Chapter 37: Hope and Struggle

At that critical, hair-trigger moment, the Flemish cavalry appeared as if descending from the heavens.

The sound of hooves rolled like muffled thunder, charging up the broad ramparts of Tournai from the city wall stairs like a surging, furious wave.

Their appearance, akin to a dazzling beam of light tearing through the darkness, instantly shattered the suffocating stalemate on the battlefield. The entire war theatre, much like a tinderbox struck by a spark, erupted into violent turmoil.

Carlo could not win the argument against Lesalit; the combat was far too perilous, leaving him confined beneath the city wall under Roberto’s watchful and meticulous care.

His eyes remained locked upon the warriors on the battlefield, his jaw clenched tight, his knuckles turning white from the sheer force of his grip.

This fresh contingent showed no fear of death, engaging the "rebellious" Flemings in a heart-pounding, life-or-death struggle.

"Let them see who the true Flemings are!"

Consumed by deep mutual hatred, the two sides clashed fiercely atop the fortifications.

Though well-equipped, boasting armored warhorses and consummate martial skill, the cavalry faced immense difficulty and hazard fighting mounted in the rain.

The downpour slicked the ground, causing the warhorses to slip repeatedly. More than a few cavalrymen were unseated, some even tumbling down the ramparts with miserable cries.

Yet, not a single one retreated. Every knight silently invoked his mission and conviction, plunging into the fray with utter disregard for his own life.

On the ramparts, a Flemish knight suffered severe wounds.

His armor was battered beyond recognition, his body soaked in blood that gushed endlessly from his injuries, mingling with the rain pooled at his feet.

Leaning against the defensive wall, he panted heavily, each breath wracked with agonizing pain. His comrades crowded around him with looks of deep concern.

"Maximilian, rest for a moment. We'll take it from here!"

A companion spoke, his voice laden with admiration and dread.

"No... I can still hold on..."

The wounded Maximilian struggled to rise, clutching his sword tightly.

Yet, despite mustering all his remaining strength, he failed to lift his body. His gaze grew dim.

His companions watched his passing, their eyes swimming with tears and reverence. They knew Maximilian had fallen for the shared conviction burning in their hearts, perished for the honor of Flanders.

Amidst the fierce onslaught between the two factions, despite the vast numbers of the "rebellious" Flemings, the tenacious resistance of the Tournai garrison and the Flemish cavalry ultimately drove them all from the ramparts.

Pummeled by the ferocious barrage of trebuchets and cross-bows, the enemy broke and retreated like a receding tide.

In the distance, Edward and his mounted men could only watch the spectacle from afar, unable to join the fray.

Resignation and fury marred their faces, yet given the circumstances, they remained utterly powerless.

Gradually, the rain ceased, the heavy clouds parting to let sunlight pierce through and bathe the war-torn earth.

The battlefield reeked of gunpowder and blood, the casualties too numerous to count.

The soldiers seized the moment to clear the field and tend to the wounded. Exhaustion and grief etched their features, yet beneath those emotions flickered the solace and pride of hard-won victory.

Carlo stood rooted to the spot, gazing upon the devastation with a heart heavy with emotion.

He felt acutely his own insignificance and helplessness, which only hardened his resolve to grow stronger.

"I am still too weak. For the sake of these people, I must become stronger."

The battle at the North Gate drew to a temporary close. The English and the Flemish forces withdrew, leaving behind a scarred expanse of ruin. They retreated with haste, as though fleeing some unseen peril.

Yet, just as everyone exhaled a collective sigh of relief, a sudden, tense atmosphere gripped the South Gate, followed by battle cries that pierced the heavens!

The roar shattered the air like rolling thunder, plunging the defenders' hearts into despair.

Could the principalities of the Netherlands and Germany have chosen this exact juncture to strike?

Tournai scarcely possessed the strength to endure another engagement!

Though the defenders of the North Gate were utterly drained to the marrow, having just successfully repulsed King Edward III's English troops alongside the Flemish forces, their morale soared to an unprecedented peak.

Tormented by the lingering dread that the enemy might return, the Count of Foix resolutely chose to remain at the North Gate.

Waving his arms briskly, he directed the soldiers in the tense yet orderly clearance of the battlefield. The Count ordered his men to stand at the ready, braced for any renewed assault.

Concurrently, the Count of Foix dispatched Lesalit at the head of a sizable reinforcement detachment to rush to the South Gate.

This relief force shouldered a vital mission. Their hurried footfalls and the rhythmic clatter of hooves striking cobblestones hammered against the taut nerves of the populace.

Lesalit sat in the saddle, periodically glancing back at the column, his eyes resolute and urgent.

The war had escalated to such a suffocating degree of tension that the city of Tournai seemed trapped on the brink of an abyss, stripped of any room to maneuver.

Along the route to the South Gate, the sights were deeply moving.

Even half-grown children and sturdy women seized whatever household implements came to hand to serve as makeshift weapons, their gazes burning with ironclad resolve to live and die with the city.

"We shall perish with Tournai!"

"Slaughter the English and their bastard allies!"

These shrill, youthful and female voices echoed passionately through the streets, stirring profound emotion in the breast of every listener.

Carlo gazed upon this motley "army" with a tumult of feelings in his breast. Drawing a deep breath, he steadied his resolve and shouted aloud:

"Good citizens of Tournai, I am Carlo, squire to the commander of this force.

My knight taught me that on the field of battle, age and station—whether noble or common—matter not at all. There is only the distinction between the brave and the cowardly."

His resolute gaze swept over every face as he brandished his sword.

"The bravery of Tournai, your bravery, has already been amply proven in the fighting before us.

Now, I beg you good citizens to hear me: when the battle commences, fall back and let us knights and soldiers take the vanguard.

Only when every last one of us has fallen should the men step forward. And if the men should perish too, then—and only then—may you take our place!

If you were to suffer harm before we do, what possible meaning would there be in us French knights and soldiers defending Tournai?

Friends, I shall say no more; I go first! Victory to Tournai!"

With those words, Carlo pulled his blade free, spurred his horse forward into a gallop, and was instantly followed without hesitation by Roberto and the other soldiers whose strength remained unspent.