The Crown of the Hundred Years' War

Chapter 37 Bait

Atil's royal cavalry had been besieging Borjansi for two months. Borjansi was not a particularly fortified city, and its defenders numbered only three hundred men. However, during these two months, Atil only ordered artillery bombardments and never launched a single assault on the city walls. His attention was entirely focused on expanding the camp and welcoming "reinforcements."

These "reinforcements" were indeed somewhat strange, for they were not sent by Charles or Madame de Joland, nor were they the private armies of any southern nobles—they were militia, mercenaries, wandering knights, and even peasants carrying pitchforks, all of whom had come to join the largest French army on the north shore after hearing of the arrival of the Virgin Mary in Orléans. Their numbers had grown significantly over the past two months, and after the siege of Orléans was lifted, a group of several hundred men arrived with carriages and horses, forcing Attil to personally inspect the group.

Atil looked at the three or four hundred burly men at the camp gate, their formation somewhat disorganized but each one displaying high spirits. He asked the burly middle-aged man at the head of the group, "Where did you come from? How did you get here?"

The man knelt on one knee, prompting the others behind him to follow suit. "Sir," he said, "we are militiamen from several towns near the Elle River. We heard that God sent a saint to help France drive out the English! So a few townsmen pooled together food and weapons and traveled for two days to get here!"

Atil frowned upon hearing this and said, "Only the Holy Son* was sent by God. Don't say such things again!" The militiamen nodded in fright. Atil then continued, "The El River? The towns that meet the Loire River? They're almost ten leagues from here. With so many of you here, what will happen to your land? Won't you have to take care of the crops in the summer?"

The man's expression darkened for a moment, then hardened again: "Sir, you don't know—our towns have been robbed by the British year after year. They come before the land is even planted; they come again just as the crops are sprouting. We're lucky to survive, let alone have a harvest!" He swallowed hard. "But from last winter until now, large groups of British haven't come. Only a few bandits occasionally try to raid, but we drive them away. This spring, we planted all the arable land—more than three times as much as in previous years! The seedlings have sprouted and are thriving!"

He became more and more excited as he spoke, his voice trembling slightly: "It's all thanks to the saint! It must be her who kept those Englishmen in check, that's why we haven't seen those beasts all spring! So the townspeople have decided to help the saint drive the Englishmen out completely! Only in this way can we save our crops!"

Atil remained silent for a moment, not responding to his words, but simply nodding and gesturing for his adjutant, Roland, to come over.

"Bring them to the camp and assign them to reinforce the fortifications near the camp walls. Select some strong men and send them to help transport supplies across the bridges near Blois. Explain the rules to them, treat them like militiamen, and include those who dare to carry weapons in the reserves."

Roland accepted the order and turned to lead the team.

Atil glanced at the man's retreating figure again, then whispered to the scribe beside him, "Send a message to His Majesty: including this militia force from today, our camp now has over three thousand men. Please request His Majesty to allocate more supplies; we need to prepare as soon as possible."

The clerk responded and hurried away.

Atil strode back to the main tent, only to find that the generals were not in a meeting, but were all staring at him.

Atil gestured for someone to speak, and the group exchanged hesitant glances. Finally, a young Scottish man stepped forward and said, "Marshal, we've been besieging Boransidu for two months now. We've even recaptured the town, yet we're still just besieging it without attacking. We bombard it a few times a day, but we're neither filling in the trenches nor setting up ladders. Isn't that a bit inappropriate?"

Atil walked past the crowd, looked at the map, and coldly replied, "Are you afraid of getting moldy in the camp? Then go help reinforce the fortifications and expand a few warehouses in the east while you're at it."

The young man looked somewhat helpless, and finally, a company commander beside him couldn't help but speak up: "Sir, what we mean is, now that we have sufficient troops, let's just take Borangxi directly!"

Atil turned and scanned the crowd. The royal cavalry was known for its strict discipline and self-contained system. Every single one of them had been personally recruited by Atil, and even those who wanted to fight were cowered at the sight of Atil's cold gaze. Atil spoke coldly, "I've already made up my mind: the time isn't right to attack Beaujolais. You're not fools. Tell me, was it Latre or Dinois who sent the letter?"

The company commander was nudged by the person next to him and could only say, "No, it's not that. Talbot sent a challenge letter, and the language was a bit... vulgar."

"Read his original text."

The company commander took out a letter from his pocket and read aloud: "Since Your Excellency stationed your troops in Borangxi, you have been firing artillery at the city walls every day. With only a thousand men, you have not dared to leave the camp to fight. If Your Excellency wishes to defend the city, why not return to Tuer? If you wish to fight, then please lead your troops out of the camp and let us settle this with you face to face."

Atil laughed: "He's tried to save Boransi so many times in the past two months without success, is he now looking for a final showdown? Ignore him, everything as usual."

The company commander couldn't help but ask, "Sir, should we tighten the blockade on Moen even more? Let's crush any thoughts of a decisive battle with Talbot."

Atil simply turned back to the map: "I said, everything as usual."

No one dared to say anything more, so they ended the meeting and left the tent. As arranged beforehand, they fired a few more rounds of shots at Moen's daily routine.

The next morning, a messenger arrived from the blockade forces of Mehn: the gates of Mehn were wide open, and Talbot had led his entire army out of the city to form ranks.

The generals gathered again in the main tent, but they quickly realized there was no need to discuss the truth—the troop was marching along the main road towards their camp, stopping a short distance from the camp gate in perfect formation, their banners bearing Talbot's personal coat of arms. The camp's generals followed Atil to the watchtower and discovered that Talbot's entire force numbered only about five hundred men.

Several people immediately surrounded Atil, all clamoring to volunteer for the fight.

"Sir, let's fight! With so few men, two companies of cavalry could crush them in a single charge!"

"Yes, Talbot practically delivered himself to our doorstep!"

Atil did not answer. He walked to the camp gate, glanced at the orderly formation in the distance, then turned around and clearly gave the order: "Close the camp gate, hoist the crossbows onto the walls. Distribute weapons to the militia and get them into fighting positions."

Everyone was taken aback.

"grown ups--"

"Do as I say."

No one dared to say another word. The camp gate slammed shut, the crossbowmen climbed onto the firing platforms behind the wooden walls, and the militiamen were issued spears and shields, hastily moving into their designated positions at the command of their respective captains. Atil even ordered the artillery to adjust several gun positions and fire at Talbot's position, forcing them to retreat about a hundred paces and regroup.

The soldiers in the camp also noticed the size of the force and began to complain. Talbot sent several loud-voiced men to challenge them, eventually instructing them to hurl insults at Atil for lacking chivalry.

The soldiers crouched behind the fortifications, taking in every word, and began whispering among themselves. Someone muttered "coward," and the word gradually echoed throughout half the camp.

Atil stood on the watchtower, silent, his gaze fixed on the north.

Just as the sun was rising directly overhead, a cloud of dust suddenly rose on the northern horizon. The dust grew closer and denser, eventually forming a long, grayish-yellow wall. A scout, riding swiftly back from the north, shouted at the top of his lungs before even reaching the camp gate, "An army! A large army is coming from the north!"

But without scouts, everyone in the camp could see the large army: nearly four thousand men—almost ten times the number of British troops at the camp gate.

The generals all rushed to look north, and breathed a sigh of relief after seeing clearly. The army's banners were a jumbled mess, and the ranks were uneven; some wore armor, others only cloth, but their numbers were truly astonishing—a dark, imposing mass emerging from behind the low bushes to the north, slowly advancing south. Several large wagons, covered with tarpaulins, were being towed in the middle of the column; judging by their outlines, they were siege weapons. However, the French camp had been fortified for two months and had three thousand fresh troops; even if the French wanted to raid the camp, they would have no chance.

"The banner of Fastov." Atil finally spoke to the army.

The crowd nodded in agreement, and several even began to loudly praise Atil for his foresight. But Atil simply stood on the watchtower, staring intently at the troops, watching them join up with Talbot, and after a brief commotion, select a group of soldiers who were clearly better armored to escort the siege equipment toward the river—where the French had blockaded the bridgehead at Beaujolais.

Panic began to rise behind the camp gate. Several officers rushed to the watchtower, shouting, "Sir! Send reinforcements! There are only two hundred men at the bridgehead; they can't hold off so many British!"

Atil did not answer immediately. He glanced at the army formation, walked down from the watchtower, and then spoke to the general in charge of artillery.

"Is the gunpowder ready? Blow up the bridge."

The generals watched him leave with suspicion, and soon after the flag bearers in the camp raised their flags, a cloud of dust rose from the bridge to the south, sending pebbles and wood chips flying into the air before falling into the river and splashing water.

After the smoke and dust cleared, a large section of the bridge had collapsed in the middle, with rubble piled up in the water, more than a foot above the surface. Not only were supply wagons unable to pass, but even people couldn't cross.

The British and French troops stared in disbelief at the scene; the selected force to attack the city hadn't even reached the range of the crossbowmen in the bridgehead.

The entire battlefield fell silent. The British troops slowly moved back, and finally, a general in magnificent armor led a few guards forward to hurl insults.

Fortunately, his voice was indeed quite loud, so everyone could hear him clearly—"You fox who only knows how to shoot arrows from the shadows, Arthur, the traitor of Brittany! If you have any chivalry left, come out and fight me one-on-one!"

Atil glanced at Talbot a few times before finally speaking, "Fire a few shots and see if you can kill him. Then you can all share his earldom."