Chapter 21: Ransom

Richard knew only to cower desperately beneath the supply wagon, never forgetting, however, to keep his sharp longsword leveled at the crooked-mouthed veteran.

The veteran steeled himself, a flash of grim resolve in his eyes, and charged out, shield in hand. He muttered under his breath:

"Richard, you cur, I’ll settle this with you later."

Seeing someone take the lead, the courage of the others was slightly ignited. They exchanged glances, then summoned their own resolve, gripping their shields tightly as they followed the veteran out. Their footsteps were chaotic and rapid.

"Charge!"
"For women and ale!"
"Kill the French!"

The battle cries were as disorganized as their formation.

As it happened, no crossbow bolts greeted them as they charged. The veteran was overjoyed and shouted:

"They must have fled! Charge, kill them all!"

A savage grin spread across Richard’s face as he followed, gloating:

"This will surely count as a victory!"

In the woods nearby, Lethaldir observed everything silently. He whispered:

"Carlo was right about everything! They really all charged out!"

His eyes hardened, and with a sudden motion, he drew his longsword, held it high, and roared:

"For France, for Flanders, for our fallen kin—charge!"

With that, Lethaldir kicked his horse’s flanks, and the steed surged forward like an arrow released from a bow. He led the charge, followed by ten cavalrymen, both light and heavy.

They moved like a surging torrent, thundering toward the enemy while the surrounding woods rustled in the breeze, leaves falling in their wake.

"Boom—" The rain intensified, the sound acting as a war drum beaten by the heavens for this conflict.

Bean-sized raindrops pelted down, blurring the vision further. The English supply team, already crazed with excitement, was so immersed in the joy of their perceived victory that they had abandoned all necessary vigilance.

Combined with the deafening environment—the rain, the stomping feet, and the shouting all blending into a chaotic sea—every subtle warning sound was drowned out.

***

Carlo watched the scene, the corners of his mouth rising uncontrollably as he felt a surge of triumph:

"These Englishmen aren't so tough after all; they’re dancing exactly to my tune."

He saw Lethaldir closing in, now less than fifty meters behind the supply train. The moment had arrived. He raised his hand sharply and shouted the order:

"Everyone, execute Plan B!"

Richard and his men were still charging like wild beasts, emboldened by the long absence of crossbow fire. Some of the more reckless ones had even tossed their shields aside, rushing forward without restraint.

Their faces were flushed with manic excitement, their footsteps frantic and uneven, voices raised in shouts as if victory were already within their grasp.

Then, the situation shifted in an instant. The sky seemed to darken as if veiled by a massive shadow.

In a heartbeat, over a hundred crossbow bolts whistled through the air like a torrential downpour. The sudden assault made the entire battlefield shudder.

The bolts cut through the air with a shrill whine, striking the enemy with lethal force. Even with a shield, it was difficult to protect one’s entire body, and a close-range hit from a Genoese crossbow was no trifle, even for armored soldiers.

Those less fortunate were struck in vital areas, dying instantly.

Given that the remaining English were mostly lightly armored, they were completely defenseless against such a violent onslaught. In an instant, over forty men fell like harvested wheat, blood spreading rapidly into the mud.

Some soldiers, pierced through, writhed in agony, letting out wretched screams. Others collapsed silently, their eyes filled with terror and despair.

The crooked-mouthed veteran at the front died the most brutally; he didn't even have time to scream before the impact of the bolts twisted his body out of shape. Life left him in a flash, and he slumped into the bloody mire, his form merging with the mud and gore.

Richard, having stayed at the very back, was miraculously unharmed. But as he witnessed the carnage, his face turned paper-white, his eyes widening in sheer terror.

He scrambled to turn around, intent on fleeing at any cost. Yet, the moment he turned, a fierce, unstoppable cavalry unit appeared like ghosts in his field of vision.

The rhythmic, thunderous sound of hooves tolled the death knell for the remaining English.

The battle ended in the blink of an eye. Fewer than twenty men remained of the English supply team, their spirits shattered by Carlo’s crossbow tactics.

These survivors, mostly light infantry, trembled in fear, their eyes reflecting hopelessness and helplessness. Facing the cavalry that had already charged upon them, they were like lambs to the slaughter, unable to offer any resistance. It was a one-sided massacre.

***

Richard was lucky; his heavy armor and habit of hiding saved him. After being knocked down in the chaos, he miraculously didn't die immediately.

He screamed in terror:

"I am a knight! A knight! I am worth a fortune, I can pay a ransom!"

Carlo approached him slowly, holding a crossbow, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips:

"Tell me, how much can you pay?"

Richard’s chest ached from the impact. He stared at the crossbow aimed at him, his eyes filled with panic. He trembled, his hand instinctively clutching his chainmail as he stammered:

"Noble lord! I can pay 100 pounds!"

Carlo maintained that inscrutable smile, continuing his slow approach as he whispered:

"Oh? Is that so?"

His tone was flat, which only made Richard more unsettled. Unable to gauge the man’s intent, Richard’s fear deepened, and he blurted out anxiously:

"Please, my lord, put that thing away! My father is Baron Morley, a favorite of King Edward—he would certainly pay 200, no, 300 pounds for me!"

Amused, Carlo turned to those beside him:

"Do you think 300 pounds is enough to ransom a baron’s son?"

Lethaldir answered earnestly:

"Carlo, 300 pounds is indeed a large sum; for a knight, it is a decent ransom."

Roberto laughed, as if he understood the game:

"Lord Carlo, I think 300 pounds is far too little for the son of a king's favorite!"

Carlo chuckled and turned back to Richard, saying meaningfully:

"My dear knight, my friends say that 300 pounds is far too little!"