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Authors: Roberto Calas
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the lapping waters of the Thames.
Tristan is with me, as are Morgan, Sir John, and Sir Gerald. Sir John has heard of my exploits in France. He has never fought the French and he wants my help in defeating them.
“Just advice,” he said at the castle. “I seek only advice on how best to deal with them.”
In return, he offered provisions for our journey as well as new swords for the three of us, and a new crossbow for Sir Tristan.
“Just advice,” I said.
“Just advice,” he agreed.
I told him that I wanted to see the French encampment up close to gain a measure of the invaders’ strength. And what I see now is no comfort at all. They number somewhere near a thousand. More than half of those wear mail. I estimate that thirty or so are knights with horses and full harness.
They are busy little Frenchmen. Even at dusk they work. Two wagons pulled by oxen carry the towering bronze bells of a nearby church. Plunder to be sold or melted down or to adorn one of their own froggy churches. Men maneuver one of the bells onto a gangplank to be loaded onto the largest of their five ships.
“They are here for a raid,” I say. “Burning and plundering. They’ll be on their way soon enough. My advice is to leave them alone.”
“Are you certain?” Sir John asks.
I open my mouth to answer but my words dry up. At the far end of the encampment, near the fishing huts, I see a dozen men working beside a massive campfire. A stack of long, thin trunks lie outside the huts. Each man has one of the logs from the stack and is whittling at its end. Sharpening the wood into a deadly point. Strips of wood fly in the firelight as the men whittle and laugh.
“No,” I say. “I’m not certain.”
Sir John raises an eyebrow. I point to the men sharpening the logs. Sir John still does not understand, and I wonder if I was as ignorant when I was his age. Tristan saves me from lecturing the boy.
“Stakes,” Tristan says. “They are going to build a palisade. Our Frenchmen are going to build a home here and take wives and make little tadpoles, Sir John.”
“This isn’t a raid?” Sir John breathes deeply through his nose.
“It likely started as a raid,” I say. “But they found England unlocked.”
Tristan counts tents and ships and calculates the number of Frenchmen. “Eight hundred?”
“More likely a thousand,” I reply.
“Too many for the five of us?” Tristan asks.
“Don’t be daft,” Morgan says. “There’s loads of them.”
“Yes,” Tristan says. “But they’re French.”
Morgan and I chuckle, but there’s not much humor in seeing the French marching unchallenged in our country.
“How many men do you have, Sir John?” I ask.
“Soldiers or men?”
“Soldiers. Men who know how to fight.”
“One hundred and fifty,” he says. “And another hundred are being trained.”
I shake my head. One hundred and fifty. The French would annihilate them. They are well equipped and led by at least three battle-tested lords. I recognize the banners of Guy de Soissons, Henri Palise, and Tomas Montreville. I know little of them, but they were with the army that fought against us at Nájera. All three of them have fought in a war, and so have their men. Where have Sir John’s men fought? In the yard with wooden swords. Perhaps at tourneys. They would be massacred. All of them.
“You know these lands better,” I say to Sir John. “So you could defeat them with maybe six or seven hundred men. Do you have any friends in the area?”
“More men arrive every day,” he says. “But it would take months to gather that many.”
“No good,” I say. “Some of these men will go back home with the stolen treasures and blather about what they have seen here. We’ll have all of France clambering up our shores in a few months.”
And that realization drops upon me like an anvil. If any of these Frenchmen get home, England will fall. I think about this for a long, long time. So long that a Frenchman in a
Tristan is with me, as are Morgan, Sir John, and Sir Gerald. Sir John has heard of my exploits in France. He has never fought the French and he wants my help in defeating them.
“Just advice,” he said at the castle. “I seek only advice on how best to deal with them.”
In return, he offered provisions for our journey as well as new swords for the three of us, and a new crossbow for Sir Tristan.
“Just advice,” I said.
“Just advice,” he agreed.
I told him that I wanted to see the French encampment up close to gain a measure of the invaders’ strength. And what I see now is no comfort at all. They number somewhere near a thousand. More than half of those wear mail. I estimate that thirty or so are knights with horses and full harness.
They are busy little Frenchmen. Even at dusk they work. Two wagons pulled by oxen carry the towering bronze bells of a nearby church. Plunder to be sold or melted down or to adorn one of their own froggy churches. Men maneuver one of the bells onto a gangplank to be loaded onto the largest of their five ships.
“They are here for a raid,” I say. “Burning and plundering. They’ll be on their way soon enough. My advice is to leave them alone.”
“Are you certain?” Sir John asks.
I open my mouth to answer but my words dry up. At the far end of the encampment, near the fishing huts, I see a dozen men working beside a massive campfire. A stack of long, thin trunks lie outside the huts. Each man has one of the logs from the stack and is whittling at its end. Sharpening the wood into a deadly point. Strips of wood fly in the firelight as the men whittle and laugh.
“No,” I say. “I’m not certain.”
Sir John raises an eyebrow. I point to the men sharpening the logs. Sir John still does not understand, and I wonder if I was as ignorant when I was his age. Tristan saves me from lecturing the boy.
“Stakes,” Tristan says. “They are going to build a palisade. Our Frenchmen are going to build a home here and take wives and make little tadpoles, Sir John.”
“This isn’t a raid?” Sir John breathes deeply through his nose.
“It likely started as a raid,” I say. “But they found England unlocked.”
Tristan counts tents and ships and calculates the number of Frenchmen. “Eight hundred?”
“More likely a thousand,” I reply.
“Too many for the five of us?” Tristan asks.
“Don’t be daft,” Morgan says. “There’s loads of them.”
“Yes,” Tristan says. “But they’re French.”
Morgan and I chuckle, but there’s not much humor in seeing the French marching unchallenged in our country.
“How many men do you have, Sir John?” I ask.
“Soldiers or men?”
“Soldiers. Men who know how to fight.”
“One hundred and fifty,” he says. “And another hundred are being trained.”
I shake my head. One hundred and fifty. The French would annihilate them. They are well equipped and led by at least three battle-tested lords. I recognize the banners of Guy de Soissons, Henri Palise, and Tomas Montreville. I know little of them, but they were with the army that fought against us at Nájera. All three of them have fought in a war, and so have their men. Where have Sir John’s men fought? In the yard with wooden swords. Perhaps at tourneys. They would be massacred. All of them.
“You know these lands better,” I say to Sir John. “So you could defeat them with maybe six or seven hundred men. Do you have any friends in the area?”
“More men arrive every day,” he says. “But it would take months to gather that many.”
“No good,” I say. “Some of these men will go back home with the stolen treasures and blather about what they have seen here. We’ll have all of France clambering up our shores in a few months.”
And that realization drops upon me like an anvil. If any of these Frenchmen get home, England will fall. I think about this for a long, long time. So long that a Frenchman in a
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