Knight and Squire - 29. Chapter 29

Knight and Squire

The Month of Tightening Lines

The first riders came at dawn, their cloaks stiff with dust and their horses stumbling from the long miles behind them. They bore no banners, only sealed letters and the strained faces of men who had wagered on the wrong prince and now prayed the Crown would take them back.

Kaylen and the Marshal received them in the outer hall of Northampton, where the morning light slanted through narrow windows and painted the stone floor in pale gold. The envoys bowed low, almost to the flagstones.

“My lords,” said the foremost, his voice tight with the Midlands burr, “our masters bid us speak thus: the wind shifts, and wise men shift with it. They seek the king’s peace, if peace may yet be had.”

Kaylen studied him a long moment. “Peace is a dear thing,” he said in the old Middlaval cadence, slow and measured. “But oaths broken once sit ill upon the tongue when spoken again.”

The envoy swallowed. “Aye, my lord. Yet better a bent knee than a broken land.”

The Marshal’s expression did not soften, but he nodded. “Tell your masters this: the Crown hears them. And the Crown remembers.”

The envoys bowed again, deeper still, as though the weight of their shame pressed them toward the earth.

Word spread faster than the riders themselves. By week’s end, the Midlands were folding like thawing ice.

Castles that had flown Louis’s colors only a fortnight before now opened their gates at the sight of royalist banners. Garrison captains stepped forward with keys in hand, their men relieved to lay down arms before the summer heat turned the fields into killing grounds.

Kaylen rode through one such stronghold — a squat stone keep overlooking a bend in the river. The castellan met him in the courtyard, helm tucked beneath his arm, eyes hollow from sleepless nights.

“My lord,” he said, kneeling as he offered the keys, “we held for Louis while hope held. Hope’s gone now. Take back what’s the king’s.”

Kaylen accepted the keys, though they felt heavier than iron. “Rise,” he said quietly. “The realm has bled enough.”

Villagers gathered along the road as the royalist column passed — some cheering, some merely watching with the wary stillness of people who had seen too many banners change hands. Children waved sprigs of early summer flowers. Old men leaned on staves and murmured prayers.

No siege engines rolled. No ladders were raised. The land simply returned.

While the Midlands bent back toward the Crown, Louis retreated deeper into London, fortifying the city as though expecting the sky itself to fall upon him.

Earthworks rose along the approaches. Carpenters hammered day and night. Messengers galloped to the Cinque Ports demanding ships, grain, coin — anything that might buy him time.

But the siege he feared never came.

Kaylen stood with the Marshal over a spread of maps one evening, candles guttering in the draft. Reports from the southeast lay scattered across the table like fallen leaves.

“He digs deeper,” Kaylen murmured.

“Aye,” the Marshal replied. “But a man may dig so deep he buries himself. Let him spend his strength on walls. The realm itself turns against him.”

Kaylen nodded, though unease tugged at him. War fought with swords was clean, in its way. This — this slow shifting of loyalties, this quiet surrender of castles — felt like walking on a frozen lake, never knowing where the ice might crack.

By mid‑June, the truth was plain to all who cared to see it.

The Crown’s banner rose again over the Midlands. Barons who had sworn to Louis now sent envoys begging pardon. And Kaylen, once merely a knight with a troubled conscience, found himself shaping the peace as surely as the Marshal shaped the war.

The week passed without a single clash of steel, yet every man who watched the realm’s loyalties shift felt the tremor of a kingdom righting itself.

The war was not yet done. But its ending had begun.

The days that followed carried a strange stillness, as though the realm itself were holding its breath. Couriers came and went through Northampton’s gates, their horses lathered, their faces drawn tight with the strain of bearing tidings that could tilt the balance of a kingdom. Some brought word of yet another baron bending the knee. Others carried lists of stores surrendered, garrisons disbanded, hostages offered in trembling good faith. A few brought nothing but rumors — whispers of councils dissolving in the night, of lords who had once boasted of Louis’s favor now burning his letters in their hearths.

Kaylen read each report with a growing heaviness. Victory without battle was a blessing, yet it left a man with no clean line to draw between courage and convenience. The Marshal, for his part, accepted the news with the grim satisfaction of a soldier who had seen too many summers wasted on sieges that need not have been fought.

“Better this than another winter of widows,” he said once, rolling up a parchment and setting it aside. “Let them come crawling. Pride is cheaper than blood.”

But Kaylen was not so sure. Pride, once broken, had a way of cutting deeper than steel.

When they rode south to inspect the newly surrendered strongholds, the land seemed to shift beneath them — not in violence, but in a slow, weary exhale. Fields lay green and untrampled. Sheep grazed along the hillsides, oblivious to the tremors of politics. Villagers watched the royalist column pass with guarded eyes, as though afraid to hope too openly. Some knelt. Some crossed themselves. Some simply stood with arms folded, waiting to see whether this banner, too, would fall.

At one village, an old woman stepped forward and pressed a sprig of rosemary into Kaylen’s hand. “For remembrance,” she murmured. “For all we’ve lost, and all we pray not to lose again.”

He thanked her, though the words felt small in his mouth.

By the time they reached the river keep, the castellan’s surrender was almost a formality. The man’s voice cracked as he spoke, and Kaylen saw in him not treachery but exhaustion — the kind that hollowed a man from the inside until he clung to whatever promise of peace he could find. When Kaylen accepted the keys, the weight of them seemed to settle into his bones.

That night, as the royalist banners were raised over the battlements, Kaylen stood on the parapet and watched the river slide past in the moonlight. The water moved with quiet certainty, untroubled by the affairs of men. He envied it.

The Marshal joined him, cloak snapping in the wind. “You’re thinking too hard,” he said.

“Someone must,” Kaylen replied.

“Aye. But don’t let the realm’s guilt become your own. These lords chose their path. Now they choose another. Let them.”

Kaylen said nothing. The rosemary sprig lay tucked inside his glove, its scent sharp and clean.

As June deepened, the reports from London grew more frantic. Louis’s men dug trenches until their hands blistered. They tore down houses to clear lines of fire. They commandeered grain from merchants who dared protest. The city groaned under the strain, its people caught between fear of the French prince and fear of the Crown’s return.

Yet still no royalist army marched on the walls.

Kaylen understood the strategy, though it unsettled him. A siege without a siege. Pressure without assault. Let Louis fortify until he exhausted himself. Let the city grow restless. Let the nobles who still clung to him feel the ground shift beneath their feet.

But strategy did not quiet the unease that coiled in his chest.

One evening, as he and the Marshal bent over the maps again, a courier arrived breathless with news: another of Louis’s captains had deserted, taking half his men with him. The Marshal grunted approval. Kaylen only stared at the inked lines on the parchment — the roads, the rivers, the narrowing circle around London.

“Soon enough,” the Marshal said, “he’ll have no choice but to sue for terms.”

Kaylen nodded, though his thoughts drifted elsewhere. Peace was coming, yes. But peace forged from fear and shifting loyalties was a fragile thing. It could crack as easily as ice beneath a man’s feet.

And yet, for the first time since the war began, he felt the faintest stir of hope — not triumphant, not loud, but steady, like the first heartbeat after a long sleep.

The war was not yet done. But the realm had begun to remember itself.

June 15 Word spread through the shires that Louis’s hold was weakening. Garrison commanders in the east sent cautious letters to London, asking for guidance that never came. In the Marshal’s camp, scouts returned with news that French foragers were ranging farther, a sure sign of dwindling stores.

Kaylen stood with Ronan and Tomas as the scouts delivered their reports. Ronan frowned, arms crossed. “They’re hungry,” he said. “Hungry men make mistakes.” Tomas shook his head. “Or they grow desperate. Desperate men burn fields.” Kaylen considered both. “Either way, the realm shifts. We must be ready when the ground moves beneath us.”

At dawn, the king’s council met. Kaylen attended beside the Marshal, while Ronan and Tomas lingered near the tent’s entrance, listening as the lords debated whether to press toward London or secure the Midlands first. Ronan murmured, “Feels like choosing which fire to stamp first.” Tomas replied, “Aye. And hoping the wind doesn’t change.”

June 16 The Marshal ordered riders north and west to gather levies from towns emboldened after Lincoln. The countryside stirred; men emerged with old spears and patched mail.

Kaylen oversaw the mustering at a village green. A young man approached with a rust‑flecked helm. “My lord… I hid through winter. No more.” Kaylen clasped his shoulder. “Then stand with us now. The realm needs steady hearts.”

Ronan inspected the new levies, offering a crooked grin. “Half of them look ready to fall over.” Tomas nudged him. “Then teach them not to.” Ronan snorted. “Marshal should’ve made you a sergeant.” Kaylen overheard and smiled faintly. “He already acts like one.”

In London, Louis’s captains quarreled over coin and loyalty. Promises of pay rang hollow.

June 17 Ships from the Cinque Ports brought word that French reinforcements might be assembling at Calais. The Marshal’s council argued fiercely. Kaylen leaned over the map, tracing the coastline with a gloved finger. “If they come,” he said, “they’ll aim for the Thames. We must watch the river mouths.”

Outside the tent, Ronan and Tomas sparred lightly with practice blades. “You think the French will risk the crossing?” Tomas asked. Ronan shrugged. “If they’re fools.” Kaylen stepped out in time to hear it. “Never assume a cornered man is a fool,” he said. “Only that he is dangerous.”

In the Fens, rebel barons met in secret, uncertain whether to cling to Louis or sue for peace.

June 18 Henry’s clerks dispatched letters offering pardon to any baron who submitted before month’s end. Messengers rode hard across the realm.

Kaylen prepared one such messenger himself. “Ride straight,” he told the man. “If they turn you away, ride faster.” Ronan added, “And if they shoot at you, ride fastest.” Tomas sighed. “Ignore him. Just keep your head low.”

In London, Louis’s advisors urged him to strike a bold blow. But Louis hesitated, unsure whom he could trust. Uncertainty gnawed at him.

June 19 The Marshal moved his host southward in measured stages. Kaylen rode near the vanguard, Ronan and Tomas flanking him.

Ronan pointed toward a distant plume of dust. “Supply carts?” “Not ours,” Tomas said. Kaylen nodded. “Then they won’t reach London.” By evening, word came that the king’s men had begun intercepting supply carts bound for the city. The cordon tightened.

That night, as they made camp, Ronan sat sharpening his blade. “Feels strange,” he said. “Winning without fighting.” Kaylen replied quietly, “Victory without blood is still victory. But it leaves ghosts all the same.” Tomas looked up. “Ghosts?” “Of choices,” Kaylen said. “And of men who waited too long to make them.”

A storm broke across the Thames valley. Rain turned roads to mire. Louis’s messengers were delayed; the Marshal’s host halted for a day.

Under a sagging canvas awning, Kaylen wrung water from his cloak. Ronan muttered, “If this is an omen, it’s a miserable one.” Tomas laughed softly. “You complain June 20 in sunshine too.” Kaylen watched the rain hammer the earth. “Storms pass. But they change the ground they leave behind.”

Common soldiers whispered about omens in the storm, but none could agree on their meaning.

June 21 The skies cleared. The Marshal resumed the march.

In London, Louis convened a council at Westminster. Voices rose in anger. Some demanded battle; others urged retreat to the coast. Louis delayed, hoping for better news.

On the road south, Kaylen rode ahead with Ronan and Tomas. Ronan asked, “Do you think he’ll fight?” Kaylen exhaled slowly. “He may have no choice.” Tomas added, “And us?” Kaylen looked toward the distant haze where London lay. “We’ll meet whatever comes. But the realm is already choosing its king.”

Ronan nodded. “Then let’s help it choose well.”

June 22 Word reached the Marshal before sunrise: more towns in the east had declared for the king. The news came on the breath of three riders whose horses were flecked with foam. Kaylen stood beside the Marshal as the reports were read aloud.

Ronan let out a low whistle. “That’s half the shire turning in a week.” Tomas added, “And the other half watching which way the wind blows.” Kaylen nodded. “Then we must move carefully. A realm returning is as fragile as a realm breaking.”

The Marshal sent small detachments to secure the towns, warning each captain not to overextend. “Hold what holds itself,” he said. “Do not chase shadows.”

In London, Louis heard the same news. His anxiety sharpened; each defection chipped away at his bargaining power. His captains found him pacing the Tower’s upper chamber, hands clasped behind his back.

June 23 Near Kingston, French patrols clashed with English scouts. The skirmish was brief but bloody. Kaylen rode out to meet the returning scouts, Ronan and Tomas at his side.

Ronan spat into the dust. “They’re testing our reach.” Tomas shook his head. “Or we’re testing theirs.” Kaylen studied the wounded men being carried past. “Either way, Louis will think we’re closer than we are.”

And indeed, in London, Louis ordered fortifications strengthened around the gates, convinced the Marshal’s host was nearly upon him.

June 24 Feast of St. John. Both armies paused for Mass.

In the king’s camp, Kaylen knelt beside Ronan and Tomas beneath a canvas awning hastily turned into a chapel. The priest’s voice rose above the murmuring wind, preaching that God had shown favor at Lincoln and would do so again.

Ronan whispered, “If God favors us, He might show it with fewer blisters.” Tomas elbowed him. “Hush. You’ll be struck down.” Kaylen allowed himself a faint smile. “If God struck every soldier who muttered, we’d have no army left.”

In London, French priests urged steadfastness, though their eyes betrayed doubt. Privately, they feared the tide had turned.

June 25 Marshal’s envoys reached several rebel barons, offering generous terms. Kaylen reviewed the letters before they were sealed.

“Some will waver,” he said. Ronan leaned over his shoulder. “And some will wait for Louis to grow a spine.” Tomas frowned. “Or for him to lose one.”

Rumors spread that Louis was preparing to withdraw to the coast. Louis denied it, but the whispers persisted, slipping through taverns and market stalls like smoke.

June 26 Near Brentford, a French foraging party was ambushed. Survivors staggered back to London with tales of English forces closer than anyone believed.

Kaylen received the report with a tightening jaw. “They’re probing too far. Hunger drives them.” Ronan replied, “Hunger drives men to foolishness.” Tomas added quietly, “And foolishness drives them to death.”

In London, Louis began quietly moving stores toward the river, preparing for retreat though he dared not speak the word.

June 27 The Marshal halted his army near Staines — close enough to pressure London, far enough to avoid a rash assault. Kaylen rode the perimeter with Ronan and Tomas, watching the distant haze where the city lay.

Ronan said, “Feels like we’re holding our breath.” Tomas replied, “Feels like London is.” Kaylen murmured, “Let hunger and fear do the work. Steel will follow if it must.”

The captains approved. A siege of London would be long and costly, and none wished for it.

June 28 Louis sent envoys to the coast to hasten reinforcements. The roads were watched; some messengers were captured. When word reached the Marshal, he summoned Kaylen.

“He grows desperate,” the Marshal said. Kaylen nodded. “Desperate men make dangerous choices.” Ronan, standing nearby, muttered, “Or foolish ones.” Tomas added, “Sometimes both.”

June 29 News arrived that a French fleet might soon sail. The Marshal convened a council. Kaylen stood at his right hand, Ronan and Tomas just behind.

“We strengthen the Cinque Ports,” the Marshal declared. “If Louis means to break for the coast, we meet him on sea and shore.”

Orders went out at once.

In London, Louis prepared for a possible breakout, though he knew the roads were watched and the river uncertain.

June 30 English forces tightened their grip on the Thames crossings. Kaylen oversaw one such position, watching barges drift under the summer sun.

Ronan asked, “If he tries to run, will he come this way?” Kaylen shook his head. “He’ll try every way at once. That’s the trouble with cornered men.” Tomas added, “And with proud ones.”

In London, Louis’s captains argued that they must strike soon or be trapped. Louis hesitated again, torn between pride and prudence — and the knowledge that the realm was slipping from his grasp.

July 1, 1217 The month opened under heavy heat. Marshal’s host rose before dawn to march while the air was still cool, the camp stirring like a great beast waking reluctantly. Word reached them that several rebel‑held strongholds were wavering, their lords sending cautious feelers toward the king’s peace.

Kaylen read the reports beside the Marshal. “Another crack in Louis’s wall,” he murmured. Ronan stretched his shoulders. “Feels like the whole thing’s ready to fall over.” Tomas added, “Walls fall hardest when men lean the wrong way.”

Marshal received the tidings with quiet satisfaction. In London, Louis heard the same rumors and felt the ground shift beneath him, though he hid his unease behind a mask of command.

July 2, 1217 Scouts clashed again near Southwark, arrows traded across the riverbank. No battle followed, but the encounter showed how close the two hosts now lay.

Kaylen met the returning scouts. Ronan asked, “How close were they?” “Close enough to smell their horses,” one scout replied. Tomas muttered, “Too close for comfort.”

London’s markets grew thin. Merchants whispered that the English were choking the roads. Louis ordered more patrols, though he knew they could not hold the countryside.

July 3, 1217 Envoys from Louis sought out the papal legate, hoping for some path to negotiation. The legate listened but offered nothing unless Louis withdrew from the realm entirely.

Kaylen heard the news from a courier. “He’ll take that poorly,” he said. Ronan snorted. “He takes everything poorly these days.” Tomas added, “A prince who expected Rome’s blessing won’t forgive Rome’s silence.”

Louis’s captains muttered that the legate was Marshal’s creature, though they knew it was not true.

July 4, 1217 Along the coast, the English fleet gathered strength. Ships from the Cinque Ports arrived in steady trickles, their crews eager for a reckoning with the French at sea.

Kaylen watched a column of sailors march past the camp. “Men who know the sea fear little,” he said. Ronan replied, “Except drowning.” Tomas shrugged. “Better water than French steel.”

Rumors of a great fleet assembling at Calais spread through both camps, sharpening the sense that a decisive moment approached.

July 5, 1217 The day passed in uneasy quiet. Louis’s men drilled outside the city, though their hearts were not in it. In Marshal’s camp, soldiers repaired harness and sharpened blades.

Kaylen walked among them. Ronan said, “Feels like the calm before a storm.” Tomas answered, “Or the calm before nothing at all.” Kaylen replied, “Storms come whether we expect them or not.”

July 6, 1217 A messenger slipped through the English cordon and reached London with news that reinforcements were preparing to sail. Louis seized upon this as proof that fortune had not abandoned him.

Kaylen heard the report from a captured scout. “He’ll cling to that hope,” he said. Ronan muttered, “Hope’s a thin shield.” Tomas added, “But men fight hardest when they think rescue is near.”

July 7, 1217 Heat and dust settled over the land. Marshal’s scouts reported that French foragers were venturing farther afield, a sign of dwindling stores.

Kaylen frowned over the map. “They’re stretching themselves thin.” Ronan said, “Thin men break.” Tomas replied, “Thin armies break faster.”

Marshal tightened his grip on the river crossings, determined to starve the enemy into submission.

July 8, 1217 A small garrison in the east surrendered to the king’s men. Their defection sent ripples through the rebel ranks.

Louis heard of it at supper and struck the table in frustration. Kaylen, hearing the same news, simply said, “Another stone falls.” Ronan added, “Soon the whole tower will come down.” Tomas murmured, “Let’s hope it doesn’t fall on us.”

July 9, 1217 A brief skirmish flared near Kingston as French riders attempted to break through the English lines. They were driven back with losses.

Kaylen inspected the ground afterward. “He’s probing for a path to the coast,” he said. Ronan kicked a broken spear aside. “He won’t find one.” Tomas added, “Not unless we give it to him.”

Marshal took the clash as confirmation of Louis’s intentions.

July 10, 1217 The papal legate issued another proclamation, declaring that all who continued to support Louis risked excommunication.

Kaylen read the parchment aloud to Ronan and Tomas. Ronan whistled. “That’ll turn some stomachs.” Tomas nodded. “Men fear the Church more than the sword.” Kaylen said, “Fear moves armies as surely as coin.”

Quiet letters began to pass between camps.

July 11, 1217 Storms swept across the Thames valley. Rain lashed the roads, turning them to mire. Both armies halted.

Kaylen huddled beneath a dripping cloak with Ronan and Tomas. Ronan grumbled, “If this is God’s judgment, He could’ve chosen a warmer one.” Tomas laughed softly. “You complain in sunshine too.” Kaylen said, “Storms pass. Mud remains.”

July 12, 1217 The skies cleared. Marshal resumed his slow tightening of the noose, never offering Louis a chance to strike.

In London, Louis paced the halls of Westminster, torn between pride and fear.

Kaylen watched the city’s distant silhouette. “He’s trapped by his own choices,” he said. Ronan replied, “A trap he built himself.” Tomas added, “And walked into willingly.”

July 13, 1217 More defections in the east. A castle long held for Louis opened its gates to the king’s men.

Kaylen delivered the news to the Marshal. Ronan said, “They’re running before the ship sinks.” Tomas added, “Wise men swim early.” Kaylen murmured, “Or they drown with honor. But fewer choose that path.”

Marshal urged his captains not to grow complacent.

July 14, 1217 French morale sagged. Pay was overdue, and the treasury nearly empty.

Kaylen heard from a spy that some knights spoke openly of returning to France. Ronan smirked. “Let them go.” Tomas shook his head. “Cornered men don’t walk away. They lash out.” Kaylen agreed. “We must be ready.”

July 15, 1217 A tense calm settled over the land. Both armies watched each other across the river.

Kaylen stood with Ronan and Tomas on a low rise. Ronan said, “Feels like the world’s holding its breath.” Tomas replied, “Feels like it’s waiting for someone to blink.” Kaylen murmured, “We won’t be the ones.”

July 16, 1217 Marshal sent envoys to several rebel lords, offering generous terms.

Kaylen oversaw the drafting. “Make the terms clear,” he said. “And make the mercy real.” Ronan added, “Mercy’s cheaper than war.” Tomas replied, “But harder to trust.”

July 17, 1217 Another clash of scouts near Brentford. The English drove the French back, capturing several.

Kaylen questioned one of the prisoners. “He’s preparing for a breakout,” the man confessed. Ronan muttered, “We knew that already.” Tomas added, “Now we know when.”

July 18, 1217 Marshal convened his council and resolved to strengthen the coastal defenses.

Kaylen traced the coastline on the map. “If the sea decides this war,” he said, “we must be ready.” Ronan replied, “The Cinque Ports men are eager.” Tomas added, “Too eager, perhaps.”

July 19, 1217 Restless anticipation gripped both camps.

Kaylen watched wagons of stores being moved toward the river. “He’s preparing to run,” he said. Ronan answered, “Or to fight his way out.” Tomas murmured, “Either way, the coast will burn.”

July 20, 1217 A rumor swept through both armies that the French fleet had already sailed.

Kaylen heard it from three different sources. Ronan said, “Rumors travel faster than ships.” Tomas added, “But sometimes they’re true.” Kaylen replied, “We’ll know soon enough.”

Marshal ordered his ships to stand ready.

July 21, 1217 Another proclamation from the legate urged all rebels to submit before the feast of St. Peter ad Vincula.

Kaylen read it aloud. Ronan said, “Rome’s tightening the rope.” Tomas added, “And Louis is the one in the noose.” Kaylen nodded. “He feels it.”

July 22, 1217 Louis held a council at Westminster. Voices were raised, accusations flung.

Kaylen heard from a spy that the meeting nearly came to blows. Ronan said, “Desperation makes men loud.” Tomas replied, “And dangerous.” Kaylen murmured, “He’s losing them.”

July 23, 1217 English forces intercepted a French messenger bound for the coast. His letters revealed Louis’s urgency.

Marshal read them with grim satisfaction. Kaylen said, “He’s running out of time.” Ronan added, “And out of friends.” Tomas nodded. “And out of luck.”

July 24, 1217 A cool wind swept across the Thames valley, breaking the heat.

Kaylen breathed deeply. “Feels like a change coming,” he said. Ronan replied, “Let’s hope it’s a good one.” Tomas added, “Change rarely is.”

July 25, 1217 News arrived that another rebel lord sought terms.

Kaylen oversaw the reply. Ronan said, “They’re falling like apples in autumn.” Tomas added, “Rotten ones fall first.” Kaylen murmured, “But even rotten fruit can feed peace.”

July 26, 1217 French patrols reported that the English were drawing ever closer.

Louis ordered the city’s gates reinforced. Kaylen watched the distant walls. “He’s fortifying a cage,” he said. Ronan replied, “A gilded one.” Tomas added, “But a cage all the same.”

July 27, 1217 A brief lull settled over the land.

Kaylen sat sharpening his blade. Ronan said, “I hate the quiet.” Tomas replied, “Quiet means thinking.” Kaylen murmured, “And thinking leads to fear.”

July 28, 1217 Word reached Marshal that the French fleet had indeed set sail.

Kaylen felt the shift like a stone in his gut. Ronan said, “So it begins.” Tomas added, “Or ends.” Kaylen replied, “Both.”

Marshal sent riders to the coast at once.

July 29, 1217 Tension mounted. Louis prepared his men for a swift march to the coast.

Kaylen oversaw the tightening of the English lines. Ronan said, “If he runs, we chase.” Tomas added, “If he fights, we stand.” Kaylen nodded. “Either way, we finish this.”

July 30, 1217 The English fleet gathered in full strength, ships lining the coast like a wall of oak and iron.

Kaylen watched the preparations. Ronan said, “A fine sight.” Tomas added, “If you’re not French.” Kaylen murmured, “Pray the wind favors us.”

July 31, 1217 The month ended in taut silence. Louis waited for sails on the horizon. Marshal waited for word from the sea.

Kaylen stood between Ronan and Tomas at dusk. Ronan said, “Tomorrow?” Tomas replied, “Soon.” Kaylen answered, “August brings the reckoning.”