PrologueThe year is 1415, the country, France.A century of war and pestilence has devastated the landscape, causing untold deaths among the populace.Peace has finally returned to the land, long awaited by many, by the lords, the gentry, the fighting men, and their womenfolk, and their sons and daughters. It is a time to rebuild, to rein in the benefits of the serenity that has befallen upon the Gallic peoples… but such prospects are not to be had, for a new peril shall soon befall the land. Storm clouds brew upon the horizon, storm clouds of war!Across the sea to the north, an old enemy awakes, and a vast army of barbarians have prepared to launch an invasion upon the French landscape. Under the guidance of a new war chief, one bigger, more brutal, and more savage than any before, they are poised to strike and lay waste to all the good folk of France lay dear.This is the tale of the fight between the two peoples, one in their attempt to defend and protect everything they hold dear, and the other driven by the sole purpose to destroy and pillage the civilised world… with the fate of civilisation hanging in the balance.

OneThe Gathering Storm

“Pierre, come inside now!” the boy’s mother yelled. He ignored her, such as he was, the little whippersnapper. He was having far too much fun kicking his ball around near the edge of the cliff.Dusk has started to settle, and darken did the skies over Calais. The gulls around the bay continued to caw, still diving for their meals of fish.Pierre continued to kick around his ball, giggling playfully, until he finally kicked it too hard and sent it hurtling toward the cliff edge.“Merde!”He ran after it, over to the edge of the cliff overlooking the Strait of Dover… and halted dead in his tracks. His face dropped as he gazed out over the horizon.An army of ships were sailing towards the coastline, each of them vast in size. The amount of ships was countless, but they stretched as far as the eye could see, sailing in line formation. Upon each ship the same sail was flown: white with a red cross upon it.Pierre did not know who this could be, he’d not seen this emblem before, yet he still felt an unworldly terror quiver through his bones.Gathering up his ball, he turned and fled back to the small farmhouse to spread the news to his mother and father.

The English sergeant gazed over the edge of the ship, his huge meaty hands propping up his bloated, hefty form. He could see the coast of France, and as he began to imagine the plunder and pillage that was soon to commence, he could only grin, his mouth a sordid row of blackened and yellowed tusks.Turning, he stomped over to the hatch leading to the galley, where the hordes of Anglo-Saxon warriors lay in waiting, ready to right, kill, and plunder in the name of Saint George, while singing their favourite heart-warming war song, ‘Land of Hope and Glory’.“Get your arses on deck you wankers!” he bellowed at them, “We’re soon to land!”

He turned from the hatch as the lads emerged from the galley, and made his way to the captain’s holdings.There, in the room, entertaining himself with his usual flask of ale was the English war chief, Henry V.“Boss…” he announced “we’re in sight of land, here, come and have a butcher’s!”Henry emerged from his seat, a huge, hulking monster of a man, broad of shoulder, beefy of frame, vast of beer gut, his eyes blue and hair blonde, his skin decorated with tattoos of English symbolism such as one of Saint George on his right bicep, and three symmetrical blue lions on his left. He took from the sergeant a small telescope hand to him as he walked up onto the deck, peering over the horizon, eyeing the prize conquest.A huge, terrifying, bestial grin spread upon his face.“Ah sorted me old mucker!” he growled, the stench of beer venting from his mouth.He turned to his men, the vast horde of warriors, all bearing their swords, axes, maces, flails, and other forms of melee weaponry.“Right…” he bellowed over them, the command of his voice leaving no doubt as to who was boss “listen up you slags, we’re soon gonna be arriving in Frog Land, right? And there’s gonna be loads of Frenchies for us to duff up! Get yourselves ready to kick some arse you wankers, ‘cos I don’t wanna see any of you not killing any foreigners, especially if they’re Latin foreigners… now it’s all sorted, right, completely pukka, and I won’t want things getting pear-shaped, you know what I mean?”A rowdy cheer arose from the lads, along with few cries of ‘Who are ya!’ and ‘Eng-ger-land! Eng-ger-land!’“We’ll land before dawn boss,” the sergeant announced “we’ll be duffing up them Frenchies in no time!”“Ah well that’s just peachy my son!” Henry replied, and then said to his boys… “Are you ready, to conquer, for England, Saint George, and the Anglo-Saxon race?”A series of cries from the mob came back.“Too right you are boss!” yelled a Londoner.“Yeah sorted boss!” yelled one of the Brummie lads.“Ah well in boss!” cried a northerner, possibly a Scouser or Manc. However, for some reason Henry seemed to misinterpret this as…“Did you just call me a cunt?” he asked the northerner.

“No!” the grunt replied, he is eyes widening in terror.“Come here!”Henry laid into the grunt, punching and walloping the living daylights out of him, much to the amusement of the other grunts who bayed and guffawed at the spectacle.“Aye!” yelled one of the grunts, also a northerner “fuckin’ have some, fuckin’ have some!”As Henry laid into the whelp, the fleet sailed ever closer and closer to the shores of Calais.

“They’re coming! They’ve come to destroy everything! Everything you hold dear! The very fate of civilisation is at stake. The storms of war have come to rage across the skies of France once more… all will perish!”Joan bolted from her sleep, panic stricken all over her little face.She ran out of her room in a fright, screaming, crying, into that of her parents, stirring them from their slumber.“Mama, Papa,” she wept, tears rolling down her cheeks.“Aw Joan,” her father said “what is the matter?”“I had a terrible nightmare!”She ran into the arms of her father who embraced her, hugging her with great sympathy.Her mother leaned over the bed to her, gently caressing her hair.“There-there Joan, it was all a dream,” she said softly in order to calm the little girl’s nerves “tell us, what did you see?”“There was this big man, a huge horrible man, he had a belly the size of a doorway, hair the colour of the sun, eyes the colour of the sea, and he had a huge pet lion with him, and he wore giant white cloth with a red cross over the middle… and he continually spoke the name of someone… ‘San Jorge… Sant Jorge…”“Saint George!” her mother cut her off, a look of sudden dread coming across the faces of both her and Joan’s father as they met gazes, both with the same thing on their minds.“They’ve come back!” the father gasped.The two rose from their bed, carrying young Joan back to her room.“This is all you’re doing Jacque!” her mother protested “You’ve been scaring her with those silly old war stories of yours and all your exaggerated tales of the English.”

“Those stories were not exaggerations Isabelle,” came Jacque’s riposte “you were not there; you did not see the barbarians up close. The sheer savagery of them, their disregard for all foreign life… and the smell of beer on their breath!”“Oh come on now Jacques, they get drunker every time you tell those stories. It’s not possible that anyone could be as drunk as the English!”“Oh believe me, it is very possible, I’m not sure the average Anglo-Saxon goes an hour without more than a slight tipple. The visions I’ve seen, the events I have witnessed, they will haunt me until the day I day I die. I can only hope that no-one ever had to experience the things that I experienced.”The two finally lay Joan back to rest in her cot, tickling her stomach in order to get her back to sleep.“Now you go to sleep now Joan” Isabelle said to her, “and no more nightmares. There’s nothing to be afraid of, not while there’s still hope, and hope is a light that can never be extinguished, not even in the darkest of hours.”She leant forward and placed a soft kiss upon young Joan’s forehead. Joan giggled and Isabelle smiled.“Sweet dreams little Joan, I have the best of hopes for you, I see you many years from now, doing great things, wonderful things.” And she turned from her, leaving the young Joan to sleep. Little did her mother know of her fate, for while she may have predicted inspirational things for Joan, she had yet to have any idea of the extent of her achievements.

The towers bells rang throughout the settlements, their doom-laden clangs signalling the oncoming peril, as the rider galloped throughout the land, spreading the news.“They’re back!” he cried, throughout each town, village and hamlet, “They’ve returned, they’ve come to lay waste to our land, to our homes! Batten down the hatches, arms yourselves, barricade the doors, and prepare for war: the English have returned to France!”Panic spread throughout the kingdom as the people of France heard the terrifying news. Every man of fighting age was swift to take up arms and fight to the death, lest their home be laid waste. All around the cold, tingling sensation of fear and dread was overcoming. For many of the older generations, memories of the English still haunted them, the visions of barbarity and brutality still engraved deeply upon their minds. To the younger

generations, the news was no less horrifying. The only news any of them had heard about the English was from their elders, much of which has given them nightmares. Some had even come to the conclusion that the English were not real, that they were merely scary stories parents told their children in order to get them to behave. Now, with the breaking news, such notions were swiftly laid to rest.As the news and subsequent panic travelled throughout the land, it was soon to reach the French throne room.The French sovereign, Charles VI, was brought the news of the invasion from one of his courtiers. It goes without saying that the news inspired a sensation of terror throughout his being.“How long until they are here?” he asked.“They will land before dawn,” the courtier advised, “and they have brought a sizeable force with them, enough warriors and bowmen to pose a serious threat to the realm.”“Who is their leader?”“A man named Henry, he is quite a horrifying man, even by the standards of Englishmen he is a vile, savage, overweight, and drunk. Reports coming from the village of Agincourt claim that they can already smell the beer on his breath.”Charles took a deep breath, preparing his decision for action.“Send word to every garrison, I want every knight, every footman, every man of combat age to be recruited. Make it be known that the land of France is in great peril, and it is the duty of every patriotic Frenchman to defend it!”“The word will be put out forthwith my liege,” the courtier assured him “and we will gather the most elite of the kingdom’s knight brigade to lead the charge!”The word was put out, and all over the realm the men of France gathered their weapons and prepared to set off to repel the invaders. Husbands kissed their wives, fathers hugged their children, and all bid farewell to their loves as they left to join the united defence of the realm.The elite knights corps headed the march as a force of twelve thousand men was soon assembled, encompassing the brave men enlisted from the four corners of the land, until they finally arrived at a large field between two little settlements, Tramecourt, and Agincourt. There, across the field, they could see their enemy, the English. Even from the distance they still carried an ungodly presence, one that chilled most mortal men to the bone.

At the head of the French force, the gallant general Charles I of Albret stood command.“Men…” he cried over them “we are here today, united in our patriotism. We have been summoned by our duty, by our calling. We are here because our country needs us. We are the knights of France, we are the last bastion of defence for not only the kingdom, but for all of civilisation. Over there…” and he pointed his sword across the field “lie the barbarians, who wish to destroy our lands, plunders our homes, defile our women, and take everything from us that cherish most, we are all that stands between them and the rest of civilisation. We must not falter; we must give no quarter, for what we do on this battle today will echo for eternity. If we are to fall, then it must be with a sword in hard, never retreating and never surrendering. Knights of France, will you stand with me?”A chorus of brave and valiant cheers echoed from the men, including one particular young cavalier named Jean-Luc Dupont, who also wept with patriotic pride.

Across the field the English awaited the French defenders.Henry had his warriors lined up side-by-side, all with shields equipped, creating a solid metal wall of red crosses. In front of the barbarian warriors ten foot pikes were erected, creating a barricade against the cavalry attack designed to dismount any knight to bring him to a one-on-one fight with a baying Anglo-Saxon brute. Henry’s forces did not number as many as the French soldiers, but they were all battle hardened barbarian lads, excelling in nothing but warfare. It ran through their blood, through the descent of their ancestors, both Saxon and Viking. Each one was a terrifying and hideous sight to behold, broad of shoulder, stocky of frame, vast of beer gut, each of their jaws as stubbly as a hardened tree and their meaty, Neanderthal faces and horrific teeth filled mouths emitted a foul stench which contained enough alcohol to make any mere man gag. Of all of them, Henry was the most horrifying.The drums of war sounded, a harrowing, blood-boiling din of:

Duh-duhDuh-duh-duhDuh-duh-duh-duh

Followed by a savage cry of:“England!”

Along with this they also emitted many of their war-songs along the likes of “You’re all a bunch of wankers, all a bunch of wanker!” “You’re shit, and you know you are” and “You’re not singing, you’re not singing, you’re not singing anymore!”The chants were done with the intention of goading the French into attacking, and it seemed like it was going to pay dividends.Henry’s main lieutenant, Thomas Montacute, overlooked the fortifications, and grinned.“Oh ream boss,” he gloated sycophantically “ain’t nothing through this barricade!”“That’s just peach me old mucker!” Henry replied, eyeing the French across the field. In his eyes, they were a weak and pathetic people, effeminate and unworthy of life. Well, all non-Anglo-Saxon life was, but Latin foreigners were considered more inferior to Germanic ones, and the French were so girly and wimpy, not big, hard and macho like the English, and therefore not worth anything.As expected, the French knights got themselves into line formation, and began their charge across the field, much to Henry’s delight.Montacute was first to speak.“Here they come boss, we’re gonna duff well good!”Henry’s grin grew ever wider,“Sorted my son!”They lay in wait, with one hell of a surprise awaiting their Gallic adversaries, for behind the walls of footmen lay the English’s most infamous of terror weapons: the dreaded longbows!

TwoThe Desecration of Agincourt

Charles called the charge, and the knights galloped atop their horses towards the awaiting enemy. A thunderous charge, the sounds of the hoofs hammering down upon the ground, creating a deafening din as the wave of armoured horsemen propelled themselves towards the baying barbarians, lances poised upon them, ready to strike.Each of them could feel it, deep in their bones, flowing through their blood. The patriotic all to battle, the embrace for impact and the clash of steel and iron, all that their calling was, what they were trained to do. No-one felt this more than Jean-Luc. Through every fibre of his being he could feel the embrace of battle and the will to fight and die for his country, to protect his loved ones and the people of France from the invaders… he would not falter, not against any enemy, not against any odds… and then he saw it. Across the field, through a gap between two English grunts lying in wait, he saw wait lay behind them: their longbow-men.“Au merde!” he cursed before crying out “Get the fuck down!”However the sounds of the hooves drowned out his cry, just as it did with the sound of the English warchief Henry calling upon his longbow-men to fire. Although it was not drowned out to his army.The bowmen took aim with their arrows… and unleashed hell!A swarm of wooden death flew out over the skies of Agincourt, and rained down upon the fields below.Jean-Luc managed to react in time, and raise his shield, diving back off of his horse in the process. This quick thinking saved him his life… his fellow brothers-in-arms did not fare so well!The screams cried out as the arrows slammed into the French knights. The horses fell to the ground, the knights with them, their bodies riddled with arrows. All around the knights of France, the elite force of the French king, and the greatest line of defence, began dropping like flies, crashing to the muddy ground as the arrows sunk into the bodies of the knights and those of the French footmen who were also joining the charge.The screams rang out to the point of deafening, the ground became soaked with blood as the bodies piled up and the rain of steel-headed wooden death sticks launched by the Anglo-

Saxon invaders relentlessly hammered down on the plains of Agincourt. With his shield raised, Jean-Luc crawled his way across the battlefield, making his way past the layers of metal-clad corpses of his fellow countrymen. Across the field he could see a small copse; if he could just get to it he would be safe and live to fight another day. It made sense, there was no sense in dying needlessly now, it would serve no purpose. As he crawled he managed to come across one of his other brothers-in-arms, a young man by the name of Florentin Bardeaux, who’d miraculously managed to stay alive in the rain of death, one arrow had gone through his armour, but he was not wounded thanks to evasive actions taken had sent it in at a skewed angle.The two crawled across the field as the arrows continued to rain, only now starting to grow more sporadic, clearly a sign that the bowmen were running out of ammunition. Eventually they reached the wood and hid behind a tree, out of sight of what was left of the battle. The two knights looked back upon it as they saw more and more of their countrymen fall to the English arrows… until they finally stopped. However, the bloodbath was far from over. What remained of the French force came face-to-face with the English grunts, and the brutal melee broke out… but it was horrifically one-sided. The elite corps of the knights had been decimated, most dead, and what remained two wounded to fight, and the recruited footmen, while varying in battle experience, were little to no match for the battle hardened and ferocious Anglo-Saxon warriors and very soon the skirmish simply became more of a mop-up operation.Having seen enough of the unspeakable horror, both Jean-Luc and Florentin crept away.

Agincourt was not a battle, it was a massacre! In a mere manner of hours the invading English forces had laid waste to and utterly annihilated the French defence forces. Once the last of the resistance they met was downed the English footmen walked over the bodies strewn upon the muddy blood-sodden field, looking for survivors, and promptly executing them. They even found Charles of Albret himself and brought him before Henry, forcing him down on his knees before conquering warlord.

Henry gave Charles the opportunity to surrender and to submit to Anglo-Saxon rule and to the worship of Saint George. Without even a second thought Charles defiantly spat in Henry’s face. Henry’s response to this was… brutal to say the least. Seconds later he was skewing Charles’ severed head onto a pike.Back in ancient antiquity, many Roman and Greek historians wrote that the Germanic tribes beyond the Rhine were a vile, savage, barbaric race, who were born for, and knew only war and bloodshed, excelling at nothing else and caring not for the lives of their vanquished enemies. In 1415, on the plains of Agincourt, the English, being descended from many of these tribes, seemed only to confirm that very assertion. Now, that the whole military force of France had been destroyed, nothing stood in their way. On either side of the battlefield lay to the two little towns of Agincourt and Tramecourt, with no defences to protect them. The English, true to their Anglo-Saxon and Viking heritage, pillaged and plunder both settlements. Some raping was attempted but Henry put a halt to it, stating that the Englishmen must not taint their Nordic blood with the likes of the Gallic/Latin French, who they considered to be inferior. One particular grunt disputed, claiming that Henry had no right to deny him the spoils of their conquests… and in seconds his head claim tumbling onto the ground as Henry finished swinging his halberd. He asked if anyone else would be so bold as to challenge his dominance… he got no quarrel.Henry grinned, after the two villages were pillaged of all their worth, the rest of France was at the mercy of the English hordes… and there was nothing to stand in their way!

ThreeAfter the Fall

Needless to say, word of the defeat at Agincourt spread quickly throughout the kingdom.From city to city, town to town, village to village, even hamlet to hamlet, locals heard the news of the catastrophic annihilation of France’s defending army. Many a wife and child were brought the heart-breaking news that their husband and father was not coming home, reducing both to puddles of tears.All throughout the land the people felt hope vanish before their eyes. Was this it? Was civilisation finally at its end? Had he barbarians finally won? They didn’t want to, they tried as hard as they could to resist believing it, but the facts just seemed straight. The Anglo-Saxon barbarians from across the sea had finally conquered France, and now all hope was lost. Many fear that this was just the beginning, for once France had fallen, what would happen to the rest of Europe. France was the most powerful kingdom, if it couldn’t hold off the Anglo-Saxon onslaught then what hope could the rest of the kingdoms of Europe possibly have?At the courtroom of Charles VI, the agitation was no less. The King has surrounded himself with all his remaining nobles, lords and gentry, as well as his highest cardinals in the Church, all to discuss and analyse the situation.“So…” Charles recapped “could we please summarise the situation?”“We’re done for,” the first of the nobles said, “our forces have been completely destroyed, nearly all our knights brigade have been wiped out, with any remaining too traumatised to fight, every nobleman sent into the foray is believed dead, and the two settlements of Tramecourt and Agincourt are believed to have been completed wiped out. Reports still flood in of the horrors of what the English have done there.”“Do we have any reserve forces left?”“None, at least nothing that could muster up much of a fight. We sent our most elite forces into Agincourt, now we could rustle up a citizens’ militia at best.”“They won’t fight,” stated another of the nobles “they’re spirits are all but shattered, they have no hope left, nothing to inspire,

and encourage them, and who can blame them? The outlook is bleak to say the least.”Charles turned to the cardinals, all of whose expressions carried no more optimism.“What say you, men of God?” he asked them.“Our suggestions?” the first of the cardinals asked, “Batten down the hatches! Repent! Get down on our knees and pray for redemption! We are doomed, for this is a judgement. We have been punished for our sins, and now God has brought the End Times upon us!”“You think this is a scourge from God?”“A plague!” the cardinal riposted “A judgement! We were warned to heed God’s commandments and obey his laws, but we foolishly ignored them, and now we are reaping what we sow!”“Surely you exaggerate?”Another of the nobles spoke.“While I do not quite share our clerical friends’ pious pessimism I can nonetheless understand their reaction, of all of France, only one major city still holds out: Orleans. If they are to fall, then the whole country will be lost to the invaders.”As if to pinpoint the hopelessness they all faced, a sudden interruption cut through the room –Dong! Dong! Dong!The towers bells rang again, their deep, dark, doom-laden clang ever sending a nefarious shiver down the spines of even the hardiest of men, as the sound of footsteps running towards the throne room door was heard.The door burst open and in the gateway stood a younger messenger, out of breath and a terrified expression imprinted upon his face.“Sire!” he gasped through his breaths “A rider of the English approaches the castle gates!”Neither Charles nor any of his aides wasted a second. They dropped all that they were doing and stormed out of the throne room, into the courtyard to gaze out upon the horizon at what had the messenger in such peril.From over the hills a horse came galloping, a masked figure saddled upon its back. A huge beast the equine was, seemingly as big as a bear and as black as ink, the colour death, almost as if chosen purposefully to symbolise the death of France.

The hooves hammered against the firm ground as the horse drew ever nearer to the castle. As it drew ever nearer, the King and his nobles could make out the red and white emblem emblazoned upon the rider’s chest, thus signifying that he was indeed an Englishman.The rider eventually reached the castle gates, halting the horse in a gigantic neigh as it stood upright upon its hind hooves. The drawbridge was called to be lowered, and as it finally stretched out across the castle moat the rider took the horse over towards the gateway. It was now, as he drew ever closer, that they could all see that it was not a mask upon the rider’s face, but a helmet as per what the English footmen wore, complete with metal visor drawn down over the face, obscuring him from description. Once over the moat and the through the gateway, he brought the horse to a stop, dipping his hand into a small burlap sack he kept by his side, and eventually withdrawing the horrifying contents.A series of chains, all linked together was revealed, each of them bearing a petrifying sight: the severed heads of many of the knights and lords slain at Agincourt.The rider hurled the chain contraption down on the hard stone floor of the courtyard, a powerful, wordless display of power and intimidation towards the French. From the sounds of many throughout the courtyard, one might say it had the desired effect.The Englishmen brought his hand to his helmet and raised his visor, finally revealing his visage unto the King and his nobles, his face that displayed the Anglo-Saxon and Viking heritage of the English, for he possessed both the blond hair and the blue eyes that were ever so common among Northern Europeans.A sinister and malicious grin grew upon his face.“Oi-oi you Continental wankers!” he said.He dismounted his steed, and began his walk over to Charles and his nobles… well I say walk, it was more of a drunken stagger. Judging by the time of day, it came as no surprise to anyone who was familiar with the English that they would’ve been drinking for the past several hours and would all now be utterly inebriated. In fact, few people had ever seen a sober Englishman, and many believed such a thing never existed.The English messenger eventually brought himself to a halt merely a yard or two from Charles, his blue eyes staring fiendishly into Charles’ hazel ones.

“Hello mate!” he said, the stench of beer wafting from his breath right into the sinuses of all present “You’re that Charles bloke ain’t ya?”Charles’ comprehension of what the messenger spoke took a second or two, as not only was English a second language to him but he had to decipher the slang that he was speaking in also.“Oui!” Charles replied “I am Charles, King of France!”The messenger laughed aloud in response “Not anymore you ain’t my son,” he crowed “our ‘Enry, the big boss, we’ll he’s just duffed up all them gits you sent at us at Agincourt, and now… well he’s got this to say to you!” and delved his hand into a satchel around his waist he brought a small parchment before Charles and his nobles. One noble took the parchment, but did not open it as of yet.“Merci monsieur,” Charles replied “you seem to have travelled far, can we offer you some… refreshments?” he asked not knowing if it was an idea to offer a tipple to the evidently already inebriated barbarian.“What you got?” the messenger replied, grace, tact or decorum completely absent from his manner.“Well we have some of the finest wines from all over France, both red and white –”“Wine?!” barked the messenger, his face now ablaze with untold fury, “That’s poofy Latin drink; I drink beer, and beer alone!”Charles almost kicked himself for having suddenly made that cultural mistake; he’d forgotten that the Germanic tribesmen did not care much for wine, and preferred to drink beer and ale, with the possible addition of cider, although the latter seemed mostly a uniquely Anglo-Saxon phenomenon.“My apologies my friend,” he said “but please, would you like some food? We have a few hors d'oeuvres inside if you wish to have a nibble…”“Don’t mind I do me old mucker!” and the messenger oafishly barged his way past everyone and into the castle hall. The King and his nobles, as well the clergymen, followed after.The messenger soon found the buffet table Charles mentioned and began burying his faces into the assortment of food, scoffing everything like a pig in a swill. Everyone watching winced in disgust.

“Mon Dieu!” cursed one of the nobles “These barbarians disgust me!”“Is there anything they won’t eat?” asked another.“I’ve heard that if you slobber it with enough grease they’d eat their own shit!” said another.The messenger soon ceased in his savage gluttony and rejoined the group, unleashing an ungodly belch right into the faces of them all, picking his teeth at the same time.“Did you find the food to your liking?” asked Charles.“It’s alright,” the messenger replied indifferently. The food itself had been prepared from the finest chefs from the four corners of France and prepared using the most exquisite of ingredients and the apex of culinary talents, food to be fit not just for a king, but for God himself… but to the barbarian it was just… ‘Alright.’Charles did not press on this, as the oafish foreigner looked like he could explode into a fighting rage at any minute, mostly fuelled by his drunkenness.“Well is there anything else we can get for you?” he asked.The messenger peered over and past the congregated nobility, the look of a hound eyeing up its prey sprawled upon his face.“Don’t suppose I could shag any of them birds could I?”Charles and his nobles looked behind themselves to where the messenger was gazing, to see three young maidens standing by one of the doorways to the corridors leading into the castle chambers. They were the daughters of three of the lords, and highly respected at that!Charles tried to inform the messenger of the unfeasibility as best as he could.“I am afraid Monsieur…”“Baker, Doug Baker!”A series of giggles emerged from the three girls, who were soon silenced by a glare form their fathers.“Monsieur Baker, that these maidens are off limits, I most humbly apologise!”The messenger, Baker, grunted and scowled, but grudgingly accepted.“Alright then,” he snorted, well I’d best be on my way, I delivered the scroll from good ol’ ‘Enry, which should give the fate of your weak and pathetic nation, so I guess I’d better bugger off now, the boss will be wanting me back,” and he

walked off… right into a door leading into the castle pantry. Once he was out of sight Charles turned to the three girls.“Virginie, Segolene, Elodie, what is so funny?”“I’m sorry,” the first girl, Virginie, replied “but Englishmen have such funny names.”“Well they probably think our names are funny too!”A deafening crash was heard around the main hall as the English messenger emerged from another doorway further up the hall.“Alright I give up, where’s the exit?”“Here, allow me to help you,” offered one of the nobles and he approached the messenger and guided him to the exit.“Aw cheers mate; I dunno where I’m going!”“No, no, it is a tricky room this, deceptively… straight,” the noble replied as he guided the messenger to the painfully obvious exit to the main hall – and then the unbearable happened. The Anglo-Saxon messenger, his hours of drinking suddenly catching up with him, suddenly started to heave at the mouth – and then keeled forward, unleashing a hellish brown stream of bile from his mouth, the noble just getting out of the way so as not to get smothered in the ungodly stuff.The messenger gazed back up at the noble, an apologetic look suddenly upon his face.“Aw sorry mate!” he said, with some surprisingly sincerity.“Oh don’t worry about it,” replied noble “it is, how you say… better out than in!”Somehow the messenger misheard this as…“Did you just call me a cunt?”“No?”“Come here you git!” and he took a swing for the noble. Thankfully, so great was the messenger’s level of intoxication, that the noble had to merely lean to one side and he punch swung wide, the Englishman falling to the floor soon after.The noble assisted the drunken foreigner off of the cold hard floor and continued to escort him off the premises. As he vanished into the distance, Charles opened the delivered parchment and proceeded to examine the message from their enemy. It read as follows:

Dear poofy frog-boy Charles

It’s my, Henry, from England, you slag!

Well, me and my lads have just duffed up those runty gits you sent to us at Agincourt, and if that’s the best you lot can throw at us, which we wouldn’t be surprised, it’s no secret to us English what a bunch of weak, cowardly pathetic little poofs you Frenchies are, then you’d better be getting prepared to hand over that crown and say bye-bye to your country, because this is the last you’re gonna be seeing of it me old mucker. Not to mention any further kin of resistance you may try to lob at us will be so useless your best hope is that we die laughing, which to be fair we may just! Anyway, all-in-all, I want that crown, and I’m coming to get it, so get ready to fucking well hand it over you Latin wanker, or else I’m sort you out good ‘n proper!

Yours

Henry of England

P.S. As it’s a known fact that you French are a pathetic inferior race of weaklings, me and my lads will take the liberty of purging as many of you as we can from this land, so we can make more room for more Anglo-Saxon people… it’s what God would want!

Charles felt a deathly shudder travel down his spine as he read the scroll. His face went pale his terror as the gravity of the situation sunk into his conscience. Now, the bleakness of the outlook was in full realisation: France had fallen, the barbarians had won!“What does it say My Liege?” asked one of the nobles.“It’s an ultimatum,” replied Charles “we’re to surrender or be destroyed and vanquished from history forever.”“Mon Dieu!” the noble replied “Is there nothing we can do? Have the forces of barbarism and savagery finally won over civilisation?”“I do not know,” said Charles “I have studied the ancient scrolls, read all that was prophesised among them. They say that the saviour of France will come in our most darkest hour, yet I have never known an hour so dark as this throughout our entire history, and yet I see no sign of our saviour anywhere!”

Many a year passed, and before long Henry soon appeared with his hordes of warriors along the streets of Reims, standing before the gateway to its grand cathedral, the Notre-Dame de Reims.All throughout the country the masses had gather to see the official change in power. The mighty bells of the cathedral rang out as the rows of trumpeters blasted out their cries.Henry stood at the steps to entrance to the cathedral, Thomas Montacute by his side as the crowds watched with ever growing despair. If the day was intended to be a joyous occasion, it failed greatly. Henry’s warriors stood guarded outside the cathedral as Henry, Montacute, and a few other higher ranking English warriors entered, walking their way down the head carpet to the ceremonial throne where the Archdiocese of Reims awaited, holy scepter in hand.As Henry made his way down the red carpet, the French nobility watching in horrified silence in the wooden seats, a crier read from a prepared parchment, announcing the coming and ascension of Henry the Conqueror.The ceremony was short and sweet. The Archdiocese, Simon of Cramaud, attempted to go through the rites and ritual of anointing the new monarch but Henry was in no mood and aggressively barked at the clergyman to continue. He had no argument. Soon the crown, handed over from Charles who stood at the side, terrified into silence, and placed onto the head of the Anglo-Saxon war-chief.Henry stood triumphantly, raising his colossal meaty arms in a display of victory, as his underlings roared in success, and he then stormed back down the red carpet out of the cathedral and into the open to view the baying crowd. He peered down upon his subjects, as now they were, registering the sense of loss and hopelessness upon their faces as they saw their new ruler. In a matter of years after a quick and decisive crushing at Agincourt, Henry had become the most powerful man in Christendom. He was now sovereign over England, Wales, Ireland, and now France, the most powerful kingdom in Europe. Henry the Conqueror indeed!To the English invaders, the occasion was a cause for riotous merriment, and they soon took to celebrating via their favourite pastime, getting drunk, although most were already drunk as it was, and would’ve probably continued to get drunk regardless. To Charles, Simon, and he crowds of French citizens gathered

outside the cathedral, hope faded before their very eyes as they saw the very crown of France placed atop the head of the barbarian, and it seemed like the fate of their country was sealed forever more. However, the light of hope is not easily extinguished; it can shine through in even the darkest of times, and it is always darkest before the dawn.