Chapter 29: Infiltration

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The sky gradually darkened, as though a thick layer of ink were slowly seeping across it, while the surrounding landscape was swallowed by the dusk.

It was as if an invisible hand were gently drawing everything into the embrace of darkness, leaving the world blurred and indistinct.

Rasalit looked dejected, his eyes revealing both deep concern and unwavering resolve.

“If Tournai falls, then this campaign of ours in France will be tantamount to failure. So, no matter what, we must get the provisions into the city.

“Even if every one of us dies in battle, we must at least let the defenders of Tournai see that France has not forgotten them.

“We must give them the courage to hold on!”

Carlo furrowed his brow slightly and fell into brief thought. Then a spark of light flashed in his eyes.

“Rasalit, stop the column and take me to Count Alencon. I think I have another idea!”

Rasalit was startled and wondered inwardly:

Ambushes were one thing, but what possible idea could he have at a moment when they were risking their lives?

Yet, out of trust in Carlo, he quickly spurred his horse and galloped with him toward Count Alencon.

The Count of Alencon had once heard Countess Jeanne of Eu praise Rasalit and knew him to be a reliable knight.

When he saw the two men hurrying toward him and heard that they had something important to report, he immediately ordered the column to halt so that he could hear their proposal.

The soldiers nearby also turned toward them with curiosity.

Calmly, Carlo explained his plan. As he spoke, he gestured with his hands, detailing every step and every possible contingency.

Count Alencon listened intently, his expression focused and grave. From time to time he nodded slightly, and admiration gradually appeared in his eyes.

Before long, the column set out once more, heading toward the southern gate—the Valenciennes Gate—guarded by the Brabanter and German mercenaries.

The sound of hooves rose again, unnaturally clear in the stillness of night.

The night was thick as ink, silent and profound, as though a vast sheet of black silk had wrapped the world tightly in its folds.

Now and then, the chirping of insects drifted through the darkness, a faint melody that gently disturbed the silence while only deepening the night’s mysterious atmosphere.

At the entrance to the Brabant camp, the mercenary captain, Luca Griffith, was drinking ale in utter boredom.

He sat on a crude wooden stool, leaning lazily against the railing of the timber wall, one leg carelessly crossed over the other.

In the dim moonlight, Luca Griffith’s figure appeared hazy, like a blurred silhouette.

His eyes were filled with weariness and irritation. He had long since grown resentful of this tedious guard duty.

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“What a damned King Edward—and he even has the nerve to call himself King of England and France! Yet he can delay even my two shillings a day for an entire month!”

He grumbled bitterly, then took a hard swallow of ale. The drink trickled down from the corner of his mouth.

“Captain, when is this miserable life going to end?” asked one of his more insignificant subordinates, Charles Angelos, unable to resist joining in.

“Who knows? Maybe this wretched war will wear us all to death one day.”

Luca Griffith answered helplessly, a trace of confusion in his eyes.

The mercenaries beside him began cursing as well. For a while, their complaints echoed across the night sky, shattering the silence.

“Exactly! There’s no way to live like this!”

“The English king is utterly unreliable!”

They vented their grievances one after another, their voices carrying far into the night like a protest against their helpless circumstances.

Suddenly, a simple yet striking banner appeared dimly in the distance.

Its field was pure white, with a vivid red cross at its center.

Behind the banner came a large body of English cavalry. The sound of their hooves drew nearer and grew clearer, like the trembling of the earth, each impact shaking the hearts of those who heard it.

Luca Griffith was startled and cried out in alarm:

“What? Is this some kind of curse? I’ve only just cursed Edward, and now his cavalry has come looking for me?”

His eyes widened, his face filled with disbelief.

The cavalrymen raised torches, illuminating the wagons behind them. One of the riders at the front shouted loudly:

“Brabant brothers guarding the gate! We are the English royal cavalry! His Majesty the King confiscated Van Artevelde’s estate today and has sent us to deliver your pay!”

When Luca Griffith heard that they had come to bring money, his eyes lit up at once. His face flushed with excitement as he shouted an order to his men:

“Open the gate! Let them in!”

At that moment, Charles Angelos voiced his concern.

“Captain, what if it’s a trap?”

Luca Griffith glared at him angrily.

“Do you take me for a fool? Look at their armor and banners. Workmanship like that belongs only to the English royal knights.

“A cavalry force this large couldn’t possibly be faked! If we keep them waiting and anger them, what happens if the money leaves?”

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Before long, the cavalry and wagons had all entered the Brabant camp.

The English rider at the head even tossed Luca Griffith a pouch of pounds.

“Brother, guarding the gate is hard work. Take this as a small token of appreciation. Please lead us to His Grace the Duke.”

Luca Griffith was overjoyed. He hurriedly caught the money pouch and weighed it in his hand, a greedy smile spreading across his face. He called over several of his men to lead the way and said as they walked:

“Brothers, we’ve struck it rich this time. Following His Majesty the King does have its advantages!”

The cavalry entered the heart of the Brabant camp with astonishing ease and headed straight for the duke’s central tent.

Along the way, they encountered numerous patrols. Seeing the English cavalry’s uniforms and the pounds in their possession, none of the patrols made trouble for them; some even joined the procession.

One patrol captain asked curiously:

“Where did you come from?”

The rider at the head replied calmly:

“From King Edward. We’ve come to bring money to our brothers.”

“Wonderful! We haven’t been paid in ages,” the patrol captain exclaimed excitedly, joy sparkling in his eyes.

No one could have guessed that this English cavalry force was actually an elite corps of French cavalry led that day by Count Charles of Alencon.

Following Carlo’s advice, they had disguised themselves as a detachment sent by Edward to deliver money to the Brabanters. To everyone’s surprise, they had reached the Brabant duke’s tent without meeting the slightest resistance.

This was far better than the outcome Carlo had originally envisioned—tricking the Flemings into opening the gates and then fighting their way through.

In truth, some of the Brabanters had harbored doubts. The cavalry force was simply too large, and most of its members were unnervingly quiet, giving off an unmistakably strange impression.

Yet many English nobles were descended from French ancestors. Combined with the large supply of genuine English royal armor and banners, the heavy “money wagons,” and the approval of so many of their comrades, this was enough to silence all suspicion.

“They’ve come to deliver money. Would you really drive them away? Try going a month without pay!”

That was what everyone thought.

Meanwhile, Luca Griffith was already dreaming happily of the considerable benefits he would receive, completely unaware that a sudden change was quietly drawing near.

Unnoticed by anyone, the French cavalry had already penetrated deep into their camp.

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