A Page Out of History
By Bev Kaufman
[vc_row][vc_column width=”1/2″][vc_column_text]To Crecy, France, the English came,
A bloody war to wage,
They cost the French their finest knights,
And Jacques, a gallant page.
Sir Jean de Fuselles rose at dawn,
He roused Jacques from his dreams;
“Now polish well my thirsty sword
‘Til the deadly metal gleams.
“Then bid them bring my fiery black,
The one that loves to prance,
This day we’ll ride to victory
And the glory that is France.”
His page did all that was required
Except in one small way,
He sent not for the fiery black,
But Job, the placid grey.
Sir Jean did glower at the sight,
He nearly struck the lad;
“How dare you think that I would ride
A nag that looks so bad?”
“Yet ride him, sir,” the young page begged,
“And leave the black behind.
His heart is good, his step is sure
As any horse you’ll find.
“The charger’s never been to war;
He’s likely to take fright.
While Job’s a veteran steed who’ll guard
The life of my brave knight.”
But Sir Jean’s honor was at stake,
He meant to have his way;
He rode proud Tempest to the war;
Jacques followed on the grey.
The French knights charged the English lines;
The archers stood their ground;
They aimed a thousand deadly shafts
And mowed the Frenchmen down.
The air was filled with dying shrieks;
The ground was wet and red;
The black was crazed with blackest fear;
He took the bit and fled.
In vain Sir Jean sawed at the reins
To stop the wild ride;
The panicked steed tore from the field
Straight toward the English side.
The page boy saw the charger bolt;
To danger he was blind;
He spurred his horse to take pursuit
And galloped hard behind.
The English shot as Jean plunged by
And many shots went wide,
‘Til one old warrior sent his shaft
Into poor Tempest’s side.
The charger screamed and broke his stride,
Yet plunged on his mad course;
The archer shrugged, then turned to aim
At yet another horse.
He put the notch close to his ear,
With care he marked his prey,
Then saw a boy, alone, unarmed,
And turned his bow away.
The charger’s strength at last gave out;
He fell upon the ground;
As Jean lay helpless in a ditch
He heard a wondrous sound.
“Up, master, quick!” he heard Jacques cry,
“There isn’t time to waste;
The enemy stands ‘twixt us and home;
Let’s flee with utmost haste.”
“How can we when my Tempest’s dead?”
Jean gave an ugly oath.
“Climb up behind me,” Jacques replied,
“My Job can take us both.”
The English held the countryside;
They had to travel ’round;
They kept to woods whene’er they may
And dashed ‘cross open ground.
Job showed his worth as never before;
A heavy load he bore;
Through bramble, thicket, hill and vale,
His foot was always sure.
At last they neared the battlefield;
They saw the banners wave;
They thought they’d found their friends again;
Instead they found their grave.
The archers waited in the wood,
A fearsome show of force;
They slew the riders, man and boy,
And the weary laboring horse.
Job felt the burden leave his back
–‘Twas that which brought him ’round;
He stumbled back, as if he thought
They’d rise up from the ground
To mount again. But then he saw
That Jacques would no more ride.
‘Twas only then the grey would heed
The arrow in his side.
The king regretted Sir Jean’s death;
The ladies wept, of course;
But who mourned for a gallant page
And his no less gallant horse?