"I hate this water..." Marshal Gauzlin groaned loudly, leaning heavily against the wooden railing beside Lothair.
The proud Frankish Marshal looked green in the face.
His pristine fur cloak was ruined, soaked in salty water and smelling of old fish.
He had spent the last three days emptying his stomach over the side of the boat, humiliated in front of the silent Danish rowers.
Lothair didn't even turn his head... he just pulled a crisp green apple from his leather pouch and took a slow, relaxed bite.
"You are a Marshal of the Empire, Gauzlin," Lothair said quietly, chewing the sweet fruit. "Try to at least stand up straight. Your men are watching you."
"Let them watch," Gauzlin muttered, spitting salt water onto the deck.
"...we are knights of the open plains, Lord Lothair. We belong on solid dirt with heavy warhorses beneath us. Cramming thirty thousand men into these tiny, floating wooden buckets is complete madness."
