ON FRENCH SOIL

                          By T.S. Fesseln


Prologue: 'Famine, sword and fire crouch for employment'

   Edward de Valence stood upon the deck of The Black Swan and watched as her captain barked out orders.  Never had Edward seen such a mighty fleet assembled as on this bright August day.  A myriad of colored pennants whipped and snapped in the warm sea air and the decks of the ships sparkled with their armor clad passengers.  Edward could barely make out the masts of La Trinite Royale, Henry the V's flagship.

   The hounds of war were now being unleashed towards France.

   "The game is afoot, dear Richard," Edward said, smiling, "Our fortunes lie in Frances' sweet bosom."

   "Indeed, my Lord.  And we happy few are here to see the majesty of King Harry's fleet.  What a glorious sight," Richard replied, his usually stern, blue eyes smiling, "When France sees that King Harry's claim is just, and sees the vast power arrayed against her, justice will be our sword."

     "Battle is never easy, dear Richard, and though we serve our right King Harry, we have our own battles to fight.  Phillip D'Astier still draws breath and builds his house in France and it is he that will feel my revenge in the bite of my steel.  I swear upon the bloody wounds of Christ that this arrogant man shall pay."

    Richard nodded silently.

    "Yes, indeed, dear Richard," Edward grinned a reaper's grin, "The game is afoot."


          ****************NOW BEGINS OUR TALE*******************






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