The Crown of the Hundred Years' War

Chapter 42 The Escaped Knight

As the sun began to set, the defeated troops staggered forward through the dust. Fastov, mounted on his horse, glanced back at his sparse men behind him, then at the dust raised by the French cavalry in the distance, and gritted his teeth.

"Pass down the order," he said to his adjutant, "abandon all baggage. Have everyone mount their horses and travel light and fast. We're still moving too slowly."

The adjutant was taken aback: "Sir, even if we abandon the baggage train, we won't have enough horses—"

"Two men and one horse," Fastov interrupted him. "Bring as many people as you can. You ride with me. Tell the others that once we reach Jeanville, there will be fortifications and a way to survive."

The order was given, and a commotion arose in the ranks. Many were reluctant to leave their packs behind, only to have them kicked over by the officers; others scrambled to remove their armor, hoisting themselves onto other horses, two to a horse. Supply wagons were pushed to the side of the road, grain sacks, quivers, and tent cloths strewn about. Fastov resisted looking back, spurred his horse, and, together with his adjutant, led the way in a northeastern direction.

Just before sunset, they finally saw the walls of Jenville. Fastov reined in his horse and let out a long sigh of relief. They had run fifteen miles that afternoon, in one go, the horses foaming at the mouth and the soldiers staggering, but they had finally arrived.

But the scene at the city gate made his heart sink.

Two hundred or so men stood in a dark mass beneath the city walls, all British soldiers—most in civilian clothes, some even shirtless. Several flags were planted askew in the ground, and despite the large number of men, not a single suit of armor was visible. The leading officer had bruises all over his face, and blood was still seeping from his nose—Fastov recognized him; he was the garrison commander of Jenville.

Fastov dismounted and strode over, his voice low but filled with anger: "What's going on? Why are you all outside the city? Who's guarding it?"

The bruised and battered officer saluted with a pained expression: "Sir, the city... has rebelled. The French residents heard that we were defeated at Paty and rioted on the spot. A group of militiamen led the charge, seized the city gates, and even occupied the armory while we were resting. Now, the walls are... all French."

Fastov looked up and saw that the flags fluttering on the city walls had indeed turned into irises. His heart sank to the bottom. Jeanville was the most important British supply base south of Paris; further north, there were only a few transshipment warehouses.

"Did you bring any supplies? You don't even have a horse?" he asked.

"Those beasts came too quickly," the officer said, somewhat aggrieved. "There were only ten men on duty on the city wall, and they wouldn't even return our armor. We even took the flag with us when we left the city. Sir, what do you think we should do? There are only a few hundred rioters. Should we fight them back?"

Fastov was silent for a moment, then turned to look at his men. The soldiers were slumped over by the roadside, many even asleep on their horses, clinging to their necks. Looking at the double-layered walls of Verna, which he had personally repaired, teeming with militia and turrets studded with torches, he truly didn't know how to take this fortified city.

He gritted his teeth and said to his adjutant, "Pass the word: we're not going into the city. We'll bypass Jeanville and continue northwest."

The adjutant hesitated for a moment: "Sir, it's getting dark, and the men are really too tired to walk any further—"

"We have to go, even if we can't walk." Fastov mounted his horse and lowered his voice. "Dinois's army is nearby; those militiamen must have informed him. Staying here is just waiting to die."

The column began to move again at the officer's whip. The British troops bypassed Jeanville and slowly advanced northwest along the country lanes. Night fell, but they couldn't even gather a few torches, and were unable to rely on the stars or moon for guidance. No one wanted to speak; only the dull thud of horses' hooves on the muddy road and the suppressed breathing of the soldiers filled the air.

But it was clear that the militia in Jeanville weren't the only ones well-informed. The news spread like wildfire across the Bois plain between Paris and Orléans.

When they arrived at Montpellier, they found that the garrison had set fire to their own stronghold, and the garrison further north in Saint-Sigismund had also abandoned the city and fled. Everyone was rushing towards Paris. Nearby deserters, garrison troops, and supply trains mingled on this main road to Paris, indistinguishable from one another. Fastov's troops were like a melting block of ice, dwindling in number.

By the early hours of the next day, the exhausted remnants finally saw the walls of Etamp through a hazy morning mist. A neatly arranged column stood at the city gate—bearing the banners of the Duke of Bedford himself.

Fastov reined in his horse, looking at the neatly dressed soldiers and the torches they held, and suddenly felt a lump in his throat. He turned to his adjutant behind him and said, "We've arrived. Take a headcount and see how many are left."

The adjutant dismounted, ran around, and returned, his face ashen: "Sir, including the wounded and those who could walk, there are less than two thousand. This is all the people evacuated from the Royal River region."

Fastov nodded and said nothing more.

After a short rest, he went alone to Colby, led by several officers, where the Duke of Bedford was waiting for him.

Bedford sat in a small hall, a map spread out in front of him. He looked up and watched as Fastov, looking exhausted, walked in, and sighed.

Fastov knelt on one knee, his voice low and menacing: "Your Highness, I only brought back two thousand men. Talbot appears to have been captured by the French, who have already occupied Jeanville. What should we do next?"

Bedford was silent for a moment, then stood up, helped him up, and patted him on the shoulder: "Sit down first, eat something, and tell me what you think?"

Fastov sat in his chair, took the food offered by the servant, but placed it on the table without touching it. He lowered his head and said, "My lord, the most urgent task now is to consolidate our forces. The strongholds north of Rangville have been abandoned by the terrified garrison. We must withdraw all our troops here and concentrate our defense on the south of Paris. If we disperse any further, even Paris will fall. I am willing to garrison Colby to buy time for reinforcements."

Bedford nodded. "Your judgment is correct. I will order the defensive line to be pulled back." He paused for a moment, his tone becoming heavier. "But, Fastov, you cannot stay here."

Fastov looked up, stunned.

Bedford walked to the window, his back to him, and spoke in a low voice, as if to himself: "The situation on the front has been spread throughout Paris by deserters. Now all of Paris believes that you led the escape and abandoned Talbot. There are even eyewitnesses who saw you order the shooting of your own men—whatever the truth, Parisians have already decided that you are the culprit behind this disastrous defeat."

Fastov opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Those people in the council,” Bedford turned around, a weary anger in his eyes, “say you ‘lost the war in one afternoon.’ They’ve stripped you of your Order of the Garter and are organizing an inquisition to investigate your actions.”

Fastov gripped the armrests of the chair tightly, his knuckles turning white.

Bedford walked over, placed his hand on his shoulder, and softened his tone: "You did a great job. Without your two thousand men, I really don't know how we could have continued to hold Paris. This failure was more my fault. I should have abandoned the siege of Orléans after Salisbury's death; I underestimated the situation and the strength of my own army. It's unfair to let you bear this mistake alone."

Fastov looked up and met Bedford's eyes.

"But you must leave Paris," Bedford said. "The Parisians hate you now, and they won't give you a fair outcome. You must go to Rouen, be investigated there, explain yourself, and once things have calmed down, I will restore your reputation."

Fastov remained silent for a long time before finally standing up and bowing: "Yes, sir."

He stepped out of the hall. The sky was overcast, and a chilly wind blew from the north. Several attendants were waiting for him at the door with their horses. Just as he was about to mount his horse, a commotion suddenly arose from the roadside.

Several men who looked like merchants from Paris stood by the roadside, pointing their fingers at him and shouting, "Is this the man? This is Fastov?"

"Who else could it be? The Knight of Desperation! The Knight of Desperation who runs faster than a rabbit!"

Fastov paused on the reins. He didn't turn around, but remained on his horse, his back ramrod straight.

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The capture of the Earl of Talbot as the second high-ranking officer after Suffolk was of great significance – it marked our complete victory in the Battle of the Loire Valley and the defeat of the main British force.

His Majesty summoned Talbot with great interest, and I, as his attendant, witnessed this.

Talbot was arrogant, but at least he wasn't impolite; he didn't address His Majesty as the false king, but instead bowed formally. When discussing his capture, he insisted it was due to Fastov's betrayal and vowed revenge.

His Majesty neither confirmed nor denied this, but it did not affect his subsequent decisions. The day after the Battle of Pati, the court decided to move to Ri'an—continuing northward.

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Charles VII [France] Jean-Jacques de Uyssen