5 days ago…

[EDWARD’S POV]

September 8, 1338

One hundred and forty-four ships departed from the bustling port of Norwich, laden with the weight of a formidable force: ten thousand troops, assembled meticulously over a span of four days. The grand departure was orchestrated on the crisp, promising day of September 6th, setting sail for the coveted coastal jewel, Calais. Among this formidable fleet, Osbert commanded a contingent of twenty-five ships, equipped with two thousand soldiers and mighty cannons, charged with the strategic task of blockading the river Seine at Le Havre.

While the possibility of reaching our destination on the previous evening lingered, I exercised prudence, choosing to await the veil of a moonless night to cloak our approach to the shore. Despite its potential impact on our men's vision, the shroud of darkness held promise as a tactical advantage.

After patiently biding our time for several hours, observing the ebb and flow of city life until its hum dwindled to a mere whisper, we executed our disembarkation strategy. In stealthy clusters of 100-150, we made landfall at a prudent distance of no less than half a kilometer from the primary shoreline, evading the vigilant gaze of the city's guards. With silent determination, we traversed the coastline, exploiting the protective embrace of night's shadow.

Approximately 50 meters from the formidable walls of the city, our labor commenced. Over a hundred men toiled at each excavation site, wielding the stout shovels ferried from Norwich upon our vessels. Ten discreet openings began to form, a network of tunnels purposefully crafted with meticulous precision.

These subterranean passages, a clandestine labyrinth, would eventually converge at a singular destination on the far side of the wall, nestled within the sheltering embrace of a woodland enclave. It is within these verdant confines that our forces shall gather, shrouded from the prying eyes of the city's inhabitants. My calculations place the initiation of our nocturnal excavation endeavors around 9 PM, a tireless effort that persisted for several hours...

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September 9,1338

As the first golden fingers of dawn stretched across the horizon, our task drew to its conclusion. With precision and stealth, two thousand of us executed our plan, infiltrating the walls much like the French invaders in London had done. Preparedness was our forte; we carried ample weaponry and equipment, intending to procure the remainder from our adversaries themselves once inside. The strategy had been meticulously imparted to the soldiers before our departure, alleviating any concerns I might have harbored. This level of preparation ensured our focus remained steadfast on the task at hand.

 

Under the shroud of pre-dawn obscurity, our unit had stealthily navigated through the thickets, converging at the secret opening within the forest's depths. Our entry point into the coastal city, concealed by the dug hole, marked the commencement of our covert mission. Our primary target: the so-called military barracks, a misnomer for what appeared to be a mere shell of its intended purpose. Contrary to expectations, it lacked a centralized storage area for weaponry and armor. Each soldier bore the responsibility of safeguarding their own armaments, amplifying the risks of misplacement or unauthorized access.

 

Equally troubling was the absence of fundamental amenities within the barracks' confines. Facilities essential for daily life, such as bathing areas and lavatories, were glaringly absent. The soldiers left without these basic necessities, were compelled to traverse into the town, seeking respite and hygiene in communal bathing spaces. This reliance on external facilities, inadvertently exposed their forces to potential vulnerabilities. The communal baths, while providing necessary comforts, often became inadvertent hubs for discussions and exchanges, serving as a fertile ground for the accidental leakage of sensitive information. The inadvertent disclosure of sensitive details from the Calais barracks became a topic of widespread discussion, particularly among the merchants hailing from Kent. These traders, engaged in regular commerce with their counterparts in Calais, often found themselves privy to information about the barracks due to the soldiers' interactions in shared bathing spaces. However, the ongoing conflict between the two nations has led to strict limitations on such trade activities for the time being.

 

With a contingent of two thousand men, we ensured that each soldier possessed a short sword, while half of our forces were donned in armor. Strategically, the armored troops took the lead as we advanced toward the barracks. However, our attempt at subterfuge proved futile. Maneuvering such a substantial force within a town barely boasting a population of ten thousand rendered our efforts at stealth practically impossible. The sheer size of our unit made covert movement through the town's streets an impractical endeavor, foiling our intentions to move undetected.

Initially, our presence went unnoticed, blending into the routine comings and goings of the local militia. Their initial dismissal turned to alarm as our numbers became evident, far surpassing their own modest contingent of five hundred. Panic rippled through the streets like wildfire as rumors of an enemy breach spread like a contagion. In mere minutes, the entire town shuttered its doors and closed its shops, the populace driven by the belief that their defenders had been vanquished, and the enemy was upon them.

 

Amid this chaos, we swiftly advanced towards the sole barrack in Calais, conveniently located within a five-minute walk from the forest's edge where we had emerged. The panicked town, cocooned within its walls, hardly had the time to comprehend the imminent threat now looming at their very doorstep.

 

The barracks, as expected, followed the conventional rectangular layout typical of functional military structures. It prioritized utility over luxury, evident in its unadorned design. The absence of windows, while seemingly austere, served as a strategic defense measure, providing a fortified perimeter in the event of an enemy assault. It was a practical choice, safeguarding the barracks against potential attacks, although, truthfully, the prospect of an assault on the barracks before an attack on the city walls seemed improbable.

 

Among the contingent of five hundred, roughly two hundred soldiers were on active guard duty at any given time. The remaining three hundred were scattered, with approximately two hundred and fifty dispersed within their homes or frequented brothels, available for duty only when summoned by their comrades for shift rotations. This arrangement spoke to the barracks' casual approach to readiness, relying on an informal system of mobilization.

 

The remaining fifty individuals likely comprised young recruits or less experienced soldiers. In the absence of their senior counterparts, these youths were potentially tasked with managing the site, entrusted with maintaining order and readiness in the event of any unforeseen circumstances or shifts in guard responsibilities.

 

The dawn had barely cracked the horizon, bleeding a bloody sunrise onto the dew-kissed fields, when I made my move. Fifty men, ghosts in the pre-dawn gloom, melted into the enemy barracks. The young French patrols, eyes bleary after a night of revelry, remained blissfully oblivious. Then, fifty more followed, a steel tide washing over the unsuspecting camp. I watched, detached and cold, from the rise above, two hundred of my men forming a grim ring around the building, an iron cage ready to snap shut.

 

From within, the first scream ripped through the stillness, a high-pitched, desperate plea that shattered the silence like a dropped glass. It was followed by another, and another, a chorus of terror rising towards the pale sky. My hand tightened around the hilt of my own blade, the cold metal a stark contrast to the inferno of sound erupting before me. Each shriek was a life extinguished, a soul cleaved, and with each passing second, the air grew thick with the metallic tang of blood and the ozone sting of fear.

 

A dozen minutes bled into an eternity. Then, an ominous quiet descended. The screams, so raw and visceral, abruptly choked off, leaving behind a hollow emptiness. My men emerged, one by one, faces masks of grim purpose, crimson splashed across their uniforms like obscene paint. Their eyes, though, held a different story – haunted, hollow, reflecting the abyss they had just glimpsed.

 

"Weapons were scattered everywhere," said the captain, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper above the wind. "They barely knew we were there and before they could even pick their weapons..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. I knew. They hadn't even had a chance to fight. My stomach churned, a bitter cocktail of adrenaline and revulsion. This wasn't war, not the noble clash of arms I romanticized in my youth. This was slaughter, cold and efficient, and I was the butcher.

 

As they laid their offerings at my feet – swords and spears, still slick with the lifeblood of their owners – I saw the glint of something else in their eyes, something beyond obedience. It was a flicker of doubt, of horror, of the dawning realization of what they had done. And in that flicker, I saw my own reflection, distorted and grotesque, the monster I had become in the name of victory.

The sun, now fully risen, bathed the scene in a sickly golden light. The birdsong, once joyous, sounded like mourning cries to my ears. The victory I had craved tasted like ashes in my mouth. For in that silent dawn, amidst the ghosts of the fallen, I lost more than just the enemy. I lost a piece of myself, a piece I may never reclaim.

 

And as I led my bloodied men away, leaving behind the echoes of screams and the stench of death, I knew this was just the beginning. The path of conquest, I realized, led only to ruin, and the price of power was neither gold nor territory, but a soul-stained crimson, forever bearing the weight of a thousand silent screams.

 

In our hands, newly acquired weapons felt both foreign and familiar. Spears, their shafts polished smooth, gleamed faintly in the light. Longswords, hefty and intimidating, balanced awkwardly in unaccustomed hands.

 

With each passing moment, tension thrummed through our ranks like a tightening bowstring. Our eyes, strained and hopeful, darted between the slumbering city ahead and our restless, waiting army behind. Then, the signal. A low murmur rippled through our ranks, punctuated by the sharp snip of fabric. We tore strips from our tunics, silent prayers whispering on our lips. In each trembling hand, a small pebble nestled against the torn cloth, a fragile messenger of war.

 

One by one, we spun our impromptu slings, the centrifugal motion a silent rhythm of defiance. Pebbles soared above, arcs of defiance against the brooding sky. Outside the walls, a distant murmur swelled into a roar. Six thousand souls, restless as caged tigers, awoke with the cry of our stones. The ground trembled with the thunder of their marching feet, a primal beat pulsing in the earth itself.

 

The first volley from the city wall arrived with a bone-jarring clang, arrows tracing fiery streaks across the dusky sky. Two thousand of our archers at the back, let loose their own arrows, a rain of feathered death whistling through the air. Men on the wall crumpled, feathers like macabre butterflies adorning their lifeless forms. The smell of sulfur and singed metal filled the air, a metallic counterpoint to the rising tide of blood.

 

Our hearts pounded in our chests, fear and adrenaline a potent cocktail in our veins. We watched, blood pounding in our ears, as the ground before the wall became a macabre dance floor. Arrows painted the sky with their deadly trajectories, while fallen bodies stained the earth a muddy crimson. But the tide was turning. The relentless march of our army surged forward, a human wave crashing against the stone bulwark.

 

And so, we ran towards the wall, towards the unknown, towards the inevitable clash that would decide the fate of our nation. Our weapons, new and heavy in our hands, became extensions of our wills, instruments of both destruction and hope. Each step forward was a prayer, each fallen comrade a testament to the unwavering spirit that drove us on. This, we knew, was not just a battle for stones and mortar, but a battle for our very souls. And in that crucible of violence, we were forged anew, the sons of war, forever marked by the echoes of a thousand screams.

My pulse quickened. This was it. Our window of opportunity, fragile and fleeting, shimmered before us. Below, the main gate loomed, an iron maw guarded by a mere two sentries. My lips stretched into a predatory grin. Two unsuspecting lambs awaiting the slaughter.

 

"Charge!" My roar sent a ripple of steel through my ranks, a hundred men surging forward, a tide of crimson and gold washing towards the unsuspecting guards.

 

The sentries, caught off guard by the suddenness of the attack, froze like startled deer caught in headlights. By the time they blinked themselves from their stupor, a spear each, gleaming like fangs in the morning sun, found their mark. They crumpled to the ground, crimson blossoms blooming on their tunics. The gate, unlocked and unguarded, gaped open like a silent scream.

Victory, a heady wine, intoxicated my senses. Beyond the walls, my remaining forces stirred like a lion shaking its mane. Three thousand infantry, their armor glinting in the rising sun, marched shoulder-to-shoulder with five hundred mounted knights, their hooves drumming a war song on the earth. Their ranks, a living portrait of crimson and gold, flowed towards the breached wall, like a river of steel cutting through.

 

Two thousand archers, still perched on the hillside, kept unleashing the storm of arrows, each feathered shaft a stinging kiss of death. Their volleys rained down upon the city walls, drawing the enemy's attention away from the gaping wound in their defenses. Meanwhile, five hundred siege engineers, their faces grimed with soot and sweat, cranked the winches of catapults and trebuchets, hurling stones and flaming projectiles over the walls, sowing fear and discord within.

 

From atop the wall, the enemy must have looked upon my advancing forces with bewilderment. They watched as my men, seemingly defying every law of mankind, vanished into the very fabric of the stone wall. When they realized the true meaning of the empty gap was the unguarded open gate, the blood must have drained from their faces, replaced by the icy grip of terror.

 

Half of the defenders had little stomach for this fight, threw down their arms, and surrendered the moment they saw the English forces entering the city. The rest, a ragged band led by a grizzled old warrior with a face etched by the cruel hand of time, offered a futile resistance. Their swords, flashing in the dying light, were but dying embers against the inferno of our advance.

 

Mercy, that fickle butterfly, was nowhere to be found on this crimson-stained day. Every life taken was a sacrifice on the altar of victory, a grim tithe paid for the conquest of this foreign soil. The old warrior, his defiance finally extinguished, fell beneath a hail of blows, his crooked nose forever imprinted in the mud, a grotesque monument to his failed stand.

 

With the city secured, I ascended the highest tower, the fleur-de-lis flag, symbol of the vanquished enemy, fluttering beneath my feet. In its place, I unfurled our own banner, a crimson tapestry emblazoned with three golden lions, their teeth bared in a silent snarl. From the wind-whipped heights, I gazed upon the city sprawled beneath me, a conquered prize at my feet. This was our victory, our sweet revenge, etched in blood and steel.

 

The sun, climbing higher in the sky, cast long shadows from the towers and ramparts. The air, thick with the cloying stench of death and the metallic tang of victory, hung heavy in my lungs. In that moment, amidst the ruins of war, I stood as a solitary king, bathed in the bloody glory of conquest. And in the silence of the dawning day, I wondered if the price we paid would ever truly be worth it.