The Frankish Camp (S of WS)

[Germont]

"We should move, Milord!"

The young noble by name of Germont stood before Lord Manassier, his hands behind his back, but there his fingers opened and closed nervously.

"We cannot let de Sennis reap all the fruits alone. His parley will fail and the men he took with him will get first rights to the loot in Windstorm. And what do we get? Peasant villages! I say we move now. Lead us, Milord, the men are eager to follow you. None shall stand between us an our price. And those Viking bastards will drown in their own blood!"

His hand now on the hilt of his sword, his feet places slightly apart, Germont watched his commander intensely..

"Give the word, Milord, and we shall march and bring glory to our king and home!"

[Manassier]

With an elbow propped on the armrest of his chair, he rested his head upon a fist. While the noble Germont spoke, his mind drifted towards the settlements over the English coast. A few of his surveyors had returned once and mentioned something of somewhat agitation among the peasanty, but he had ignored it. The practises of the denizenry was of little interest to him.

When Germont finished, Manassier bit at one of the nails on his fingers. Damn me for not bringing more servants, he thought. He spat the nail onto the ground a little distance from Germont before rising from his chair.

He threw his rapier aside onto a mound of sand and wandered over to the young noble, clicking his jaw by opening and closing it a few times until came to a stop beside Germont.

Then with a turn on his heel and a swing of his arm, he unleashed a vicious backhand across Germont's cheek.

"REAP FRUITS?? FIRST RIGHTS?? Raiding and taking 'loot' like common barbarians or urchins on the streets of Paris?” He whirled around and screamed at the other men who had stopped their duties now. “That is common practice among the other infidels sent on this mission, but not here! Not with me!"

A hand shot forth in Germont’s direction and immediately clasped the man’s shirtfront in a vice-like grip, tightening until Mannassier's knuckles whitened and he pulled the subordinate directly in line with his eyes. "We are not barabarians! We are not here for looting or robbery or the redundant pleasures that plague the simple minds! This is a cleansing, a re-establishment of holy order; our mission is to rid this land of infestation and return the mark of our Lord!"

With Germont still in his grip, Manassier swung his free hand once more to strike the soldier across the face. “Reap fruits??”
Spittle leapt from his lips and he again struck at Germont, this time more ferociously, his words becoming stuttered gibberish as he descended into a primevil scream. With the young noble in his grasp, he delivered blow after blow of open-handed rebuke, cracking the lines of his knuckles across hardened cheekbone until it grew into a furious rapid onslaught that climaxed when the golden rings flew from his fingers and onto the soil.

Releasing Germont via a snarling shove, Manassier faced the other men who stood watching with eyes alight, veins flaring in his temples, saliva dripping down his chin and the threat of insanity in his gaze. “We are not barbarians! We are soldiers of the King on a mission of God!”

There was a hush among the gathering. He stopped then, straightening his posture and running hands through his hair to smooth it back into place.

"God has sent us here to deliver his service. This I know now. He has told me that I have been chosen by the King to fulfill his service. It is the only reason which makes sense.” It was a surprising admittance of self-doubt; if ever there was a moment that he agreed with the men as to the baffling pretenses of his selection as commander, that was it – but it was an instance in passing, never to be repeated again. Not from his lips and certainly not to his face.

Manassier let out a breath as his heart slowed in its pounding. The ebb of the waves and the sounds of the tides filled his thoughts for the moment as he regained control. Closing his eyes, he looked skyward, his mind clear to the reaches of what lay beyond, and he felt...

Tugging at the cuffs of his shirt, he glanced over to Germont whether he was standing or not.

“Very well Monsieur. It will begin as you say. Make the plans and commence the actions. The orders have come. There is your word.”

With a nod in Germont’s direction, it was the signal for him to execute the plans that had been determined. They would march upon the capital of sin and restore strength and sanctity to the borders of the enemy; so thought Manassier. And so said God.