[SS BR] The Legacy of Ys
The night time drizzle fell undisturbed onto the cobbled streets. No one was about. Quiet reigned throughout the city. It could have been mistaken for a ghost town. Duke Yannic looked from his small keep over the silent town. Hunger rumbled in his belly, though nothing could be done about it now. He feared this was the last night of a free Quimper.
The Breton people were proud and brave. Both those things led to their downfall. Snubbing the French king the Bretagne barons had put their trust in that bravery. No matter how fiercely each man fought, though, the great armies of the Frankish king would ultimately succeeded. Their last stand had failed, and now they were cooped up in their last two cities.
The battle of Armorica had cost the lives of five of the seven dukes that had formed the Breton alliance. Their pride had brought them to war, and their bravery had made the French fight a hard one. Their bravery had also cost them their lives, each duke been killed when he charged the French lines. Yannic and Arzhur had led what few men that had survived back to the walled towns. Nantes, Brest, Saint-Nazaire, Vannes and Lorient had all fallen. They had been the seats of the five dead dukes, and now only Rennes and Quimper stood strong. Arzhur had led his men back to Rennes, there they would fight and die, defending their freedom and independence to the last. The same would happen in Quimper, the same would happen to Yannic.
The silence was eerie. Torches burned outside the city's walls, but no light was seen to be coming from the ancient capital. Yannick's fathers had ruled Ys, the most beautiful and grandest city in the world, before the sea swallowed it. The French king sat on his throne in Paris, and he could only dream of ruling a city similar to Ys. Par-is, Par-Ys, in the old Breton tongue it meant like Ys. And when Paris would sink into the Seine, Ys would rise once again, glorious, out of it's underwater tomb. But Paris would not fall. Quimper would, and all the hopes and dreams of a free Brittany would fall with it.
Touring the empty streets Yannic was struck by the character the city had grown to acquire. These were not just winding streets, they were streets with history, streets that lived. Generations came and went, babies grew up, and then ultimately died. But Quimper remained. She imbued her inhabitants with a vivre, and a drive dissimilar to any that Yannic had found in his short life. He loved the city, and the city loved him. He was making his way towards the walls, the stone walls that were all that stood between Quimper and her destruction. As a symbol of Breton courage and freedom the city could not stand once the French had won it. By this time tomorrow she would be burning.
On reaching the walls Yannic found some of the few defenders of the city. Five thousand men had marched out of the city gates six months ago. They had marched with their brothers from the six other cities. Victory and glory had been won at first, but then the French king had sent his army. Local dukes and barons had been defeated easily enough, but once the king went to war, all of France did as well. From Paris to Bordeaux, Marseille to Rheims, Lyon and Toulouse, all the great citadels of France had answered his call. The romantic Bretons, living in their backwater, would bother the king no more. They would be crushed. Five hundred hungry, injured and tired men had retreated back into the walls after the disaster at Caen. The Breton forces had sought to take the mighty Citadel, and would have too, if the king's army had not relieved the garrison there. A great battle was fought, and the Bretons, far outnumbered, were beaten. The army stood and fought one last time, a testament to their bravery. Against great odds, the day had nearly been won. The French prince had nearly fallen, the King had nearly been driven off the field. A stray crossbow bolt had taken the life of Duke Alouran, the lord of Nantes, and leader of the Bretons, and the attack faltered. In all, five dukes fell, and the great Breton army broke up. Each man went back to his home city, and the leaderless ones soon capitulated.
The feeling of melancholy was rife throughout the city. Yannic sat on the wall, with his men, and looked out over the French camp. The army had split in two; one half to conquer Rennes, the other to take Quimper. Led by the Dauphin, the young prince was eager to win some glory for himself. Seven thousand men slept in the camp. Many would not see two more rising suns, if Quimper was going to fall, the Prince would have to pay dearly for it.
"How are you?" Yannic spoke to the on watch guard. His grizzled face was wet with the rain, but still he kept his steely glare pointed towards the French.
"What does it matter now? Tomorrow they will come." And still the man stood there, spear in hand. He did not have to say anything, Yannic knew he would fight.
"And tomorrow they will learn what hell is like," Yannic turned his attention once again to the French army. A grunt in approval was all that greeted his statement. With a hand on the shoulder on the warrior, Yannic left him. he continued down the wall, and talked with every soldier he came across. Each knew what was coming, and each still stood firm. The French would learn of Breton bravery, if they had not already, when they met Breton soldiers.
The sun rose on what was to be the last day of Quimper. The skylark could be heard out beyond the walls. The cold morning breeze blew the proud banners of the city. High atop her walls men from all ages and walks of life forgot their differences and stood together. The last watch of Quimper was ready to die for her.
The great French army approached, a great host, trailing like a venomous snake over the landscape. The poachers and archers on the walls began firing their sharp arrows down upon the French. Their crossbow men replied in kind, sending deadly bolts into the town.
Many of the French knights had left their horses at their camp, this was a siege and horses weren't that good at capturing walls. They carried ladders, and while the ram was rumbling unstoppable towards the gate, they scuttled up these, and battle was joined.
The levy spear men on the ramparts stood strong. Armoured in leather and mail they stood up against the plate cladded knights. Dealing death with short spear, they valiantly fought hard against their lifetime trained soldier enemies. Their swords sung through the hanging morning rain, and they hacked through the little armoured Quimpers. Old and young stood still, while the archers still fired down upon the approaching behemoth of the French Army.
The peasant farmers of Quimper, who had retreated into the walls for protection against the French, now took the field. Armed with farm implements, pitch forks and shovels, dressed in only their dunchers and rags, they embodied the spirit of Quimper. Never giving in, never giving up, they marched ill-disciplined up to the walls, where the French knights were doing battle. Many fell, but not all. They, with the spear men and archers, beat back the knights. Highly trained and expensively armed, they feel to labourers and farmhands. A triumph, a small triumph.
The ram had reached the gate and it battered at the strong oak. The pick of the Quimper guard stood ready behind it. Armed with spear and shield, clothed in armour, they braced themselves for an onslaught. The great gate splintered and broke, though still it held firm the tide of the French. Yannic, looking from high atop his horse, could see out and caught the glimpse of shining armour. With his ten knights he hoped to do the impossible.
'This is it men!' he shouted, lifting off his helmet. 'The French think that we will be an easy conquest. Show them what it means to be a Breton, show them what it is to be a men. Though we may not see the setting sun, we will dine tonight in heaven. The cornered dog, they say, fights fiercest. We will fight out of this corner, this little corner of freedom, and grant it to France, to Europe, to the World!' He yelled the last part, and it was echoed by the men around him.
'The time has come. Do your duty. Fight well, and win glory for our name! No more peasants and knights, no more rich and poor. We are citizens of Quimper, you and I, and we shall fight like it!' Another yell, this time louder and longer than the last. Yannic raised his sword in the air, and shouted, in a voice louder than thunder.
'FOR QUIMPER! FOR YS!' A blood curdling yell once again left his throat, and this time all of Quimper seemed to join in.
In a deafening crash, the gate was ripped from it's hinges, and the spear men, their war cry still fresh on their lips, cried out once again and charged into the breach.
It was a scene of chaos and confusion. A hundred men were holding back five hundred. They fought like lions. They took many French lives, three for every fallen Quimperian. Then the Prince charged in. The sheer weight of the enemy drove the spear men back, unable to hold their ground Yannic took his knights into the fray. The hacked at the lowly French infantry, rising up in their stirrups and crashing down with their steel swords on the exposed heads of their enemy. Skulls cracked and broke, and blood fountained out of the wound. Men fell clutching at their exposed brains, their fingers groping at the unfamiliar organ.
The fighting was still going on on the walls. The knights had been beaten back, and now women from the town, tired of cowering in their homes, came out and helped their husbands, fathers and sons send the once proud knights fleeing in fear.
However, the fighting around the gate was proving gruelling stuff. The spear men were been beaten back, no matter how many they killed, like a hydra, two more were ready to take the fallen man's place. The amount of casualties inflicted on the French did not seem to matter, and every one they inflicted was a major blow.
Yannic saw his knights fall, until he was the only one left. He saw the Dauphin charge his spear men once again. Yannic spurred his horse on, and trampled those unfortunate French under him to get to their Prince. Fully armoured, in intricate and expensive metal, the Prince saw the charging Lord. He steadied his sword, and they fought each other. Swing their swords, they were a match.Yannic parried and swung, and the Prince did the same. A battle between Hector and Achilles, one man defending his home and family, the other a vengeful conqueror. Yannic couldn't stop the flight though, his men were running, back to the central plaza. The gate was lost, they would fight to the end in the centre of the town. A fierce roar as once again let loose by Yannic, and he swung with all his might at the Dauphin. Unbalanced, both men fell to the ground. There, surrounded by French spear men, Yannic was unceremoniously killed, ten spears been driven into his torso. The last free lord of Quimper was dead.
The spear men were rode down in the streets. Their bravery, their pride, their life were all snuffed out under the cruel hooves of the French horse men. The last hope of Quimper was dead, their glory and memory all that was left, their sacrifice an inspiration.
But up on the walls some men fought on. Against all the odds they had battled through the numerous French assaults. The bodies littered the ramparts, and still they stood defiant. The French Army ascended to the walls, now drawn up in their full strength. The last Quimpers, exhausted, blood stained, battered and bruised. They saw their enemy, they did not give in, they did not surrender.
An old man, sixty at least, fighting his final battle, walked to the front of the few spear men left. Balancing his spear, he pointed straight at the French. The rampart was slippery with blood, so he watched his footing. Looking back at the his men, he raised his shield and spear.
'For Quimper!' It echoed out amongst the men.
'Charge!'
And they did.
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