[WALTER’S POV]

 

August 15, 1338

 

The young lad wasted no time in accepting my challenge, promptly borrowing a wooden practice sword from one of the soldiers training nearby. I, too, requisitioned a practice sword, swiftly obtaining one for the impending duel. As he took up his stance, I observed with keen interest.

 

I've witnessed numerous sword styles and stances throughout my life, yet the one before me now transcended mere proficiency. It embodied perfection, an immaculate form that left no room for exploitation. His stance was akin to a flowing river—relaxed, yet ever-ready to strike at a moment's notice. It promised fluidity, a seamless transition between offense and defense. Could it be that the Earl imparted a closely guarded family technique to him? The thought flickered but quickly extinguished itself. Having witnessed the Earl's combat skills, they were commendable, but they lacked the refined elegance displayed by this lad.

 

No, this level of finesse was beyond what I had ever seen from the Earl or his known teachings. It begged the question: where did this mastery stem from?

 

For decades, I've immersed myself in the intricate art of swordsmanship. My father, a mentor in both life and combat, bestowed upon me a legacy—the Fleur d'Acier Sword Style—a treasured technique passed down through generations within our family line. The mastery of this style took me a formidable span of time. Divided into five volumes, each segment demanded an average of three years of dedicated training, culminating in its completion five years ago.

 

As tradition dictated, I positioned myself in my own stance, allowing him the first strike—a sign of the chivalry instilled in me through the teachings of our family style, to let the younger one strike first. His blow, swift and forceful, resonated with a quiet intensity, the whooshing of the air its only accompaniment. Surprising in its strength, even with the wooden sword he wielded. Had it not been for my years of rigorous training, his attack could have swiftly disarmed me. It became evident that underestimating this lad was a grave mistake.

 

Responding in kind, I executed one of the foundational strikes from the initial volume of my sword style, known as L'Essence de la Maîtrise. However, to my surprise, Edd deflected it effortlessly with minimal effort. Seizing the momentum, he launched a rapid counterattack, each strike testing my defenses. Blocking his onslaught proved to be a formidable challenge.

 

In retaliation, I unleashed the more intricate and nuanced strikes that defined my style—crafted upon the foundation of precision and power. My blow, swift and agile, managed to stagger the lad momentarily, but he swiftly adapted, countering my assault with remarkable resilience. It was becoming apparent that Edd possessed a level of adaptability and skill that far surpassed my initial estimations.

 

Four years ago, his prowess was commendable, especially considering his frail physique at the time. Back then, while he displayed skill above the average for his age, I wouldn't have deemed him a particularly competent swordsman. However, the transformation he's undergone since then is nothing short of remarkable. His physique—his face, his arms, his legs—all hint at a newfound strength and muscle definition, far removed from the frailty I once associated with him. His agility and speed now bear no resemblance to that of a feeble youth.

 

It didn't take long for him to showcase another display of his refined swordsmanship—a thrust that, to the untrained eye, might seem commonplace. But I know better. The sheer speed and fluidity with which he executed the move were no mere feat. In fact, the blade of his sword seemed to undulate as it surged forward. Yet, in a moment of keen observation, I discerned the subtle intricacy of his technique, allowing me to barely parry his thrust. His skill had evolved to a level where such maneuvers could easily deceive an average soldier.

 

The duel went on for five more minutes and several spectators joined in. Young Prince Edward also joined the spectator group as he stood ahead of everyone to see. His eyes gleamed as he saw his close relative fight against me, a decorated strategist and knight. Though Edd himself is a knight, there’s a clear difference in skill between a knight of name and a knight of efforts, but that line of partition seems to be fading as the duel is continuing. 

 

In the culmination of our duel, I resorted to executing the compiled strike from the final volume of my sword style, L'Éclipse du Maître, effectively bringing an end to our bout. His inability to counter was primarily due to his incomplete mastery of the sword style he was using. I am certain that given a few more years to refine his skills, he will easily surpass my current capabilities. It's a testament to the truth that each new generation inevitably surpasses the last.

 

As a gesture of acknowledgment, I offered the lad a pat on his back—our personal ritual that used to involve a friendly tap on his head. However, his rapid growth spurt has swiftly brought him to my own height. Witnessing this transformation from the days when he was significantly shorter feels rather peculiar, another sign of the fleeting nature of life's experiences. Yet, it's one more memory to be cataloged among the many I'll carry over the years. Returning the wooden practice sword to the trainees, I noted the descent of the sun and summoned my subordinates back to the barracks as evening approached.

 

—--------------

 

[EDWARD’S POV]

 

August 16, 1338

 

The duel from yesterday left me feeling exhilarated but also with an ache that lingered throughout the evening, prompting an early supper and an early night's rest. It's one of the perks of royalty—I can indulge in my routines as I please, and most wouldn't bat an eye to it.

 

This morning, I found myself waking up an hour later than my usual routine. Missing my exercise regimen for a day shouldn't make a significant difference, especially considering the intensity of yesterday's duel. The physical exertion from the bout surely compensated for the missed exercise.

 

Today's agenda revolves around the meticulous task of reviewing the tax records for the earldoms and baronies in East Anglia. As the soon-to-be duke and already serving as the Warden, this responsibility falls under my jurisdiction.

 

—------------------

 

August 19, 1338

 

Amidst the heavy air of anticipation, no news arrived. 

 

Then, in a solemn moment, the declaration came—my father had been declared deceased. The weight of this news settled heavily upon everyone, marking the beginning of preparations for my impending investiture ceremony. This ceremony would not only grant me my father's estates and titles but also confer upon me the esteemed and independent title of Duke. 

 

My influence within the royal court had surged significantly since my arrival in London, and I suspected the reason behind this newfound prominence.

 

The announcement of my investiture ceremony echoed across public spaces in the preceding days, drawing a massive gathering both within and outside the castle walls. The throngs of people, a majority hailing from Norfolk, particularly from Norwich, Wymondham, and Cromer, assembled in eager anticipation.

 

Amidst the grandeur of the royal court, the heralds' voices resonated, heralding my entrance: "Lord Edward of House Plantagenet, Warden of East Anglia, Regent of the Earldom of Norfolk, and 2nd Baron of Wymondham."

 

The opulent hall was aglow with the gentle radiance of countless candles, weaving an atmosphere of regality. King Edward III, draped in resplendent royal robes, presided over the ceremonious affair from his throne. Standing before the majestic figure, I cloaked my emotions with a veneer of composure, a blend of reverence and resolve adorning my countenance.

 

In a tone that resonated warmth and solemnity, the king beckoned, "Edward Plantagenet, approach."

 

With a mix of anticipation and nervousness coursing through me, I advanced toward the throne, striving to maintain a semblance of poise. As I reached the king, I bowed deeply, paying homage to his esteemed position.

 

With a gesture, the king bid me to rise. "Rise, young Edward. Your father's legacy, though shadowed in sorrow, calls upon you to step forth into a new era."

 

An attendant, bearing the ceremonial robe intricately embroidered with the insignia of the earldom, approached.

 

"Today, we honor the memory of your father and bestow upon you his esteemed titles. With this robe, we entrust you with the stewardship of Norfolk," proclaimed the king, the weight of his words echoing in the hallowed space.

 

Head bowed in a show of respect, I accepted the robe, recognizing the solemnity of the moment—an investiture laden with the legacy of my lineage.

 

Amidst the ceremonial exchange, a pivotal juncture hung in the air—a defining moment poised to elevate my status further within the kingdom's hierarchy. The king, prepared to confer an additional honor, stood ready to bestow upon me a title of unparalleled significance.

 

Addressing the assembled audience with regal bearing, the king declared, "Edward of House Plantagenet, stands before you as the rightful heir to the earldom of Norfolk." Turning to me, he continued, "Yet, today holds another honor in store for you."

 

"For your steadfast loyalty, unwavering allegiance, and promising leadership, I bestow upon you a title befitting your lineage and dedication to our realm."

 

An attendant, bearing a parchment bearing the royal seal, approached the king with reverence, presenting the document.

 

Unfurling the parchment with due reverence, the king pronounced, "By the authority vested in me by divine providence and the legacy of my ancestors, I hereby raise you to the esteemed position of Duke of East Anglia."

 

Overwhelmed by the gravity of the moment, I knelt before the throne, profoundly moved by the honor bestowed upon me.

 

In a humble yet resolute tone, I replied, "Your Majesty, I am deeply humbled by this gracious gesture. I pledge to honor these titles with unwavering dedication, following in the footsteps of those who came before me."

 

"Rise, Duke Edward of House Plantagenet. The realm awaits your noble stewardship. Govern with compassion, lead with integrity, and let your actions resonate the grace of your-no, our lineage," proclaimed the king.

 

The grand hall erupted with thunderous applause, marking the ascent of Duke Edward of East Anglia—a momentous occasion destined to etch its mark upon the annals of history.

 

—----------------

 

August 20, 1338

 

Last night proved to be an exhausting affair. The afterparty, or feast as they term it, became a convergence point for a myriad of nobles, easily surpassing a hundred in number, hailing from every corner of the kingdom. Their motivations were evident—each vied for my favor. It's hardly surprising; the allure of having a young royal, whose influence nearly rivals that of the king himself, align with their causes.

 

My direct dominion now extends over the earldom of Norfolk, while I hold sway over the earldoms of Cambridgeshire, Suffolk, and Essex indirectly through the vassalage of their respective earls. Although the tax revenue might not match the returns from my cement endeavors, it still amounts to a considerable figure. As for the potential military strength I could amass from my lands, estimates hover between 12,000 to 15,000—a testament to the substantial force I could command.

 

Tomorrow marks my departure from the capital alongside the three hundred men who accompanied me and the two thousand men my father once brought. Presently, London doesn't demand their presence, considering the French forces seem to maintain a passive stance. Negotiations, from my perspective, progress acceptably. There's a glimmer of hope for a truce, although it remains speculative. The harsh reality often diverges from our hopeful projections.

 

Elevation to the esteemed title of Duke has engendered a burgeoning following, casting me as a contender for the throne. Previously, during my father's tenure as an earl, he was perceived as a potential claimant, yet his inclination to vie for the throne was improbable. The prevailing sentiment toward me is different—I'm seen as youthful, impulsive, juxtaposed against the current king's decisions that embroiled the kingdom in conflict with a significantly stronger nation. His public image has suffered considerable deterioration. These circumstances create fertile ground for dissent—a rebellion that seeks to depose the current ruler and institute a new order.

 

The prospect of being viewed as a rival for the throne, whether intentional or not, adds layers of complexity to my already burgeoning responsibilities. While opportunity for change lurks within these dissenting murmurs, navigating such treacherous waters demands caution and strategic acumen. The realm teeters on the edge of transformation, and the weight of such potential upheaval bears heavily upon my shoulders.