The beast was tense but held his ground well
Steam shot from his nostrils and a hoof pounded the dirt
The knights’ pauldron rode hard on his gorget
And the pain reminded him of what was to come
The noise of fear was deafening, the sight and smell
Clattering iron indicating keenness like the wench lifting her skirt
The knight remembered her with a lump in his throat and slight regret
Then the horns blew and his knees gripped his horse as it started to run
The bowmen placed their arrows to allow men to die where they fell
Horses’ eyes grew wide with the smell of death but didn’t stop the run to be first
With a clash the horse chested an infantryman his training recalled, he didn’t forget
Adrenaline filling the knight powered the broad steel into a skull like a knife into a bun
The red stains on his horse and armour suddenly made him difficult to fell
And a roar from deep within him let his blood daemons loose and ready to flirt
The smell of warm viscera drove men mad, their actions mistaken for skill set
The cries of his horse heard once through the melee and his body burning like the sun
His beautiful bleeding beast still strong and unconcerned, marked but a solid stele
Relief washed over the knight as the burning subsides to specific wounds and hurts
Turning his horse brings to view the efforts, proud to be alive and his appetite whet
Roaring men and squealing animals chorused with clanging metal at the chaos being spun
Confident of his blooded metal and the loyal beast under him, his blade continued to knell
Swaying from side to side aided by the sword, shiny and high a target for a well-aimed chert
It rang in his head, put a dent in his helmet, stars to his eyes and destroyed his proud aigrette
Slipping from his steed and crashing to the ground, twas but a page with a sling the battle not won
His beast was confused with no master to advise his confidence shattered like an overused shell
Cold mud oozed between his plates providing stark surprise, so it seemed this day would be curt
Coming to stand with his world spinning around now he faced others and the deaths they’d met
Tasting his tongue with a toll in his head and realising his arrogance had arrived to bring him undone
A boy but twelve looked at him with a grin, his leather sling swaying, the missile making it swell
Mud sucked at the sabatons of the knight as tears welled recalling his own boy is a sky blue shirt
But the sling spun at the approach of the knight and the missile flew from this smiling cadet
The clang is smaller than a broadsword on armour but the tiny missile became a rock weighing a ton
Blinded by light and blood the knight had been here before as he stumbled forward under a spell
Horror befell the boy who realised his mistake, momentum of the knight putting the page on alert
Urine flowed to the mud as the page fell back and the crying knight on him like a fisherman’s net
He felt the boy struggle as they sank in the mire, and thus the afterlife of the page had just begun
The horrors of death and spilled entrails not told to his son, of nature and farms the only tale to tell
For if his son were to know of the truth he stops being a boy and becomes a man of hurt
So for now the knight would spare his boy from the pain of war and dispel the threat
This promise made to the boy squashed in the mud until the knight no longer had a son.
Anthracite 