[EDWARD’S POV]

 

September 2, 1338

 

The unforeseen turn of events struck me like a bolt from the blue, especially as I had departed the capital with the three thousand men my father had stationed there. My assumptions had faltered. I had deemed the capital secure, for the only viable approach was through the sea, and all vessels in the vicinity had been meticulously eliminated by my own hand just last year. Moreover, I had taken measures to fortify and safeguard the coasts. How, then, had this invasion come to pass?

 

The possibility of Scottish aid lingered in my thoughts, yet I knew our troops stationed in the highlands were strategically placed. They couldn’t have missed an army enough to siege the largest city on the isle and even if they did, the capital lay far from those lands, making it implausible for the French to sustain a substantial army for the entire journey.

 

But rationality faltered in the wake of urgency. Turning to Rufus with an urgent tone, I managed to force out, “How?” It was all I could muster. The shock had seized my voice, leaving my throat dry and my mind racing. In mere moments of hearing the news, perspiration coated my skin, a sign of the gravity of the situation.

 

Rufus’ response hit me like a cold wave crashing against a shore. “The Welsh. They facilitated the Castillian vessels carrying the French troops to reach the Welsh coasts. They struck an accord with local Welsh lords, granting safe passage and bolstering the nemesis with additional troops destined for England,” he explained, a tinge of regret palpable in his voice. His disappointment mirrored my own, recognizing the critical loopholes that had been exploited.

 

The alliance between the Castillians and the French blindsided me. Their decision to collaborate ahead of any anticipated alignment caught us completely off guard, unraveling a fatal flaw in my meticulously laid plans for the future—and now, this unexpected invasion. But amidst this troubling realization, another pressing question emerged.

 

"That seems feasible, but how did they manage to make it all the way to the capital? There are marcher lords specifically appointed to guard against such incursions from Wales," I replied, a deep-seated worry evident in my voice.

 

"There are, indeed, but they can't possibly keep an eye on every nook and cranny at all times. The French troops likely employed tactics of deception—dividing their forces and disguising themselves as traders. As for the soldiers, I'm not entirely certain how they were misled, but it's highly probable that the local village leaders were efficiently bribed," Rufus explained, his words devoid of emotion, painting a disheartening picture of betrayal and subterfuge.

 

"Then they struck when the iron was hot, right within the heart of the city," I murmured, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

 

"Yes, milord. Our capital is now under occupation, with the royal castle itself under siege," Rufus confirmed, his voice devoid of any fluctuation, ending with a heavy sigh.

 

"But how did you manage to gather this information?" I inquired, feeling the weight of a city besieged, pondering how communication could flow when encircled by adversaries from every side.

 

"Didn't you leave 'Gosh' at the capital with the young prince?" Rufus remarked with a sly glint in his eyes.

 

His words struck a chord. 'Gosh,' the falcon, was in my care since my father's disappearance. I had decided to entrust the bird to Prince Edward, thinking it might facilitate communication between us over time. Little did I anticipate its significance in such dire circumstances.

 

"What are the orders, Rufus?!" I demanded, urgency coursing through my voice as I sought immediate direction in the face of the unfolding crisis.

 

"The king has requested urgent reinforcements. It's been a day since the occupation, and almost everything besides the royal castle is under French control," Rufus relayed with an air of confidence.

 

"Reinforcements it is then." I spoke assertively, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down. "Rufus, muster every troop we have, even the constabularies. We've got a kingdom to save!"

 

With urgency driving my words, I knew that time was of the essence in reclaiming what was rightfully ours.

 

Rufus dropped to one knee and offered a swift bow before dashing down the corridor toward the barracks. The urgency in his departure signaled the imminent flurry of activity about to consume us. In times like these, rest becomes a luxury—every moment is claimed by pressing matters, each one followed by another in rapid succession. Time seems to slip through our fingers like sand, lost to the demands of duty. 

 

The divergence from historical reality has widened considerably. There's never been a recorded instance in true history where London fell directly under French control due to invasion—excluding, of course, the Norman Conquest of 1066. This deviation adds a weighty layer to the unfolding events.

 

My thoughts raced, painting vivid portraits of those within the castle whose lives hung in the balance—the King and Queen, their heirs, Earl Henry, my prospective father-in-law, Sir Walter Manny, and Vascalta. Each of their fates now rested precariously amid the turmoil of this invasion.

 

Despite my relentless attempts to bury my feelings for her, I find myself faltering at every turn. I’m convinced it’s a passing infatuation, a fleeting attraction that holds no significant place in my life's narrative. I need to release her from my thoughts and regain my composure. There’s a purpose to my presence in this timeline, and as someone of my status, women of her ilk are readily available. Yet, I must remind myself that she doesn’t play a pivotal role in my life.

 

My moral compass has kept me from acting on my feelings and moving on swiftly. I appreciate that restraint. She leads a respectable life with a steady income. She would then go on to marry a commoner and lead an ordinary, unremarkable life. Our paths diverge, destined never to converge, and I've come to accept that. Sometimes, despite our feelings, circumstances dictate separate futures.

 

Pushing aside distracting thoughts, I strode purposefully toward my writing desk, seized a fresh parchment, and began to pen urgent missives. My letters beckoned the lords under my vassalage, calling upon their loyalty for the sake of their kingdom. Strategizing swiftly, I devised a plan to dispatch both Gosh and Zephyr, the falcons that I’ve as of now, on a rapid relay to ensure that all letters reach their intended recipient within a span of three to four hours. Every moment counted, and I couldn't afford any delay in rallying support.

 

Contemplating the logistics, I found no plausible means for all my earls to swiftly amass their forces and converge on Norwich within a mere day. Realizing this, I charted a different course of action: I resolved to set out on my march by noon, aiming to reach London ahead of time. Rather than awaiting the synchronous assembly of my vassals, I devised a plan for them to join my main force gradually, aggregating their troops along the journey. This staggered approach would allow us to consolidate our strength en route to our ultimate destination.

 

The impending siege carries the weight of brutality, especially for the local populace of London who will bear the brunt of its harsh consequences. Their numbers, ranging between 40,000 to 50,000, heighten the stakes. Their sustenance, the food production within the city, appears abundant enough to sustain the French occupants throughout the prolonged siege. Further, the Thames River serves as their primary water source, ensuring the enemy’s resilience against prolonged isolation.

 

The pivotal concern looms over the royal castle: should the French secure it before our siege commences, our cause is imperiled. The saying holds true: losing a king often means losing the kingdom. Unfortunately, our chances of defeating them before they infiltrate and take control of the royal castle seem slim. Their success within our walls could spell our defeat before we even engage them in battle.

 

I meticulously considered every conceivable option, but each path led to the same conclusion: a siege in response to their siege, an invasion to counter their invasion.

 

I abandoned the letters I had already penned and set about crafting new missives. Precision was crucial; each recipient needed a tailored message. I framed unique missives to every earl under my command, Baron Seymour of Cromer, Ramiro Maris of the borough of Yarmouth, and Henry of Grosmont, the son of Henry, 3rd Earl of Lancaster, and my future spouse, Mary of Lancaster’s elder brother. Each letter held its own set of instructions, aligning with the complexities of our current predicament.

 

An hour passed in a flurry of meticulous writing and strategic planning. As I sealed the last letter, a gentle knock resonated through the room.

 

"Enter," I called out.

 

The door creaked open, revealing Rufus. His presence showed his tireless efforts, evident in the sheen of sweat upon his brow. It was clear he'd been dashing about, swiftly conveying critical information.

 

"Milord," Rufus began, his words coming in rapid succession, "the soldiers are alerted and poised to depart within an hour. Messengers have been dispatched to all the barons, rallying their forces. Additionally, the constabularies across the earldom have been notified to assemble in Norwich." His urgency conveyed the gravity of the situation, emphasizing the swift mobilization of troops and allies.

 

"Calm yourself, Rufus. We'll navigate this challenge," I reassured, understanding his evident anxiety. Composure is crucial when leading men into battle. "Now, how many troops do we currently have stationed in Norwich?" I inquired, aiming to ascertain our initial forces in the city.

 

"We currently have 4,500 troops stationed in Norwich, along with approximately 1,500 in Wymondham," Rufus reported, mentally calculating the numbers. "From the barons across the earldom, we anticipate an additional thousand soldiers, and the constabularies are expected to assemble about 2,000. If we include the RnS unit, we can add another 500 to our forces," he detailed.

 

"Ah, so roughly 9,000 troops are at our disposal," I mused, processing the information. Turning to Rufus, I inquired further, "Do you have any estimate on the total number we can muster from the entire duchy of East Anglia?"

 

"Milord, I anticipate an increase of another three to four thousand troops from the other earldoms combined," Rufus responded with a respectful bow.

 

"Hm, so potentially twelve thousand in total. That should suffice." I acknowledged the estimated count, then shifted the focus to our naval resources which I was already aware of but decided to ask nevertheless. "And the count of available ships for our use?"

 

"We currently possess a hundred vessels, or a hundred and fifty if we consider the merchant vessels lending support," Rufus confidently reported, reflecting recent research and coordination efforts.

 

"Excellent. Thank you, Rufus. I'll rendezvous with you outside the barracks shortly. Please assemble the troops in readiness," I instructed, offering a reassuring smile as I prepared to join him.