Chapter 4: The Battle of Courage

King Edward III of England, clad in magnificent armor and wielding his legendary "magic longsword," stood upon the deck of his flagship, the Thomas. Legend held that this blade was forged by a mysterious blacksmith, its surface etched with arcane runes and patterns. It was said to bestow upon its wielder immense power and courage, rendering them invincible in battle. Edward III held unshakable faith in this sword, keeping it at his side for every campaign.

Surveying the Allied fleet, connected by heavy chains, he found the sight increasingly laughable. "Truly excellent. This Hugh and Nicholas are my 'confidants' indeed, anticipating my every desire. Once we capture them, you must all ensure they are well entertained on my behalf." The nobles and knights surrounding the King erupted in laughter. The Allied fleet’s strategy had been flawed from the very beginning.

The English vessels were cogs. While possessing numerous drawbacks, they were purpose-built for war. Originally designed as merchant vessels for transporting wool, wine, livestock, and passengers, cogs had a shallow draft and small displacement—typically 30 to 40 tons, occasionally reaching 200—allowing them to navigate creeks and shallows inaccessible to larger ships. Their hulls utilized clinker-built construction with wide keels and rounded stems and sterns, making them adaptable to various weather conditions and the hydrography of the North Sea. While suitable for transporting troops, they were hardly true warships, even with the addition of fighting platforms at the bow and stern. The tactics of the cog were simple: sail to the windward side of the enemy and attempt to sink or ground them. Cogs carried only a single square sail and possessed primitive steering, making them sluggish to maneuver.

Against purpose-built warships—such as the Mediterranean galleys equipped with rams, catapults, and oars for superior maneuverability, like the Genoese vessels, or the massive, sturdy carracks of Castile, bristling with cannons and crewed by skilled sailors—the English cogs would be in grave danger, utterly vulnerable.

The English fleet sailed straight into the harbor where the French fleet remained moored. "They look like rows of castles." Hugh and Nicholas had been unable to assemble their forces in such a short time, and many soldiers on the French ships were still deep in slumber. The obstacles the French had labored to create—barriers of wooden planks and small boats laden with stones—had proven almost entirely useless.

The Earl of Huntingdon shouted his command: "Signal the first squadron: three minutes of rapid fire!" The war horns of the ships sounded a mournful wail. The arrows loosed by the English longbowmen flew like an iron cloud toward the enemy, instantly felling hundreds of troops. Edward III was a brilliant tactician; with extraordinary intellect, he expertly utilized the wind direction to position his fleet favorably against the sun. Consequently, the French crossbowmen struggled to aim accurately against the glare, while the English longbowmen were able to unleash their full, devastating firepower. The scales of war had tilted in England's favor from the very start.

***

The English fleet surged into the ranks of the French, engaging the Allied fleet in a chaotic melee. Heavily armored knights wielded longswords, battle-axes, and half-spears to board enemy ships, while longbowmen continued to release wave after wave of arrows. Sailors rained stones, iron bolts, and lime bombs from the mastheads. Some divers even swam beneath the enemy hulls, attempting to bore holes and scuttle them. Because the French had chained their ships together, the English found it easy to shift the battlefield from one vessel to the next.

The chaos of the Allied fleet the previous day had been the natural reaction of ordinary men who had never seen war. Today, however, the ships remained orderly only because they were immobile, while the French soldiers were being slaughtered in a one-sided massacre. Screams echoed across the sky. Finally, the sheer scale and advanced weaponry of the Allied fleet began to take effect; soldiers on various ships recovered their wits and, under the command of their captains, began to fight back. They fired cannons at the English ships, and crossbowmen fought desperately to rain bolts down upon the heads of the "English devils." Hugh Quiéret, the naval commander, finally regained his composure and managed to establish a foothold on the flank of the first squadron, organizing a counterattack. The battle began to settle into a normal rhythm.

Soon, the English suffered a significant loss. A cog, "carrying countesses, young ladies, knights' wives, and other female attendants who were traveling to Ghent to visit the Queen," was struck by cannon fire. With a thunderous boom, the hull shook violently and began to sink rapidly, the fierce vortex leaving no hope of escape. The terrified screams of the women erupted instantly—"Ah!"—a sharp, piercing sound that reverberated across the sea. As they struggled and drowned, their cries for help—"Help us! Save us!"—echoed one after another. This tragic scene ignited an even greater ferocity in the English.

Upon hearing the news, Edward III cried out in grief: "Vile Quiéret! Relying on your aggressive weaponry, is this all you can do—torment helpless ladies? I shall make you draw back your snail's horns! Men, hear me: follow me and slaughter these Frenchmen!" With that, he drew his longsword and charged into the fray. The English morale soared even higher.

Meanwhile, Rezarit and the knights on land were forgotten; no one had organized them. Carlo and Roberto watched the scene, their faces pale, speechless and stunned. Carlo secretly congratulated himself, thinking: *How incredibly lucky. If I hadn't disembarked with Rezarit yesterday, I would be among those being slaughtered.* He did not realize, however, that the *Lighthouse Keeper* had fled long before the battle began.

Rezarit’s expression was terrifyingly grim. He gritted his teeth, harboring intense hatred for the stupidity of the French leadership. Although the French Allied fleet possessed advantages in every aspect, Hugh and Nicholas had squandered them entirely. The knights gathered here formed a powerful land-based trump card, yet without them, the tactical command at the lowest levels of the fleet had completely collapsed. Most ridiculously, the French commanders had forgotten them entirely, failing to send a single noble to lead them.

***

As the battle raged on the sea, the knights on land could only watch in frustration. They were all knights—who could command whom? He turned to the pale-faced squires behind him; taking them onto the ships now was surely a death sentence, but his sense of knightly honor forbade him from retreating. "Carlo, you have the courage to stand here today—very good. Do you have the courage to go and fight with me now?"

With several gazes fixed upon him, Carlo’s heart hammered, his mind in a state of panic. Every nerve screamed at him to turn and flee from this place, which felt like the entrance to hell. Carlo was truly terrified. He did not know why he had transmigrated into this strange and cruel world, and from the moment of his arrival, finding a way to survive had been his only conviction. Now, Rezarit’s sharp gaze was fixed upon him, his question sounding like a death sentence. Carlo guessed that if his answer were even slightly lacking, Rezarit might kill him on the spot to set an example!

Carlo screamed frantically in his heart: *Go for it! I’m a transmigrator anyway; this life was a gift! If Rezarit isn't afraid to risk his life, neither am I!* He shouted aloud: "Lord Rezarit! In this cruel battle, do not look down on me because of the distinction between knight and commoner! Having a title does not mean you can question my bravery! No more empty words! Now! Let us fight!"

After shouting, Carlo gasped for air, picked up his equipment, and ran forward with grim determination. Roberto and Louvain were stunned for a moment before hurriedly following. Carlo cursed himself internally: *Carlo, oh Carlo, why are you trying to be a hero?* But having made the choice, he gritted his teeth and pushed forward firmly.

Witnessing the actions of Carlo and the squires, Rezarit was deeply moved. He drew his longsword with force, held it high, and shouted: "French knights! My squires, young as they are, do not fear death and are willing to fight for the honor of France! Knights, what are you waiting for? Follow me into battle!" Rezarit pulled on his reins, dug his heels into his horse's flanks, and charged forward like an arrow released from a bow!

The French knights had long been stirred by Carlo’s outburst, and seeing Rezarit charging at the forefront, their unforgotten oaths of knighthood burned within them like a raging fire. One after another, they drew their swords, called out to their squires, and charged forth like a tidal wave. In the distance, the sea was a hell of fire, but the knights converged into a counter-current, rushing forward with overwhelming momentum. "Charge! Kill! French knights, charge fearlessly! Courage as our shield, glory as our spear!"