The roads of Normandy churned to muck beneath the press of war. Spring rains fell in cold sheets that turned cart ruts into hungry trenches, swallowing hooves and boots alike.
Along one such winding forest lane, a small company of knights rode with banners furled, their chain mail dark with water, voices low with fatigue.
They were men bound for Richard's host outside Rouen; the young Count of Avranches among them, eager to prove himself before the Duke.
They never reached the siege lines.
In a shallow vale where alder and birch crowded close, arrows whispered from the undergrowth.
The first struck a squire through the neck, pitching him from his saddle in a splash of blood and rain. Horses reared, screaming, riders dragged helpless in stirrups.
Then Mortain men burst from the trees.
Lean skirmishers with mail shirts stripped from the dead of past fields.
