Folly at Cravant Part 3

“And we will do well to stay near forested areas,” said Walter. “Not just for concealment, but also to receive protection from this blasted heat!”

“There are few forests northwest of Paris,” said Benedict climbing atop his maple-colored horse. “But, July is intended to be hot, my friend. Were it not, I would think God was playing a joke!”

“We should be thankful God controls the weather,” Walter said as he too mounted a horse. “But I still detest this heat, especially when wearing armour! Let us hurry now to Cravant!”

As Sir Walter had said, the army began their journey traveling southeast. Grassy plains were abundant, and here, the heat from the summer sun was difficult to avoid. There were moments of respite for the hot and sweaty soldiers among the sparse forests. It had been an uneventful day, but this was preferred. All the men were happy to stop that night and remove their armour, even those who had the luxury of riding on horseback had grown tired.

“Forty miles in that direction lies Paris,” said Benedict pointing northeast.

“What are you getting at?” Walter asked as he joined his friend on the hill near the quiet camp. “You suggest we march there instead and retake the French capital?”

“Reclaiming the city in Henry VI’s name would cow our French enemies,” remarked Benedict. “Would this be such a bad thing?”

“If it were possible, taking Paris might only stir the French more,” said Walter attempting to put reason into his friend’s mind. “But the nobles have given us the task of freeing the Cravant Duchy and thus aiding our Burgundian friends. To deviate from this task would be treason. You should sleep, friend. For tomorrow and the next days may not allow much rest.”

“Aye, tomorrow we march all day!” Benedict remarked as he returned to the camp.

Benedict was right indeed, for the next day they marched continually with very little relaxation. As the day dragged on the men’s only motivation was seeing that Sir Benedict’s colours had not wavered; the knight’s checkered red and yellow flag bearing a gryphon flown proudly at the army’s head. No trouble came to them on the road; not even the sound of hooves from the menacing French knights was heard.

“I wish our time here in France would always be this peaceful and undisturbed,” said Benedict. “But, alas, it will not be so these next days.”

Artwork by Sebacalka

“Look lively, men!” Walter shouted back at the tired soldiers behind him. “We are very near to our destination!”

Ahead, they could see the darkened sky had turned colour with a red hue; the siege waged on as the French brought fire down on Cravant. The English army turned north and marched parallel with the Yonne River, which lay between them and the field where the Frankish army, joined by Scottish allies, attacked the Burgundian Duchy.

“Let us make camp!” ordered Benedict. “It will be no good to attack now; we are all tired from the heat and travels.”

The men who heard this were greatly relieved and wasted no time in pitching their tents. Meanwhile, Benedict and Walter gazed across the river towards the larger French army.

“They are strong here,” said Walter turning his head left then right as he saw how many opponents they faced. “They more than double our force, even if we were strengthened by Philip of Burgundy. But no word has yet come from our ally.”

“I have no faith in Frenchmen,” said Benedict. “Even if the Burgundians claim loyalty to the English crown it is hard to trust them.”

To be continued...

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