[EDWARD’S POV]

 

September 16, 1338

 

Under the cloak of night, a select group of four mounted scouts ventured forth to surveil the horizon, their mission to anticipate any encroaching threat. By dawn's light, the forewarned tidings confirmed the imminent arrival of the French, intent on reclaiming their once-conquered city.

 

With unwavering resolve, strategic minds plotted in secrecy. Aligned with Sigurd, meticulous plans were laid, positioning nine thousand soldiers for the looming conflict. Eight thousand seasoned warriors stood firm, augmented by an additional thousand drawn from Calais itself. The citadel harbored 1,500 defenders, while the remaining 7,500 lay concealed, dispersed across the terrain, shrouded from prying eyes.

 

As anticipated, the French forces arrived, exuding confidence, eager to secure victory. Wisely, the decision was made to endure their initial onslaught, which merely grazed the strength of the assembled troops. Then, the choreography of battle unfurled—a masterful ambush, a deluge of arrows, and the orchestration led by the protagonist. The culmination of these orchestrated maneuvers culminated in the present moment.

 

The sun beat down on the battlefield, turning the sand to molten gold. Sweat ran into my eyes, stinging like salt, but I barely noticed. All my focus was on the man facing me, the King of France himself. Philip VI, clad in gleaming azure armor, stood like an enraged bull, his eyes smoldering with hatred. In his hand, he wielded a magnificent Damascus steel sword, its blade so sharp it seemed to shimmer in the heat.

 

I gripped my own sword, a stout English longsword, its weight reassuring in my hands. My armor, though less ornate than Philip's, was no less protective, forged from the finest steel the English workshops could produce. We circled each other, wary predators sizing up their prey. The air crackled with tension, thick enough to choke on.

 

I knew Philip was a formidable opponent. He was older and more experienced than me, a seasoned warrior who had seen his fair share of bloodshed. His martial prowess of 16 displayed his prowess, his strength and skill unmatched in all of France. But I had my own advantages. I was younger, quicker, and perhaps most importantly, I was not burdened by the weight of a crown. I fought for England, for my father, for the glory of God. Philip fought for pride, for vengeance, for a kingdom already teetering on the brink of collapse.

 

The clash of steel was deafening as we finally closed the distance. Philip struck first, a brutal overhand blow that I barely parried. The force of the impact sent a jolt up my arm, but I held firm. I countered with a swift riposte, aiming for the gap between his visor and gorget. He deflected the blow with ease, his own blade a blur of silver light.

 

We danced around each other, a deadly ballet of clang and thud. Each blow I landed seemed to only fuel Philip's rage. He fought like a man possessed, his movements wild and unpredictable. But I kept my head cool, my movements measured and precise. I used my speed and agility to my advantage, dodging his attacks and finding openings in his defenses.

 

Slowly, the tide began to turn. Philip's attacks grew sloppy, his movements labored. He was tiring, his rage burning itself out. I saw my chance and seized it. With a feint to the left, I drew him in, then spun around and delivered a powerful blow to his right shoulder. The force of the impact knocked him off balance, and he stumbled back, his face contorted in pain.

 

Before he could recover, I pressed my attack. I rained blows down upon him, each one finding its mark. His armor, though strong, could not withstand the relentless assault. I saw blood blossom on his cheek, then on his arm, then on his chest.

 

He faltered, then fell to his knees, his sword clattering to the ground. I stood over him, my own blade poised at his throat. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw not the King of France, but a broken man, defeated and despairing. 

 

The battle around us raged on, but in that moment, the world seemed to shrink to just us two. I, the young prince of England, and he, the fallen king of France.

 

What would I do? Would I grant him mercy, or would I claim his head as a trophy? The decision was mine to make, and the weight of it pressed down upon me like a crown of thorns.

 

The clash of steel ceased. The world, once a whirlwind of screams and clangor, fell silent. My blade, tasting victory, rested against the King's throat, a sliver of cold steel against the warm pulse of his life. His eyes, once blazing with rage, were now pools of disbelief, reflecting the shocked faces of his remaining men. The tide had turned. 

 

A hush, thick and heavy as fog, descended upon the battlefield. French soldiers, their faces etched with a mixture of anger, fear, and resignation, lowered their weapons one by one. The clank of steel hitting the earth, a symphony of surrender, echoed across the field. Even the seasoned commanders, men who had seen their fair share of carnage, knelt before me, their iron wills buckling under the weight of defeat.

 

I felt a surge of power, not just from the physical exertion of the duel, but from the weight of responsibility that now pressed upon me. The fate of hundreds, nay, thousands, rested on my shoulders. Taking a deep breath, I activated my Amplify skill, my voice resonating through the silence like a thunderclap.

 

"All those who surrender," I boomed, my words carrying the weight of a king, "are to be imprisoned in the cells of Calais until I decide their fate. Those who choose to fight can continue their futile struggle. But let it be known, surrender is not an option for those who lose!"

 

My voice, after activating the ‘Amplify’ skill, filled the air, a tangible force that pressed down upon the French soldiers. It was a challenge, a dare, a test of their very mettle. I saw doubt flicker in their eyes, the spark of defiance dimming under the harsh reality of their predicament. No one dared to raise their weapon, no one dared to defy the young prince who had just defeated their king.

 

The silence, once heavy with tension, now held a strange peace. The battlefield, once a canvas of chaos, was now a tableau of surrender. And I, Edward, Scion of The Plantagenets, Prince of England, stood at the center of it all, the victor, the conqueror, the master of this unexpected symphony of steel and surrender.

 

As I surveyed the scene, a wave of emotions washed over me. Relief, for the battle was won, for England's victory secured. Awe, at the sheer scale of my accomplishment, at the power I now wielded. But my moment of reflection was short-lived. The war was far from over. The victory, though sweet, was but a single step on a long and treacherous road. With a heavy heart, I turned away from the fallen king, my gaze fixed on the horizon, where the next challenge, the next battle, awaited.

 

—---------

 

September 20, 1338

 

The return of Osbert's fleet, bearing tales of their endeavors along the Seine, was a bittersweet sight against the backdrop of my mounting concerns. Their valorous actions in thwarting French vessels bound for Paris or London were commendable, yet the shifting tides of our circumstances demanded a recalibration of focus.

 

Calais, now transformed into a bastion, stood as a testament to our unwavering determination. The recent fortifications, including the formidable ditch lined with seawater, aimed to staunch any fervent attempts by the French to reclaim this pivotal garrison city. The very essence of our strategy lay in choking their avenues for resurgence.

 

Amidst the clangor of construction, emotions swirled within—a blend of determination and a lingering sense of apprehension. Each tower rising against the skyline was a testament to our tireless efforts, a bulwark against the encroaching threat. The urgency to complete these watchtowers by month's end echoed the gravity of our situation, a race against time to bolster our defenses.

 

The weight of responsibility hung heavy, knowing that our actions could sway the course of impending conflict. Yet, a steadfast resolve coursed through my veins, a relentless determination to safeguard Calais against the looming storm, ensuring its resilience against the French siege.

 

As dawn heralded the arrival of fresh reinforcements from London, the lifting of the siege long past, the absence of Rufus weighed heavily upon me. His role as Henry Grosmont's right-hand man tethered him to duties that demanded his presence until my return and taking over the position as the new regent of the Kingdom of England.

 

Amidst the radiant glow of the rising sun, its golden rays cascading over the barracks of Calais, I ascended the elevated dais. Before me stood a formidable assembly, a legion of thirteen thousand men, each bearing arms—swords, shields, spears—poised for the imminent journey ahead.

 

With a reverent hand, I drew forth my sword, 'Vanquish', its blade gleaming in the morning light. As its steel caught the sun's fiery embrace, a surge of determination coursed through me, a palpable anticipation for the path we were about to tread.

 

With a resounding voice that echoed across the expanse, I raised 'Vanquish' high, a beacon of resolve against the sun's fiery backdrop. "To Paris!" The words thundered forth, an invocation of purpose, a call to arms that reverberated through the ranks.

 

In unified chorus, the rallying cry erupted from the assembled throng, "To Paris!" Their voices, harmonized with fervor, echoed my declaration, a collective resolve etched in every warrior's heart.