The mud of the northern fields sucked at the hooves of Count Boso's warhorse.
The Frankish commander sat tall in his saddle, his eyes locked on the walls of Calais in the distance.
He raised a hand, signaling the vanguard to halt.
Behind him, twenty thousand exhausted soldiers finally stopped marching.
However, Boso wasn't looking at his infantry... he slowly turned his horse around, looking back at the center of his marching column.
"Keep moving, you lazy bastards!" General Hugh roared loudly, "Pull! Put your backs into it!"
Thousands of peasants were groaning in agony, their bare feet sliding in the mud.
They were dragging iron chains attached to a wooden cart the size of a small longhouse.
The wheels of the cart were monstrous - nearly thirty feet high, reinforced with iron bands just to keep them from cracking under the immense weight of their cargo.
