The Life of Sir Archambeau: Ch. 3 (pt. 2) - Death Comes in Fours

11 Jun, 2026

Archambeau and several hundred knights galloped toward the rebel infantry.

The cavalry rammed into the shield wall but could not break it. The knights at the front of the company managed to push several rows in, their horses trampling men while their riders stabbed with their lances, but the rebels refused to give in and made them pay dearly for every foot taken.

A shouted command went through the cavalry, so they turned tail and retreated. Out in the open field, the cavalry slowed, swung around, and went back for another attempt. They were attacking the second company in from the forest, where a spot was left open for the cavalry. Archambeau rode on the outside left column of the regiment.

The cavalry crashed into the shield wall, and again the rebels staved off their charge, but this time the cavalry managed to pierce deeper into the company, almost reaching the reserve company behind it until the knights were slowed to barely a trot. The rebels refused to scatter.

Vainqueur rolled through men like a boulder, tossing them aside or crushing them under hoof. Archambeau gripped the lance with two hands and relentlessly attacked, his kite shield hanging off his forearm.

Now an order to retreat came, and the cavalry turned around and escaped. Not a thought had gone through Archambeau’s head. Determination had full control over him. Safely away from the fighting, they regrouped and learned they had lost only a handful of men. It was decided a third charge would be made, so the cavalry faced the rebels once more and charged.

This time, the knights easily shattered the line, plowing through the rebels. Horses trampled and knights stabbed. The foot soldiers quickly became demoralized and, even quicker, became dead; the fortunate were only gravely injured. The slaughter was immense as the knights pushed through the first and second rebel companies before they were free and sprinting toward hills.

In the tight space between the soldiers and the hills, the cavalry slowed further and turned in a wide, six-columned arc toward the forest. They aimed for the two rebel companies next to the woods.

Coming at them from an angle, the knights butchered more soldiers on their way. The reserve company turned to face them, but the knights cut them down in seconds. The main company didn’t know whether to attack the knights behind them or the infantry in front of them, and because of that, they turned into a disorganized mess of men facing different directions and fighting different targets. Vainqueur followed the horses around them while Archambeau, exhilarated, killed the rebels.

Between the forest and the warring men stretched a thin strip land the cavalry used to escape, banking left and galloping to safety.

As they were coming out, a rebel pikeman spotted Archambeau, who could see the whites of the man’s eyes, and unless it was a trick of the light, they were gleaming with anticipation. At risk of his own life, the pikeman stepped out of the infantry company and into the no man’s land the cavalry rushed through. Archambeau smiled. If the man wanted to die, he would grant that wish. He had already killed a pikeman. He could not die. He was invincible.

That spelt disaster for him and his horse. The pikeman stabbed at the gap in Vainqueur’s armor, and the horse collapsed to the ground, screaming in pain. Archambeau tumbled out of the saddle and landed hard. Horses surged past until he was alone.

Clutching the shoulder he had landed on, Archambeau watched Vainqueur thrash wildly as he died, thirty arrows now sticking out of his armor. He had loved that horse. The pikeman, meanwhile, lay face-down on the ground, dead, killed by another knight. The cavalry was far behind Archambeau, leaving him with the infantry.

Scrambling up, he drew his hand-and-a-half sword and joined the ranks of the soldiers fighting, ten men back from the front line. Safe for the moment. The cacophony of clanging metal, yelling men, and dying men was deafening. The spring sun beat down on them all.

The pikeman had splintered Archambeau’s confidence. He was fulfilling the second vision in a different way than he had seen it; he thought killing the first pikeman had freed him from his fate, but the second pikeman proved him wrong. He kept his eyes peeled for more of them somewhere among the enemy ranks.

More rebels came to reinforce their side after the losses inflicted by the cavalry. The sea of foot soldiers swelled forward, then retreated back from the rebel bodies pressing against them. It forced Archambeau to forget his own possible death and pay attention to the battle around him.

The ten men in front of him died in swift succession, and he found himself on the front line facing the impenetrable shield wall. Spears lashed out from behind it. The soldier to his right died and another came rushing in to fill the space, stepping on the dead man. Archambeau, too, was stepping on the dead that covered the field.

Shield up, Archambeau uselessly thrust his blade at the enemy; the hand-and-a-half sword didn’t have the reach of the spears. A spearman stabbed him, snapping the mail links and driving the blade an inch into his right shoulder. The spear tip was pulled out of his body and a gush of blood followed. The rebel attempted to block Archambeau’s wild swinging, but a lucky cut at the neck ended his life. As the man collapsed, another rebel filled the gap created. A screaming rebel rushed past the knight, now seized by battle madness. A slice across the rebel’s spine dropped him face-first.

Bringing his shield close to his body again, Archambeau searched for his next opponent. Only, he had trouble focusing on the rebels. He couldn’t think clearly. The noise of the battle raged not only through his veins but also in his ears, increasing in volume every minute that passed. If he kept fighting, he would collapse from heatstroke. Surely, it would end soon; they had been fighting for hours. He was beginning to suspect the heat was affecting his mind—he was having trouble connecting two thoughts together. He almost shuddered at the thought of a brain he’d seen. A horse had taken a chunk of a man’s skull, exposing a dark grey mass.

Mud stuck to his pants, and the divided blue-and-yellow tunic he wore was torn. A bandage tied around a cut on his forearm had opened and blood had soaked every white thread. A blackish patch from another wound stained his pant leg. The chainmail cooked him alive. Underneath the helmet, his head was drenched in sweat.

The battle conspired against him by putting a pikeman directly before him. Clothed in gambeson and a helmet, the man twirled his pike in an arc and cut down two men with ease. Cold fear ran up Archambeau’s spine.

He overly relied on his shield, fearfully trusting it to defend against the oncoming blows as he uselessly swung his sword. He was being overly cautious, not wanting to attack until he had a guaranteed hit. The shield blocked a swing and a stab before his own sword struck the shaft of the pike.

Distracted by his own fears, Archambeau allowed his kite shield to take yet another battering before the pikeman managed to slip his spike underneath the shield. The spike touched Archambeau’s gut and would have killed him if he had not stepped back.

The knight sucked in breath. Disposing of all caution, he attacked. A cut to the man’s arm made him flinch, then a cut to his legs brought him to his knees. A sword to the heart ended his life, and the pikeman collapsed, dead.

Have I beaten fate? Am I free of it?

The pikeman’s death cleared Archambeau’s head, and he almost laughed. How silly he had been! He’d already killed a pikeman earlier in the battle, so he needn’t have been worried at all. He’d also already defied the vision and corrected that fatal mistake; the pikeman had killed his horse, not him. The third pikeman had stood not a chance in Hell. Archambeau was invincible, and there was not a single power on Earth that could kill him.

An effect fell over him: His restless blood and young mind (which often prove a dangerous pairing) goaded each other. Stories of heroes filled his mind while his blood pumped loudly in his ears. He was still invincible. He could save every soldier here. He could turn the tide of this battle and kill the rebel count.

And like that, Archambeau again made the same mistake that got Vainqueur killed and would kill him.

He fought on, no longer fearful of pikemen. No longer fearful of anything. He fought brashly, taking needless risks and cuts because he thought he couldn’t die.

He stabbed an enemy soldier between the ribs, earning him a gash on the cheek from a slicing spear. When he drew too close to the enemy, a nearby soldier punched him, then wrapped a hand around his neck and pushed him back—but Archambeau killed the soldier. His sword shaved the skin off the man’s head, and, screaming, the soldier fell to the ground and was trampled to death. A spearman stepped over the soldier to fill the gap in the line and died too. Another came; another died.

Volleys of arrows flew up, arced, and came down upon them. Each one that hit Archambeau made him wince, but his armor protected him.

He pushed a striking spear tip aside with his shield, then lunged forward to stab a rebel in the stomach. The tip of another spear shot past his face, then pulled back. The spearman diagonally from him kept him at bay with his weapon’s reach advantage. The foot soldier to the knight’s right—a man with white hair—noticed the trouble he was having and managed to stab the enemy spearman in the neck.

Archambeau yelled his thanks an instant before an enemy knight took the foot soldier’s left arm clean off at the elbow. The white-haired man didn’t even scream; he just stared at the stump of his arm in amazement that it could be gone. The sea of soldiers swallowed him up. None of that mattered, for Archambeau found himself fighting the enemy knight.

Sidestepping a downward cut, Archambeau blocked the next swing with his shield and was bashed in the chest by the enemy’s shield. Gasping for breath, Archambeau saw a hole in the knight’s chainmail shirt at the right armpit. When the knight feigned a downward cut and stabbed forward, Archambeau leaned far to the right. From behind him, an overeager foot soldier ran up, thinking Archambeau had died, only to be cut down himself by the enemy knight. Archambeau used his shield to knock the knight’s sword hand away, giving him the opening he needed to slip his sword in the gap. A single thrust detached the knight’s arm from his body at the shoulder.

The fighting continued until a man behind Archambeau pulled him back and took his place.

With a moment to rest, Archambeau looked over the tops of helmets to get a view of the battlefield: They were losing just like in the vision. How? The once organized line of foot soldiers was now a ragged strand of men desperately fighting the enemy. Despite the cavalry’s efforts, they were on the verge of retreating. The bannerman of the company to his right was moments away from being overrun by the rebels. The king’s cavalry was now engaged with the enemy’s own horsemen, and that looked to be going even worse than on the ground. Archambeau didn’t know where Guarin or Roul were in that melee, or if they were even alive.

A horn blew from far behind him. The high note cut through the noise of spears hitting shields and shields hitting faces and faces yelling. Following the horn came calls of “Retreat!”

A few broke away at first. Some of them lost their wits and ran into the forest. The soldiers surrounding Archambeau retreated in an unorganized mess before he had a chance to try and keep them in formation. Unable to do so, he retreated with them while the enemy pushed after them. The tension became too great, and the line broke: The king’s army turned their backs on the rebels and ran. The rebels gave chase, and the chaos spread. Immediately, Archambeau was surrounded three to one.

Trapped and encircled by two spearman and a man wielding a bec de corbin,[1] Archambeau braced himself as they attacked him together. Fighting an opponent on either side was tactically bad. He should have been cautious, but he was invincible. The knight easily dispatched one of the spearmen and traded blows with the second while avoiding the bec de corbin’s curved beak before he finally sliced the man’s arm. But then Archambeau was caught with his shield too high, and the hammer of the bec slammed into his side, cracking a rib.

A breath caught in his throat, Archambeau froze. The two rebels attacked him at the same time. With all his strength, the soldier swung his bec de corbin. Archambeau reacted too late; the beak broke through his mail and buried itself into his gut while the other man’s spear pierced the chainmail on his back. Yanking their weapons out, both men turned away and engaged other opponents, confident Archambeau would die.

Spluttering from the shock and the pain, Archambeau dropped the shield and staggered toward the forest. Every step brought stinging, fiery hot pain. He squeezed the wound on his left side, warm blood gushing past his fingers. Breathing heavy, he held on to his sword, dragging it across the muddy field to an oak tree. Muted yelling, with overtones of curses, reached his ears.

Collapsing at the foot of the oak tree on the edge of the wood, he had only the strength remaining to exhale. The blood had gone from his face, departing from his open wounds, leaving him paler than a ghost. Pain throbbed up and down his body. It was a struggle to breathe properly. He had let the old woman down, and he had let Guarin down, and that stung worse than his death.

The strong smell of iron brought some clarity for a moment, enough to snap his mind into focus and see—to his horror—a charging pikeman. Desperately, he tried to raise the hand-and-a-half sword, but the thing had grown so heavy in his hand that he couldn’t lift it. Eyes wide and helpless, he watched as the charging pikeman ran him through.

“Rally! Rally! Rally to me!” yelled someone. “For the king, rally!”

Blinking, he saw through the sweat stinging his eyes the king’s army rally and attack the rebels, pushing them back and toward the city.

A shuddering last breath rippled through his body as he died. He hadn’t beaten the vision; he hadn’t avoided his own death. The old woman had warned him, and he’d still died. The knowledge I’ve gained: What use is it now? … What a loss, he thought as his consciousness slipped away and his soul[2] left his body and entered—

—the hallway from the second door on the right.

Archambeau planted his hands on the opposite wall to support his shaky legs. The sounds of the battle had ended with the vision, but the ringing in his ears took several minutes to fade. As it did, he heard the geese honking.

“God’s Holy Foot,” he whispered, “why must you continue to show me my own demise?”

He stared at the wall. Imprinted on his eyes was the face of the pikeman, the murderous glee lighting his face. Goose pimples spread over his body, and he shivered in spite of how warm the house was. Not even a chill breeze crept in through the hole in the roof.

“You are a knight. Much that you do leads to death,” the blind woman said.

Injury and death as a knight were always possible, but it was something you accepted and carried on with, never giving it much thought until it finally happened. No one enjoyed thinking about their own mortality. To be confronted with it twice was some form of torture.

“This is not a task I take pleasure in,” she continued. “Whatever amount of torture it is for you, know that I wish I could show you this another way.”

“I believe you.” The ringing in his ears quieted to a buzz before ceasing altogether. He stepped away from the wall, rubbing his forehead. “So I shouldn’t go to Villaruiss and I shouldn’t fight in this battle. What, then, am I supposed to do?”

Avoiding battle: It was a ridiculous notion to entertain. He would gladly fight in any campaign as he was trained to do so. Even after the experience of dying twice, he wanted that. The memory of the gore and the pain crept back into his mind, almost making him heave. The pain was the worst part. He had seen plenty of blood as a squire, from hunting wild animals to seeing a battle from the sidelines to observing the gruesome job of a barber-surgeon as he dealt with injured soldiers. But he had never felt the sensation of getting stabbed or having wolves eat him—he almost heaved again. Getting plenty of cuts, bruises, and a broken arm couldn’t compare.

The old woman shook her head. “A man cannot avoid his fate, and you are fated to fight in this battle. Your actions will decide if you live or die.”

“Why will there be a battle?” he asked, rubbing his forehead again. “How did it start, and why should I fight?”

“You will fight because you pledged to defend the king. He will need your help.”

“If I had known I needed to stay here and help King Hugh, I would never have set off to join the Grail hunt!”

“I chose well with you,” she said with a grin. “Some paths are more likely to be taken, and some more obvious than others. That does not make them the right path. And, once decided, it never helps to dwell on the path not taken.”

Archambeau grunted in agreement.

“Now step into the next room.”

The knight planted himself in front of the third door on the left and stared it down. Not again. Please, God, not another death. He opened the door and--

[1] A bec de corbin (or “raven’s beak” in Old French) is a polearm with a spear at the top of the pole, a hammer on the side, and an opposite “beak” or spike used for piercing mail and plate armor.

[2] From the monks’ surviving personal writings, the inclusion of the line stating Archambeau’s soul leaving his body was a topic of much debate. They reference one version of the story that has Archambeau’s soul entering Hell since he is unable to be the man he is supposed to be. To the monks, Archambeau’s soul does not leave his body, and they use the line only for poetic purposes.