Chapter 12: A Contemporary Renowned General

Baron Kleve was roughly dragged away by two burly guards, struggling fiercely and shouting all the while:
“Ah! Merciful King of France, spare me! It must be that despicable Edward who seeks to use your hand to eliminate me...”

The Crown Prince of Bohemia, Charles, flushed with anger, cursed loudly:
“King of France, give the order now! Let me lead my army to defeat that boastful Edward and see if his sword is as sharp as his tongue!”

King John of Bohemia was equally furious, swearing vehemently:
“That Edward’s words sound so noble, claiming to embody chivalry. He’s only twenty-eight and in his prime, while King Philip is already forty-eight. That shameless scoundrel dares to call himself a knightly king!”

The Bohemian Sword Saint, Delbeck, held his sword’s hilt with a relaxed expression, eyes narrowed slightly, lips curled in a disdainful smile:
“King Philip, Edward’s clownish chivalry means nothing. Let me select the finest knights from Bohemia to lead the charge—I’ll show you how we’ll cut those poor English down.”

The Duke of Normandy, John, was comparatively calm, furrowing his brow:
“King John, Prince Charles, and my King Philip—Edward must be afraid. With an army as vast as ours, we mustn’t be tricked. We shall commit our entire force.”

Philip VI fought to steady himself, slowly sitting down and waving his hand with commanding authority:
“Sever the head of that Flanders man who serves Edward and hang it on the flagpole!”
“A challenge? I consider Edward’s words mere nonsense. I will throw his challenge right back down his foul throat!”
“Order the entire army to march! We shall clash with that despicable Edward at Tournai and grind the English into mince!”

Jean Kleve never could have anticipated such a drastic twist of fate.
He was originally just a wool merchant from Flanders, living a life neither wealthy nor extravagant, but steady.
However, due to the conflict between England and France, England ceased selling him wool—a thunderbolt from a clear sky.
His weavers lost their livelihoods and were forced to beg along the streets throughout Flanders and northern France, their helpless figures heartbreaking to behold.

Faced with this catastrophe, he resolutely organized his people and joined the pikemen opposing the Count of Flanders.
Through sheer determination, they gradually grew stronger and served King Edward of England.
He had always been diligent and loyal to the English king, believing it would bring stability and honor.

But in the end, he was so easily betrayed by the English king.
His head was hung on a flagpole beside the army, the rest of his body carelessly discarded—his splendid noble uniform left untouched and ignored.

The French army set out.

The French and Bohemian forces stretched out along the road from Calais to Tournai like an endless tide.
Banners fluttered wildly in the wind, their vibrant colors snapping sharply.
Countless knights clad in gleaming heavy armor shone brightly under the sun’s rays.
They sat astride imposing warhorses, which snorted and pawed the ground restlessly.

Nearly twenty-five thousand heavy cavalry formed a magnificent force, their armor clanking deeply as they moved.
Squires followed closely behind, wearing lighter armor but alert and ready to serve their lords.
Heavy infantry marched in tight formation, their heavy footsteps seeming to shake the earth as they gripped spears and shields, prepared for battle.
Light cavalry darted nimbly through the ranks, their horses swift and ready to charge.
Countless archers, crossbowmen, and light infantry of all kinds filled the ranks.

The conscripts came from diverse regions, clad in various attire.
Numerous support personnel bustled about—pushing wagons loaded with supplies, carrying weapons and equipment.
Altogether, a chaotic mass numbering roughly one hundred thousand!

Wherever this vast army marched, the earth seemed to tremble.
The mingling sounds of footsteps, hoofbeats, and clashing arms filled the air.
The sky was almost obscured by countless banners, sunlight breaking through only in patches of mottled light.

By medieval standards, Philip VI was already aged.
He sat in a carriage, eyes filled with contemplation and emotion. He joked to himself:
“Edward, you little thief, knowing my love for knightly tournaments, you bait me with a challenge. Sending some fool to recite those provoking words—if I respond, I’m falling for your trap. Betting the French crown against me when you offer nothing, at most losing a hundred knights’ lives—that’s opportunism. The French throne is mine!”

He laughed quietly at Edward:
“A king indeed, but afflicted with the folly of youth.”

He himself did not know why he had uttered the strange phrase “folly of youth.”

Amid this immense army, Carlo widened his eyes in disbelief.
He strained to see but all around were men and horses, an endless iron forest stretching in every direction.
Banners whipped wildly in the wind; Carlo reached out and lightly parted one, peering through the narrow gap to see dense crowds filling distant fields and hilltops.

“My heavens!”

Carlo gasped inwardly:
“Could such an army possibly lose?”

He smacked his forehead in frustration, cursing his ignorance of history and his unawareness of the outcome of the Battle of Tournai.

Yet soon, he clenched his fists, his gaze firming.
With no escape and no room for regret, he resolved to face it bravely.

At that moment, Roberto hurried to Carlo’s side, frowning:
“Carlo, this sight is overwhelming. I’ve never seen such a massive army. But why does my heart feel so uneasy?”

Roberto rubbed his hands nervously as he spoke.

Carlo nodded slightly in agreement:
“Yes, I feel uncertain too. I don’t know where this war will lead.”

Nearby, Ressalit overheard and strode over purposefully.
He patted Roberto and Carlo firmly on the shoulders:
“Hey! Stop overthinking! King Philip is a true general of our time—not like those fools Hugh and Nicholas.”

His voice was loud and resolute, brimming with confidence in King Philip.

“Don’t dwell on doubts. We must obey orders and fight bravely. With such a vast army, victory is ours!”

Ressalit raised his fist, his eyes blazing with determination.

Carlo and Roberto exchanged glances; though Roberto still harbored doubts, Ressalit’s words stirred a flicker of fighting spirit.

Carlo hoped his nerves were just the prelude to a great battle.
No need to worry excessively; he still trusted Ressalit’s judgment—Philip was a great commander of the age.
Even if they lost, surely it would not be a crushing defeat!