[PHILIP VI’S POV]
September 16, 1336
Two sun-scorched days had we trudged north, the dust of a thousand hooves cloaking our armor in a grim patina. Yet, beneath the weariness, a spark of grim hope flickered. For on the horizon, etched against the bled blue of the French dawn, rose the unmistakable silhouette of Calais – our Calais. Yet, this was no homecoming. No joyful banners danced from its ramparts, no welcoming fire winked from the keep. Instead, a monstrous crimson bloomed against the stone, the Plantagenet banner a chilling proclamation of defeat.
The peasant's whispers, mere wisps of fear carried on the wind, had seemed fantastical at first. A city as strong as Calais, swallowed whole by the English? Our ears, jaded by war's cacophony, had almost dismissed the rumor. But doubt lingered, a serpent coiling in my gut. So, before plunging our valiant men into the maw of uncertainty, I dispatched a shadow from the stables – a rider fleet as a falcon, loyal as steel. He vanished, a blur against the sun-scorched plains, carrying the weight of our doubt on his steed's pounding hooves.
A dawn like spilled embers found him back, his face etched with grim confirmation. Calais, our bastion, our gateway to the north, now bore the enemy's mark. The sight struck through me, colder than the winter wind, icy talons gripping my heart. My city, once a beacon of French pride, now a conquered carcass in a foreign coat. Yet, despair was a luxury we could ill afford. The march, though grueling, had hardened our resolve, tempered it in the forge of shared hardship. We were French steel, and Calais, no matter its stolen livery, would bleed once more with the colors of our homeland.
The sting of Calais' conquest ran deeper than a mere dent in our coffers. This wasn't about gold or glory, it was about a gaping wound in France's very shield. A guardian city, sentinel of the north, had stumbled, leaving the path to our heartland wide open. Shame and sorrow warred within me. How did mere Englishmen breach walls manned by five hundred of our finest? The question gnawed at me, an unanswered puzzle etched in blood and stone.
Now, we stood poised for reckoning, a force of three thousand strong, a half-mile from the usurped city. My gaze skimmed the ramparts, searching for even a flicker of doubt, a crack in the crimson facade. Though Calais offered little in riches or renown, it was a cornerstone, a sentinel against the English tide. And it had fallen. But not for long.
My mind, honed by countless campaigns, weighed the odds. A thousand Englishmen within, at least. Siege warfare dictated doubling the enemy's strength, a lesson drilled into every aspiring commander. Yet, hope stirred in the pit of my stomach. Bernard, our cunning fox, must be holding their main force at bay, drawing them like moths to a flame in their own capital. Perhaps, even, the callow Edward III himself languished in our camps, a captive king whose absence should sow confusion within these usurped walls.
Would the garrison, ignorant of their king's fate, fight with double the zeal? Were we charging into a hornet's nest, blind to hidden traps and desperate sallies? Yet, the thought of Calais, branded with the Plantagenet mark, filled me with a fiery determination. This city, born of French stone and watered by our blood, would fly the Fleur-de-lis once more. And though its loss inflicted no mortal wound upon our kingdom, it had pricked our pride, leaving a festering scar that demanded cauterization.
The air crackled with anticipation as my command, "March forward!" reverberated through the ranks. Each syllable, echoed by my lieutenants, traveled down the line, galvanizing the three thousand into a unified purpose. The ground trembled beneath the rhythmic thud of steel-shod boots, a drumbeat echoing our shared resolve.
Within moments, we stood within bowshot of the usurped city. A flicker of crimson danced atop the ramparts, a taunting reminder of the English presence.
"Archers!" My voice boomed, cutting through the clamor. Five hundred men, the elite marksmen of France, peeled away from the formation, their movements as precise as clockwork. With practiced hands, they fletched their arrows, the feathered shafts glinting like deadly silver in the afternoon sun.
A bead of sweat trickled down my temple as I surveyed the enemy. They had been roused, their ranks bristling on the walls. I estimated their numbers, squinting against the glare – a thousand, perhaps a thousand and five hundred. A worthy foe, but hardly insurmountable. Our force, thrice theirs, pulsed with a controlled ferocity.
"Aim!" The command rang out, met by a wave of rising bowstrings. Five hundred eyes narrowed, sights trained on the crimson-clad figures above. The city walls seemed to hold their breath, the tension palpable.
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"Hold!" The word crackled like lightning, freezing the archers in a tableau of lethal potential. Each bowstring hummed, taut with anticipation, a potential storm held at bay.
Then, with a roar that shook the very stones of Calais, I unleashed the fury. "Shoot!"
The world erupted. The sky, once serenely blue, became a tapestry of feathered death. Arrows arced through the air, a dark cloud blotting out the sun. They rained down upon the English, a whistling symphony of vengeance.
A cry ripped through the air as a shaft found its mark, crimson blossoming against the grey stone. Others stumbled, shields raised in vain against the relentless storm. But for the most part, the enemy held firm, their ranks thinning but not breaking.
My jaw clenched. The initial volley, though impressive, hadn't yielded the decisive blow I had hoped for. Steeling my resolve, I turned to my men, their faces grim but eager. The real battle, the one that would reclaim our city, had just begun.
A grin split my face like a battle axe through oak as I bellowed, "Aim!" The thrill of the arrows finding their mark thrummed through me, an intoxicating adrenaline cocktail. Victory, sweet and pungent, seemed to hang heavy in the air, a ripe plum waiting to be plucked. This wouldn't erase the bitter sting of Sluys, wouldn't mend the wounds carved by English steel, but it would be an ointment, a salve of triumph rubbed into the raw flesh of defeat.
"Hol-" The word died on my lips, strangled by a gasp of utter surprise. The gates of Calais, which I'd envisioned splintering under the relentless pounding of our siege engines, yawned open impossibly wide.
Surrender? Already? My mind reeled. Even the staunchest oak eventually bends before the storm, and three to one were odds even the most audacious gambler wouldn't scoff at. But something felt off, a discordant note amidst the triumphant symphony of battle. My gaze, sharp as a falcon's, scanned the ramparts, searching for the face of surrender, the white flag of resignation. Instead, I saw a figure emerging from the gate, not with a bowed head and bent knee, but with a swagger that spoke of defiance, not defeat.
My mind raced. Who commanded these Englishmen? Was it that viper Walter Manny, all guile and cunning? Or perhaps the grizzled old boar, Osbert, a veteran of a hundred bloody frays? Whoever it was, they had guts, I'd give them that. To stare down the maw of a force three times their size, to fling open the gates and invite the storm... it took a certain kind of leader.
Intrigue gnawed at me, a serpent coiling in my gut. Was this a trap, a cunning gambit to lure us into a close-quarters brawl where numbers mattered less than cunning and desperation? Or was it, as my heart dared to hope, a desperate gamble, a Hail Mary pass thrown by a cornered leader?
One thing was certain: the siege of Calais, a battle I'd imagined as a methodical, brutal dance of attrition, had just taken a thrilling, unpredictable turn. The air crackled with a new kind of tension, not the grim resolve of a siege, but the heady anticipation of a clash, a duel of steel and spirit played out before an audience of watchful walls.
The gates of Calais gaped wide, not like a surrendered mouth but like a mocking maw ready to devour invaders. And instead of the expected flood of surrendering soldiers, a lone figure strode forth, bathed in the afternoon sun. He shimmered, a vision of steel and crimson.
Tall and fair, he seemed sculpted from sunlight itself, his skin smooth as alabaster and hair the color of raven's wings. Eyes the shade of summer skies locked with ours, unflinching and bright. His face, devoid of even a whisper of beard, held a composure that defied the situation. Golden armor, polished to a blinding gleam, hugged his form, adorned with the fearsome Plantagenet lions – three roaring beasts proclaiming his nobility.
No whisper of such a figure had reached our ears. No name spoken amongst the English commanders echoed with his youthful vigor. He was an unknown, a solitary flame flickering in the face of our storm. Yet, this was no supplicant. No white flag waved at his feet, no plea for mercy trembled on his lips.
Instead, a voice erupted from him, a voice that tore through the air like a storm ripping through trees. It wasn't just loud, it was deep, guttural, resonating from the very core of the earth. It rolled over our ranks, washing away doubt and fear, igniting instead a chilling curiosity.
"Advance!"
The word hung in the air, a challenge carved in sound. His eyes, not once straying from our ranks, held an impossible audacity. Advance? Into the lion's den, with only two hundred paces of dusty plain separating us? Was this madness or mastery? A desperate ploy or a calculated risk?
The ground rumbled, not with the tremor of an approaching assault, but with a silent, unsettling shudder. I searched for the source, my gaze frantically scanning the horizon. But it was the lone figure that held my attention, his white horse now pacing restlessly, and a smirk, as sharp as a dagger, gracing his youthful lips.
With a surge of adrenaline, I was about to give the order to charge, to shatter this enigma of a man before he could unravel further. But then, my heart stopped. Not in fear, but in sheer, stunned disbelief.