PFC Chapter 2 Town
Chapter 2 Town
Atil's party was stopped as soon as they reached the town gate.
Atil raised his hand to stop the procession and looked closely. Although there was no wall, a low wooden fence still enclosed the small town. The road at the town entrance was mostly blocked by several overturned oxcarts and a pile of firewood, leaving only a narrow gap for people to pass through. Dozens of strong young men stood behind the pile of overturned oxcarts, holding spears, pitchforks, and hunting bows in their hands. Some of them were even wearing leather armor and iron helmets.
However, not all of them were nervous militiamen; at the entrance of the town, several attendants surrounded a priest standing under a large walnut tree.
The priest, accompanied by his attendants, approached. He bowed slightly and made the sign of the cross. Atil dismounted, turned his shield behind his back, and returned the salute. The priest spoke first: "May God bless you, sir, you have finally arrived. I am Father Antoine of the small parish of La Flèche, and on behalf of La Flèche, I welcome the royal army."
Atil gestured towards the militia behind him and said, "They don't seem very welcoming to us."
The priest smiled wryly and said, "My lord, please forgive me. After receiving your letter three days ago, I sent the women and children into the woods to hide. But there are many people in the town who fled from the north bank, and they all say that if the British can't find anyone, they'll just burn the town down. You know these farmers care most about those few houses and the crops in their fields, after all, it's just the beginning of spring planting, and the harvest is scarce. This is also the largest town in La Fleur, and they can muster about a hundred militiamen, who are clamoring not to leave. I can't persuade them to stay."
Seeing that Atil's expression remained unchanged, Antoine continued, "But actually, there was no need to stop you from entering the town. I had already had them prepare food and drink to wait for you; but in the afternoon, several red-haired knights came from the west, crossed the bridge and headed north, scaring the townspeople half to death, which is why things are like this now."
Atil nodded and replied, "Those are my men. Is anyone among them in charge? I'll go talk to them." Antoine was delighted and turned to beckon. A middle-aged man wearing iron-trimmed leather armor led several men over. He wore a slightly rusted iron helmet and carried a real longsword. The man's eyes darted back and forth between the cavalry and infantry behind Atil, his face turning slightly pale.
"What should I call you?" Atil's voice was not loud. "I see about a hundred militiamen like you still in the town. Those knights who passed by this afternoon were scouts I sent out. The British are on the north bank and may arrive tomorrow. Then this place will become a battlefield."
"Sir. My name is Martin, I'm from this town... They pushed me out to speak." He was so nervous he bit his tongue, and Atil almost didn't hear him. Martin glanced back at the young men behind him, then turned back: "We are loyal to the Crown Prince, and we amassed some weapons a few years ago to defend against the British. We are also willing to serve you, sir."
Antoine immediately became agitated: "Martin, are you crazy? You lot can do anything but are good at nothing! Do you think you're qualified to fight the British? Didn't you see that the adults' army is all wearing iron armor? There are hundreds of knights. What can you do with so few men? Quickly apologize and go find your wife in the woods!" Martin's face turned bright red, but he didn't utter a word, only continuing to stare at Atil.
Atil's gaze swept over his shoulder and across the town. The militiamen were vaguely forming ranks, and a man with a crossbow on a watchtower was also visible, holding a proper foot-operated crossbow and aiming it at him.
"I think they're afraid we'll rob the town," he said, his voice as flat as if he were stating something unrelated to himself. "If we really wanted to rob you, why would we bother to notify you in advance?"
Martin lowered his head and didn't reply. Atil continued in a flat tone, "Tomorrow, at least five hundred, maybe a thousand Englishmen will arrive. You have a wooden bridge here; we've come here for that reason. If you can't bear to leave your houses or land in town, you can stay and defend it. But we won't—and can't—protect you. Do you understand?"
He emphasized the word "cannot" very clearly.
Martin remained silent for a long time. The young men behind him were also silent. Father Antoine was anxious to say something, but Attil raised his hand to stop him. A gust of wind blew in from the north, carrying the fishy smell of the river and the sweet scent of rotting turnip leaves from the distant fields.
"Thank you for your understanding, sir." Martin finally spoke, his voice lowered. "Please come into town, sir."
Antoine raised his hand and pressed Martin's head down, saying with a slightly obsequious smile, "Please come in, sir. The town isn't big, but there are still a few rooms available. You and the knights can stay in the church. The others can stay in the town's barn. We've already moved the grain, but there's still plenty of hay left, perfect for resting."
He only released his grip after he finished speaking. Martin's face was a little pale, but he didn't say a word, only turned around and made a gesture. The crossbowman on the sentry post hesitated for a moment, then put away his crossbow. The able-bodied men at the gate made way and began moving the oxcarts and stacks of firewood. A boy of about half a size emerged from the crowd, timidly gesturing "please" to Atil, then turned and ran into the town, his boots clattering on the cobblestones.
Atil turned and mounted his horse, with his troops following behind him. Antoine and Martin led the way, while Roland followed the boy and led the troops toward the barn.
However, Atil was still somewhat surprised when he saw the bell tower. Even in such a large town, the church was rather extravagant: the entrance was two people high, the stone walls were neatly built, and the second floor had a stained-glass window depicting the Annunciation—a luxury in the countryside. The bell tower was a full five stories high, comparable to many cathedrals in dioceses.
Martin didn't follow them inside. Antoine pushed open the door and introduced, "I have the only church and the only bridge in La Fleur, used by people from both the north and south banks. As more people crossed the bridge, the bishop granted special permission to build this bell tower, which is the second tallest in the entire Tours province."
Atil asked curiously, "The only bridge? I saw on the map that there's another stone bridge a little to the east. I thought the town was over there."
Antoine sighed. "My lord, when I was young and had just become a priest here, this town not only had a stone bridge, but also a castle! Several knights guarded the island in the river. But a few years ago, the English demolished it, leaving only the tower. The stone bridge was also destroyed, and no one walks on it anymore. This wooden bridge was newly built with money from the church."
Atil nodded: "Then this is a perfect backup command post. You can see the north bank directly from the clock tower."
Father Antoine's face looked as if he had eaten a handful of bitter lettuce, and it took him a long time to squeeze out a sentence: "As long as we can defeat the English, you may use whatever you wish, and the Lord will forgive me."
Atil's entourage had already found lodgings in the churchyard and were unsaddled their horses, while servants busied themselves unloading luggage from the carriages. He glanced at them, but instead of entering the courtyard, he went straight up to the bell tower, where the entire town stretched out beneath him.
Sure enough, there was an island in the river, with only a lonely tower and half a stone bridge remaining, clearly bombarded. The wooden bridge stood to the west, nestled in the middle of the town, surrounded by densely packed houses. The north bank seemed to have once been prosperous, but now only farmland remained—after all, the British had visited this place more than once.
Looking around the town, the Scots hadn't followed them to the barn; instead, they'd all rushed to the riverbank and vineyards, the fastest already taking off their boots and wading in. Despite several militiamen trying to stop them, many were peering out from under the trellises, seemingly searching for the wine cellar.
The infantrymen brought by Bourges were the most troublesome. They were picky about several barns, complaining that one was drafty and another was too small. One armored soldier even found some hens that hadn't been taken with him in a family's chicken coop and was arguing with several militiamen. The militiamen were brandishing pitchforks and their voices were loud enough to be heard throughout the area, but ultimately no one dared to lay a hand on them.
The crossbowmen didn't enter the town; instead, they pitched their tents under the large walnut tree at the town entrance, their movements as synchronized as if they were drilling. The leader appeared to be negotiating with the militia, eventually giving them some money. The militia brought over a small cartload of flour and vegetables, and their small kitchen was already set up behind the camp. This time, the crossbowmen acting as sentries went further; two went to the riverbank, while one disappeared into the grove of bushes east of town.
Hearing Roland call him, he stood on the clock tower, memorized the terrain of the north bank, and then came downstairs. Martin had come again, this time bringing a basket of bread and several wooden barrels. Roland had already set out a bowl of onion soup and a little finger-length sausage on the small table in the yard, clearly brought by Martin.
Just as Atil was about to sit down, he saw Martin turn to leave and reached out to stop him.
"Where did you conjure up hot food and soup? Didn't all your women run away?"
He rubbed his hands together and looked at the priest. Antoine nodded, then lowered his voice and said, "Actually... we still have dozens of women hiding in the cellar. The idea is that if something unexpected happens, we'll need them to come out at night to collect the bodies and take some things with us. This has been planned in town for years."
He glanced at Atil furtively, and seeing that he didn't seem angry, he grew bolder: "Since your army is so imposing, I'll have my men send food to your men. It's just simple fare, please don't mind."
Atil chuckled: "Your combination of mayor and priest is more meticulous than many nobles."
Antoine wiped his nose, smiling but saying nothing. Martin lowered his head even further, but the corners of his mouth unconsciously curled up slightly. "When I was young, there were several knights here. I served as a squire for a master for a few years." He didn't look up. "I learned some etiquette. Not all of it."
Atil didn't ask any more questions. He picked up his bowl and took a sip of the onion soup, and was surprised to find that it contained butter, enough to make the soup thicker. He gestured for Roland to carry the large pot into the house and distribute it to the other knights; he also ordered a few servants to be the first to eat and then go on guard duty.
Atil ate while watching the commotion in town. Fortunately, the local conscripts didn't cause any trouble in the end; the hens were returned, and the militiamen went back to the barn cursing. The Scots didn't find any wine either, at least not in Atil's opinion. A daring girl peeked out of a smoking house to look at the red-haired soldiers, but was immediately pulled back by a hand, and the window slammed shut.
The militiamen finally relaxed. They gathered in twos and threes in the small open space in the center of town, holding bowls and bread, squatting beside the stone mill to eat and drink. An old man carried a barrel of wine out of his house, and a few cheers rang out from the crowd.
Martin brought over another basket: a dish of pickled turnips, a plate of boiled beans, a small piece of cheese that looked slightly moldy, and a ceramic pot. He poured a glass of wine and handed it to Atil. Atil took a sip; it was astringent, sour, with a gritty taste, like grapes stomped and sealed with stems and seeds. He calmly put down the glass, tried only one spoonful of beans before pushing the dish away. The turnips were too salty, and the cheese was indeed mushy. This kind of rough, rustic food really didn't appeal to Atil. In the end, he took two loaves of bread for tomorrow's provisions and handed the rest to Roland to distribute to the nearby servants.
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As darkness fell, the sound of horses' hooves suddenly came from the direction of the wooden bridge to the north.
The two crossbowmen on lookout duty were the first to react, raising their crossbows simultaneously. Then Atil's entourage also moved; one rode forward, while the other turned and shouted back into the town. Several militiamen jumped up from their stone rollers in fright, some grabbing spears leaning against the wall.
But everyone soon breathed a sigh of relief. It turned out that John was leading the charge, and the young men behind him seemed to be falling behind. However, his helmet was nowhere to be found, and he was covered in mud.
John galloped into town, not even glancing at the militiamen. He grabbed one of them to find out where Atil was, then spurred his horse across the dirt road in the town center, reined in it in front of the church, dismounted, and strode into the courtyard.
When he entered the courtyard, he was covered in mud. He impatiently unbuttoned his collar, grabbed the earthenware pot on the table, and started chugging. He poured the pot dry, then smacked his lips and spat.
"The grape juice is so astringent."
Martin and Antoine were so intimidated by the red-haired strongman's imposing manner that they took two steps back. Seeing that Atil didn't react, they timidly shrank to the side, standing against the wall, unsure of what to do with their hands.
John sat down directly opposite Artier and unceremoniously snatched the remaining two loaves of bread. Artier waited until John tore off a piece and stuffed it into his mouth before asking, "What's the situation with the reconnaissance? Where are the English? How many are there? How many archers did they bring?"
John chewed on his bread and mumbled, "Those bastards from Pigs Slaughter are pretty fast. They've camped about five miles away, they should be there by tomorrow afternoon." He tore off another piece of bread. "I didn't see the flags clearly, but there were about eight hundred men in total, half of them on horseback."
Atil frowned.
"So many people? Traditionally, there should be over two hundred armored soldiers. Do they have cannons? Can you see you?"
John thought for a moment, then stuffed another piece of bread into his mouth. "They definitely didn't see me. I and a few lads crawled out of the forest and climbed up from the mud pits; those stupid British bastards, I don't know what they were thinking, actually split up and set up two camps. Two of the cavalrymen sent out to patrol the south camp were sleeping, and the remaining one was set up right at the camp entrance. I went in and counted four hundred men. The other camp had more sentries and was more alert, so we couldn't get close. We could only estimate the size of the barracks. I left one lad behind to see if there was a chance to scout things out again."
He saw the almost untouched bowl of onion soup in front of Atil, grabbed it, and dipped his bread into it.
"There were no cannons, but they must have just looted a lot; they took quite a few wagons and women. I think there was some grain too, but I didn't look closely."
Atil remained silent. He did the math in his mind: eight hundred men, with a few hundred archers, two hundred armored soldiers, and a dozen or so knights. His side had over five hundred men, but less than three hundred of them were armored soldiers capable of direct combat. While two hundred cavalrymen were an advantage, the numerical disparity was still too great.
"If the Ingol had seven hundred men, we could fight them," he said slowly, his voice low as if he were talking to himself. "But there are eight hundred. We don't have enough crossbowmen, and even with our cavalry, we can't get past them on the north bank. If we wait for them on the south bank, we'll be riddled with bullets. We can't win this battle."
John pulled out the plate of beans from somewhere and started stuffing them into bread. He didn't even look up; his mouth was full, and his voice was muffled.
"Let them in to fight."
Atil looked at him.
"Bring them into town." John stuffed a loaf of bread into his mouth, chewed a few times, and swallowed. "Then set a few more fires, and burn the bridge too, to block them. The English have good longbows, but nobody knows we're here. Set some fires to disrupt their formation, then have the cavalry surround them. They can't possibly beat us in close combat."
Martin took a step forward. The movement was light, but in the quiet room, the sound of his boots hitting the stone slabs was exceptionally clear. He opened his mouth, then closed it again—Antoine was holding him tightly from behind, making him seem like a frozen puppet.
Atil glanced at him and continued to John: "If you can avoid burning the town, then do so. There are still townspeople who haven't left, and they won't agree to it."
John gave a cold laugh. It was short, like a knife scraping against a whetstone. He wiped the pea juice from the plate with bread, stuffed it into his mouth, and chewed as he said, "If you disagree, you'll all die here. If we don't burn the town, we can't fight. A few volleys and these five hundred of us will be meeting our maker, and the rest of the townspeople will be slaves to the British. If we don't burn it, the British will come and burn it anyway, even if they can't loot anything. If we win, at least we'll have something from the fields in the fall. If we lose, will half the town survive next year?"
He looked up at Atil, his eyes shining brightly in the candlelight.
"Don't you know what a Brit is?"
Martin seemed to breathe his last. His knees buckled, and Antoine quickly caught him. His eyes were fixed on the stove opposite him, the flames flickering in his pupils.
Atil looked at him without saying a word; they both knew John was right.
After a while, Martin removed Antoine's hand and stood up on his own. His movements were slow, as if he were piecing himself back together joint by joint. He walked up to John and bowed, this time much more formally than at the town entrance, his upper body and legs forming an almost right angle.
"I'll go and discuss it with the people in town," he said calmly. "Don't worry, sir, we have people here who fled from the North Shore. They know what the Ingalls are like. If they want to burn down houses tomorrow, then we'll do it ourselves."
John didn't look up, waved his hand, and continued eating the bread in his hand.
Martin turned and walked out. His footsteps were light, and the door closed behind him almost silently.
Atil looked at the priest, who shook his head with a look of pity, and followed Martin.
The town was silent at first. A silence like a gag, a silence pressed against one's chest. Then a shout, short and sharp, like someone being scalded; then a second, a third, and then a cacophony, like a pot of water boiling. People were yelling, people were cursing, and a woman's voice pierced through all the noise, like a needle sticking into an ear.
Then the woman's voice stopped, as if it had been suffocated. The shouting turned into arguing, then into whispers. The whispers lasted a long time, interspersed with occasional sobs and curses. Something was smashed, the sound of shattering carrying far across the cobblestones. Then someone roared, this time it was Martin's voice, sounding hoarse from shouting.
Finally, there was silence, complete and utter silence, not even a sob.
Artil sat at the table, listening to it all. John continued eating his bread, stuffing the last piece into his mouth, wiping the crumbs from the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and then pushing the plate aside.
"They'll burn it," John said.
Atil did not answer. He stood up and looked out over the town. The small square in the center was deserted; the militia had dispersed, and the bowls, plates, and glasses remained on the stone mill, with half a bowl of soup lying upside down, slowly trickling down the stone.
The sky was completely dark in the direction of the river.
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One scribe wrote: "Since the Black Prince began his riding raids, he has destroyed more French villages than half of England." Chivalry had nothing to do with riding raids, in which the English aimed to exploit the enemy's weaknesses, destroy sources of tax revenue such as land and property, and cut off the enemy's source of income. The English army would kill all prisoners and burn towns and farmland.
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A Brief History of the Hundred Years' War by Desmond Seward
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*Toucheà tout et bonà rien. A French idiom, generally translated as: a jack of all trades, master of none.