Twenty days.
It had been exactly twenty blood-soaked days since the eastern wall of Calais had initially collapsed, allowing the Frankish vanguard to flood into the outer courtyard like a swarm of angry ants.
But Bjorn's layered defense of heavy pikes and Breton muskets had turned that breach into a meat grinder.
Marshal Hugh's men couldn't push a single inch further into the city... it was a complete stalemate.
As such, the exchanging of fire began every single morning right at dawn.
Inside the chamber, Bjorn sat on a stool at the grand command table.
Across from him, Hakon was slumped on a nearby crate, groaning as he wrapped a fresh linen bandage around a nasty cut on his thick forearm.
"Read the rest of the parchment, Odo," Bjorn grunted, rubbing his eyes.
Odo, the young Frankish scholar, pushed his cracked round spectacles up his nose.
He had grown a lot tougher over the last twenty days, losing his nervous stutter entirely.
