Chapter 34: Night Battle in the North City

This series of shifts made the German princes acutely aware that attacking Tournai at this moment would undoubtedly be an act of suicide, a futile sacrifice of their lives. Furthermore, having yet to receive their promised compensation, what incentive did they have to participate in a battle with no hope of victory? They had no desire to gamble away their own lives and those of their men for a war that offered no promise.

However, the commander of the Tournai garrison, the Count of Foix, dared not gamble. He understood that the situation on the battlefield could change in an instant, and any oversight could lead to total disaster. Even though he knew the enemies to the south had no appetite for battle, he dared not let his guard down. Therefore, he entrusted the southern wall to the Count of Alençon, who led the weary French cavalry and a sufficient force of garrison soldiers to stand in defiance against the armies of the Netherlandish and German princes.

Between the opposing sides, the atmosphere was so heavy it seemed as though everything around them had frozen. The insects that occasionally chirped in the grass fell silent, and the entire battlefield descended into an eerie stillness, as if time itself had solidified into a massive block of ice.

Ressart and Carlo were there as well, accompanied by Carlo’s cousin, Roberto. Roberto asked, "Lord Ressart, I am a bit confused and would like to ask you a question."

Ressart replied, "Ask away."

Roberto continued, "Could we not make use of the captured Duke of Brabant? If we forced him to join the French cause, would this war not become much easier?"

Ressart answered sternly, "Roberto, that would violate the code of chivalry. The Duke of Brabant is indeed our prisoner, but we cannot force him to act against his honor. In any case, the English remain his allies for now, and we must adhere to basic moral principles."

Carlo chimed in, "Cousin, Ressart is right. I believe there is an even more critical reason: the Duke of Brabant is merely one great nobleman. The German princes did not join this war based on the whims of a few lords; rather, these Germans crave wealth and land, and their resolve would not change significantly because of one Duke of Brabant. The nobles are driven by the promises of the English King, and the soldiers by the promises of their lords, who lure them with the prospect of coin and land. In truth, even if we forced the Duke to issue orders to his troops, they would be filled with resentment and, lacking any tangible benefit, it would have little effect."

Just then, from the direction of the northern wall, the horn of the English assault sounded. In an instant, the sky there seemed to transform into an ocean of flame; countless torches and burning arrows illuminated the night, as if the fires of hell were raging upon the earth. The sounds of battle cries and screams intertwined like surging, violent waves, crashing against the ears again and again. The brutal scent of war permeated the air with growing intensity.

On the northern wall, the night battle was a living hell. Although the English army numbered roughly ten thousand in total, those 9,000 English longbowmen were undoubtedly the most terrifying force on the field. The longbowmen quickly took their positions, their movements skillful and agile. With their legs slightly apart, they stood firmly, gripping their longbows tightly and drawing the strings back to a full moon. Their eyes were focused and cold, as if the city before them were not a city at all, but prey waiting to be hunted.

"Loose! Six-minute volley!" At the command of the Earl of Huntington, the longbowmen released their fingers in perfect unison. At that moment, the taut bowstrings snapped back with a thunderous "thrum" that echoed through the night sky. Arrows whistled toward the defenders on the wall like a dense, driving rain, moving with such speed that the eye could barely follow. The fletching vibrated violently in the air, emitting a humming sound like a prelude to death. They tore through the air with a piercing, shrill shriek that chilled the soul. Nearly four million arrows cascaded onto the ramparts like a torrent in a remarkably short time, instantly shrouding the walls and towers in a veil of black mist.

The defenders were suppressed by this fierce onslaught, hardly able to lift their heads, and many perished in the first wave of the attack. The longbowmen continuously adjusted their stances, firing with rapid precision; the arrows traced beautiful yet lethal arcs through the air, wantonly reaping lives.

"Ah!" The defenders on the wall let out shrill cries of agony. Some fell as they were struck, but more quickly scrambled to fill the gaps, stubbornly resisting the assault.

Simultaneously, the massive Flemish army raised their siege ladders and rushed toward the walls like a surging tsunami. Their numbers were vast; while not the fifteen thousand claimed, their force of eighty thousand was enough to be staggering. The vast majority of them had previously been simple weavers and citizens with no combat experience whatsoever. Yet, their will to fight was exceptionally firm. Their cities’ wealth and prosperity were built upon the wool trade, and in recent years, due to the intense conflict between England and France, they had suffered under an English wool embargo, leaving many without a livelihood or fortune. Furthermore, having fought the French for years, they were filled with hatred for the French army. Organized by ambitious opportunists, most of them were fanatical in their support of the English.

Yet, their tragedy lay in the fact that, were it not for Edward III’s unreasonable pursuit of the French throne and the greed of these opportunists, they would never have needed to participate in such a war.

"We must take this city! For our families, for our future!" Van Artevelde shouted.

"Yes! We cannot let them bully us any longer!" The other soldiers responded with fervor. They worked in unison to carry the siege ladders, surging toward the wall like a tide, pressing forward without hesitation. They were not mere cannon fodder; because of their relative economic prosperity, their equipment was quite good. Some wore gambesons, others wore leather armor, and they donned metal caps or helmets, gripping swords, axes, and maces in their hands, most also carrying hide-covered wooden shields.

They carried the ladders and charged toward the walls with all their might—a spectacular scene, like an unstoppable torrent.

"Quick! Keep up! Do not be afraid!" An officer screamed his commands amidst the ranks, his voice cutting clearly through the clamor of the battlefield.

"Do not retreat! Drive them back!" The Count of Foix shouted with equal desperation. The defenders raised their shields high, struggling to fend off the incoming arrows while fiercely hurling stones and logs down upon the attackers.