I Serve by Rosanne E. Lortz

All this scurrying about is for mice—or Frenchman. Turn around and fight the enemy, you poltroon!” I understood now that he thought I was trying to flee the field of battle. Seizing me by my collar, he shoved me toward the foe and gave me a hearty kick to the buttocks. I grimaced painfully and choked down rage at this treatment. It was useless to protest—the niceties of my mission would be lost on this baron filled with bloodlust. Unable to explain, I thought it best to escape his custody. I made a half-hearted attempt to engage the enemy before us, keeping Sir Thomas’s lumbering form in the corner of my eye. He turned to engage a mounted knight, and they grappled together in the mud. Once I saw that he could no longer bother me, I took to my heels again. This time I reached the red pennant with the yellow bar.
    The Earl of Warwick was panting heavily when I overtook him; the company surrounding him looked weary and bedraggled. I recited my master’s message bidding him wind the horn to summon the second division.
    “ The second division is already with us!” he exclaimed, and he gestured further down the line to where the earls of Northampton and Arundel had joined the fray. The battlefield here looked much the same as the patch of ground I had come from. The French pushed against us strongly while our men fought back fiercely, summoning up valiant vigor from weary limbs. Warwick’s countenance, instead of bearing its normal, placid composure, looked harried as a housewife with unexpected guests. “There’s no help for it,” he said. “We must send to the king.” I waited by his side while he sent one of his knights to discover Edward and desire his aid. I was still waiting by his side when the knight returned, alone and unabashed.
    “ How comes this?” demanded Warwick. “Did you find His Majesty? And did you deliver my message?”
    “ I found him on the northern prospect beside a windmill,” said the knight, “and in truth, I gave him your message most plainly. ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘The Earl of Warwick and the others who surround your son are vigorously attacked by the French. They beg you to come to their assistance with your battalion. If numbers should increase against the prince, he will have too much to handle.’”
    “ And what answer made the king?” said Warwick.
    “ He answered this: ‘Is my son dead, unhorsed, or so badly wounded that he cannot support himself?’
    “‘ By no means,’ replied I, ‘Thank God! But he is in so hot an engagement that he has great need of your help.’
    “ Then the king fixed his eye on me sternly, and said, ‘Return to those that sent you. Tell them not to send again whatever may happen, and not to expect that I shall come as long as my son has life. I command them to let the boy win his spurs. God willing, I am determined that all the glory of this day shall belong to him and to those who are in charge of his care.’”
    At the relation of these words, Warwick’s eyes glinted brightly and I saw his soul stir within him. “His Majesty is right,” said he. “This day belongs to the prince and to us. What need have we of help? Return to your master, boy,” he said to me, “and bid him stand fast and cleave unto his charge.”
    This refusal on the part of the king to send aid dismayed me at first, but it was not long before I saw the wisdom of it. From his vantage point beside the windmill, the king had judged the battle more accurately than those down in the thick of it. The enemy’s strength had begun to ebb. The victory was ours; we had only to claim it. I looked about the battlefield until I spotted the Virgin Mary, embowered in blue on the surcoat of Sir John Chandos. He had regained his position beside the prince, and I darted through devious paths to rejoin them.
    “ They are turning!” cried Chandos. “By St. George, they are turning!” It was even as he said. The French knights had taken to their heels, for few of them had horses