The Blind King’s Charge

Inspired by true events.

The rain had stopped by dawn, leaving the battlefield damp and restless. Clouds hung low over Crécy, smothering the sun, as if the heavens themselves were mourning what was to come. I adjusted the straps of my king’s armor with quick, practiced hands, my own nerves jangling like an unsteady drumbeat. The sounds of preparation rose all around us: the clatter of harnesses, the stamping of restless hooves, the murmurs of men trying to keep fear from their voices.

King John of Bohemia sat astride his steed, as still as a statue, blind eyes unseeing but unyielding. His gauntleted hand rested on the pommel of his sword, the fingers relaxed, almost serene—as if this battle was like so many where I had fought alongside him in our quickly dissipating youth.

“Give me the report,” he commanded.

I swallowed the lump building in my throat. For I knew before he responded, what his choice would be. I served him as my King, but I knew him as a man. I’d seen his bravery, his dignity, his honor. I had experienced his mercy, and seen him both weep and rage, at once pleading to and ordering the god who had taken away his sight. I was his eyes that day and I knew what he would do. Oh, that I could have lied to him. But he was my King. I had my duty, I had been given orders, and I began.

“My lord,” I began, swallowing again the stubborn lump in my throat, “the English are arrayed on the ridge. Archers in the front ranks, a wall of them. Their longbows will darken the sky.”