Extract from the diary of Corporal Nobby Stocker, Army of Portugal; English Longbow Contingent 1390AD
We was told our ‘omeland (well I say ours, wot I mean is the land of my erstwhile employers the Portuguese) was bein’ invaded by some villainous foreigners. These turned out to be an army of Venetian mercenaries.
“Where’s Venitia Sarge?”, I asked sergeant Cartwright this morning.
“It’s Venice, Stocker, Venice”.
So there you have it. Venetia’s in Venice. Strike a light, you live and learn. Seems these Venetians have a large amount of filthy lucre on account of them ‘aving been illegally trading with the infidels. Or so the Pope says. What that really means is the Holy Father feels e’s missing out on all this cash and wants his cut. We was told these foreigners had come to pillage the poor peasants and rob them of their last farthing. And we can’t ‘av that can we? Otherwise there’d be nothing left for the Portuguese nobility would there. Anyway it turns out this wasn’t exactly the truth. Seems Lord Duke General Mourinho hadn’t paid his debt for all those eastern perfumes ‘e bought for his mistress and the Venetians want their money back. So they raised an army of hired mercenaries to act as debt collectors. Looks like this army is composed of highly trained professionals who take war very seriously. It is also efficiently led by a general schooled in the art of warfare over many decades, rather than one schooled in the art of swilling port and setting fire to his own farts. I didn’t fancy our chances much. I heard that these boys was being paid twice our rate and I suggested to Sergeant Cartwright if it wouldn’t be prudent to, you know, switch sides at the right moment. But he was adamant there would be none of that malarkey.
“How can you suggest that Stocker”, ‘e said.”Lord Mourinho is second cousin to Lord Harry FitzOsbourne himself. It would be like betraying family”.
Well to be honest Id sell my family down the swanny as soon as look at em, plus most of our landed gents are cousins to their French equivalents and it don’t stop them laying into each other does it. But Sergeant Cartwright wouldn’t hear of it.
The battlefield was mainly flat with a gentle hill and an enclosed field on our far left and a steeper hill on the far right. All the terrain, except the steep hill, was on the enemies side. Typical! Not surprisingly the professionals got the drop on us at deployment so we lined up first. We didn’t ‘ave a bleedin’ clue where the enemy was so we deployed clumped together, relying on our speed of movement and expert drill. Or that’s what the General said. I looked at our Portuguese allies. The closest most of this lot came to drilling was a night of the old ‘one two’ down at Senhora Isabella’s Hostel for Fallen Ladies.
The longbows (that’s us) was on the left behind the crossbow facing the gentle hill, while both the Jinetes and the mounted crossbow covered our flank. Next to us in the centre was the knights, all bunched up and ready to use their blinding speed to reach any part of the battlefield (Gawd ‘elp us). The English nobs and the spear were to the right of the knights and the far right flank was pinned by the steep hill, held by the light foot bow men.
It was then the enemy arrived. We on the left where facing some light horse and light horse crossbow along with a group of knights. These weren’t your normal noble types whose only idea of a battlefield maneuver is a full on charge at the first whiff of the enemy, but proper disciplined professionals. We couldn’t see what was hiding over the crest of the hill, but we reckoned there was some’ink.
The enclosed field was held by a few light foot and next to them was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. A mass of Swiss pikemen. I’d heard strange rumors about this lot. It was said that they’ve never been beaten in combat in a hundred years of fighting. I was so scared I nearly evacuated me bowels. Thank the Lord I wasn’t anywhere near those blighters.
The crossbows headed toward the enclosed field hoping to drive out the enemy lights and threaten the flank of the Swiss (rather them than me). So we set off toward the hill (away from the Swiss, thank Gawd), with the light horse gallivanting ahead to have a peek over the brow. Suddenly over the top came a load of Sword and Buckler blokies, marching at double pace and looking very trim and proper. The light horse scooted off to deal with the enemy light horse and engage their knights who had also taken up position on the hill. Some of our knight s lumbered forward to support them. Luckily our light horse managed to draw the knights down from the hill and they charged full tilt into our boys coming the other way. There you had it an almighty clash between the cream of the Portuguese nobility and the hardened Italian professional. I would have quite liked to watch the outcome but we had our own problems. The sword and buckler fellas was coming at us sharpish. I got a good look as they came closer, all kitted out like Dandy Dan with wide brimmed black ats. And as they came closer still, I swear I could smell perfume. Perfume, I ask you, on men! I was determined to keep this lot as far away as possible, so us longbows gave em what for. Didn’t do much good mind, they still kept coming and then they was on us. One of them came mincing over to me waving his skinny sword around like he was swatting flies.
Now these boys are s’possed to be expert swordsmen but I didn’t rate em, all mouth and no britches. This one gets right up close and I could see e’ was wearing some sort of mask. I reakon he thought it made him a hit with the ladies. I drew Betsy and made a lunge at im. Zip, zip, zip goes his sword, faster than lightning, and Betsy goes flying out of me hand. Zip, zip, zip, e goes again and e’s carved a ‘Z’ into me jerkin.
“Segnor,” e says, “Zis is ze mark of Zorro” and thinking me defenceless he draws his sword back ready to strike the mortal blow.
“This is the mark of Nobby”, I replied and kicked im in the privates with me hobnailed boots. Down e went like a bag of dripping. Now this scene was repeated right down the line. Expert swordsmen these fellas might be but they wouldn’t last 10 minutes in the Weeping Wound on a Saturday night. And before you can say, mines a pint of Olde Crusty. They was hairtailing off, back over that hill.
We didn’t have long to celebrate though as the enemy knights, aving seen off the Portuguese nobs came careeing over and smacked right into us. There was no way we could handle that. So for the second time in a row I was running for me life while some hairy arsed foreigner tried to chop me into pieces.
“You need a new career Nobby me lad”, thinks I as we legged it across the plain.
I glanced across to see how the rest of the battle was going and would you believe it there was our English nobs fighting head to head with the Swiss. They was going at it hammer and tongs and giving better than they got too. Lord ‘arry himself was in the thick of it, wandering about, armed only with a swagger stick, dodging halberds and pike as if he was on a country stroll. Gawd it made me right proud to be English. Didn’t last long though as the enemy knights, having beaten the Portuguese knights (again!) was rolling up the spear on the right and they soon careered into English flank. The whole bloody army was soon running like the clappers with Lord Mourinho leading the retreat. I just hope next time he remembers to pay his bills.
Extract from the diary of Corporal Nobby Stocker Part 3
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