pole glared at the Italian princeling, aghast.
“And the Flemings say that he who eats fire shits sparks! The line is too bloody far extended, man. Francis risks being enveloped. He must withdraw and steady the front until Montmorency can bring his full force to bear.”
Evidently equally afraid and angry, the marquess roared back, “His Majesty will not listen! He is determined to take the duke alive!”
De la Pole caught hold of a French knight, catching his breath next to them.
“Seigneur, you hold the line. Shear them but do not skin them. Once the centre is stable you let the oily bastards have it!”
They found King Francis fighting for his life. The royal banner had been almost completely ripped apart by musket fire and a heap of dead noblemen acted a macabre parapet for the beleaguered sovereign. Richard stormed into the salient, cutting off the spear-points of the German pikes poking viciously at the French troops.
He followed, more prudently, reaching the king who was bleeding from a cut over the left eye. By his side, Bayard was sporting more bandages than a whole Venetian leper colony.
“Your Majesty” de la Pole panted. “We must stabilise the line. Montmorency is bringing in his full strength. We need you to organise the deployment.”
The king stared blankly into space.
“
Sire...”
Francis shot a glance at the Seigneur de Bayard, who slowly nodded his agreement. With a sigh, the king began to move back towards the onrushing Swiss pikemen, supporting his champion, who was trailing blood as he limped along.
No sooner had the pair disappeared behind the incoming reinforcements before the whole French front-line began to buckle. Apparently, Bourbon was making a final effort to break the centre and capture his former liege. A renewed rumble of artillery fire accompanied the imperial counter-attack. Were the Spaniards attacking along the entire line? How could that be?
Richard grabbed his arm. “By the mass, I fear that Terranova’s ordnance is finally in place. What is that fool Lautrec doing?”
Almost as if to respond, a group of Spanish soldiers broke through the line. De la Pole went down under one of them, desperately stabbing his dirk into the howling Spaniard, wrestling on top of him.
Quickly, he, Christian, drove his sword through a second attacker before kicking away the corpse sprawling over The White Rose.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw a pair of gendarmes drag the unconscious Englishman away from the brawl. Suddenly, he was knocked over by some kind of forceful impact to the chest. A bloody bolt or musket ball he thought, as pain washed over his battered body.
Then he neither saw nor thought any more.
Author’s Note: This is a far longer narrative chapter than I have ever done. Consequently, I would very much like some feedback. Is it cringy or does it contribute to the development of the story?
Characters Appearing in This Chapter:
In the Service of France:
Christian III of Holstein: The exiled cousin of Christian II, claimant to the thrones of Denmark and Norway.
Francis I of France: The headstrong and martial French sovereign.
Pierre Terrail, Seignuer de Bayard: Known as The Knight Without Fear and Beyond Reproach. One of the most skilled knights in all of Christendom.
Richard de la Pole: Known as The White Rose. Self proclaimed Duke of Suffolk, true King of England and a good friend of Francis. A very capable military commander.
Odet de Foix, Viscount of Lautrec: Former premier French general in Italy and Stadtholder of Milan. Commander of the French artillery. He and his brother owe much of their royal favour to the fact that their sister, Françoise de Châteaubriant, is Francis I’s chief mistress.
Thomas de Foix, Lord of Lescun: Younger brother of Odet whom he aided during the 1521-22 campaign in Lombardy. Commander of the French light horse.
Anne de Montmorency: Marshal of France. Commander of the French infantry
Michele Antonio, Marquess of Saluzzo: The chief satrap of Francis I in Italy.
Louis II de la Trémoille: A seasoned French soldier, veteran of the Battle of Marignano. Deputy of Montmorency.
Henry II of Navarre, nicknamed Sangüesino: King of Navarre, whose Iberian domains had been definitely occupied by Habsburg troops in 1521.
In the Service of the Emperor
Charles III Duke of Bourbon: Known by Francis as the Batard de Bourbon. One of the greatest nobles of France, who defected to Charles V in early 1523.
Fernando Francesco d'Ávalos, Marquess of Pescara: Commander of the allied armies besieging Genoa.
Georg von Frundsberg: The Emperor’s “pet schismatic.” German commander of the imperial Landsknechte Fähnleins.
Antonio de Leyva, Duke of Terranova: Commander of the imperial artillery.
