"Prayer" by Garon E. Whited

The horses stamped in the morning cold, breath smoky in the mist.  Somewhere across a grassy field, hidden by the morning fog, were men who would defy the King—and in so doing, threaten the safety of a lady fair.  In moments, those footmen will meet the charge of heavy horse.  Meet it, and in meeting, either stand or break.  Many will die upon the lance-points, run through like a beasts upon a spit.  And I shall play the cook, skewering the meat for the feast of carrion crows.

Merciful Father in Heaven, hear the prayer of Your failing servant.

All along the line, lances dipped and rose, signaling the readiness of the knights.  The banners were invisible in the grey morning.  The wave of lance-points reached the commander.  In my mind’s eye, I could see the rise of the banner for a charge.  My ears heard the brassy voice of trumpets, the battle-call of the drums.  We moved forward at a walk, lances high, our infantry line following, and watched the morning mist slowly begin to clear in the new-risen sun.  We moved to a trot as our range of vision increased, then to a gallop as we crossed the narrow stream that marked the center of the field.  Our lances lowered to chest-height on a man.

I pray Thee, grant me grace to acquit myself in worthy fashion on the field.

The lines of soldiery appeared from the thinning grey like phantoms, ghosts, apparitions.  They seemed unreal, creatures born of dread and fancy.  Hollow mockeries of humankind, night-fears given shape by the concealing mist.  But they solidified, became flesh and blood and bone, axe and pike and sword, all too real.  I saw clearly the expressions of shock and fear upon their bearded faces, the postures of dismay and of terror.  The clearest I remember was no more than a boy, perhaps fourteen, his cheeks as smooth as a girl’s.  I remember him because it was he that took the point of my lance, transfixed through the chest.  His eyes were wide and without fear, only great startlement as he died.  Blood came from his mouth; I let go the lance and drew steel.

Lend strength to my arm and iron to my heart, that I may act in worthy cause to take the lives of my fellow-men without faltering.

All about me were the foe.  Sword in my right hand, shield upon my left arm, steel about my body and upon my steed, I hewed and hacked.  Ever moving, keeping my horse circling, turning and kicking, never still.  Never let them mass against me.  Never let them regroup.  As a fox among the chickens, keep them clucking and squawking, never to attack.  Hew any man who thinks of fight instead of flight.  Run down those who flee.

Grant Thy mercy and Thy grace to those who fall here today, and forgive them their sins, and welcome them into Heaven.

Behind us still, the slow, plodding infantry marched across the field.  The field of battle was large, and still it swallowed them up with distance and with mist.  Even now, I could not see them, though the mist had thinned.  Nor could I see the keep that was the place of such contention, save only the highest pennon of the great tower—a ghost-pennon, a mirage, limned in the fire of the morning sun.  I wished, wistfully, that I might have seen a flutter of her scarf from a battlement, or that she might see me in the thick of battle, even if she knew me not.  Then I turned my thoughts back to the work at hand, and hewed down upon the crown of one who would have seized my steel-booted foot from the stirrup.

Keep Thy loving gaze upon all us here below, friend and foe alike, and show us mercy.

Then —O then! —the mist was thin enough, and enemy rains began; shafts of wood and steel came down like a storm of death.  I covered with my shield and was unhurt, but my steed gave forth a great cry and fell.  I was unhorsed, yet not overborne; I was afoot and alive, bearing still my arms.  Surrounded I stood, without the advantage of height or the strength of my steed to aid me.  Many sought me, and I hewed at them, felling them as they came.  But there were too many, and they bore me to the ground.  A poignard found the joint ’twixt breastplate and arm, and I knew the pain of a mortal wound.

For those who shall live this day, grant them glory.

I would have died in another stroke, save only that my attackers found a greater threat in the coming of our footmen.  With swords drawn did the footmen of both sides clash, and wild cries of battle rent the air.  I lay in the trampled field, bleeding from that deep thrust, and coldness came over all my limbs.  I found that I was without strength and could not rise to take up my sword.

For those who shall bear wounds, grant them healing and rest.

I knew no regrets.  I had come here to fight for her, not for a King.  I had fought for her, whether she knew it or no.  Fought well, too, I decided, thinking over the morning’s events.  A dozen foemen slain to defend her, a small but adequate train to accompany me beyond the gates of Death.  Yes, I had done my duty.  Not out of honor or need, but out of love.  Surely God would not find against me for that.  I closed my eyes, content.

And for those who must die today, grant them a swift death, free of suffering.

I awoke in the afternoon, roused from the sleep that leads to the last door.  The world was void of color and dim as twilight.  Someone had removed my helm and pillowed my head.  I had not the slightest sensation in my limbs, nor could I see clearly, yet my hearing was a clear as crystal bells.  The sound of weeping met my ears, the soft drops of hot tears wet my brow.  I strove to speak, to do more than simply lay as one dead, but all my strength had fled my body.  I knew the voice that wept so, and I knew a wound more bitter than the bite of steel between my ribs—regret that I could do nothing to comfort her.  As my breath escaped me, departing at last for whatever bourn in which my soul shall find abiding, I was granted this last grace:  I felt her lips upon my own.

So lift us up in Thy hand, O Lord, and return peace to all our hearts.