The clang of hammers rang through the mist-veiled yard of Falaise.
Men shouted. Shields clattered. Crossbow strings thrummed like taut sinew.
Robert stood at the edge of the inner bailey, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp beneath a fur-lined mantle.
A drizzle clung to his shoulders, but he paid it no mind. The rain of Normandy was an old friend.
Beside him walked Gautier, Marshal of the realm; grizzled, scarred, and grim as an old oak split by lightning.
The marshal's mail chimed softly as he moved, boots crunching on the damp gravel.
"Levies from Avranches and the Pays de Caux arrived last week," Gautier murmured. "Another two hundred yesterday from Bayeux. Still green. But they listen."
Robert nodded absently, watching a boy barely into manhood fumble a crossbow reload while a veteran barked in his ear.
Another volley cracked out a moment later; half striking true, the rest buried in mud.
"They'll learn. Or they'll die."
