A Flame Rekindled (Solo)

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 1

23rd of June, 1707
Marrenijl, Faursia
23:58

The sky was dark as iron, its restless clouds clashing overhead as if torn apart by fury, producing a heavy, pouring rain. The path to Marrenijl was a treacherous, winding scar through marshes and swampland, the earth beneath their feet soggy, drenched and unwilling to let them pass. Each step was a battle, the reeds snagging at their legs, the mud threatening to claim their boots as it seeped into their bones. The village lights flickered faintly through the mist, a cruel tease of sanctuary. Eusebius Dumonceau—or Hennie—staggered slightly as he walked, his strength dwindling after months of relentless flight. His head was held low, his shoulders cloaked in a threadbare coat—he held himself as if the months of pursuit had carved a defiant statue out of a hunted man. His hazel eyes seemed stuck to the ground, beneath them hung dark bags which gave him an almost gaunt appearance. Only 25, he somehow looked much older; his pale skin gave him an almost ghostly look. His close companions followed behind, in uneasy silence, their faces drawn from exhaustion and fear.

“Yer* faltering,” Renate said softly, quickening her pace to walk beside him—her brow furrowing beneath a plain bonnet. She was a year younger than Hennie, with a similar, pale complexion, though nonetheless pretty, with long, light brown hair and dark brown eyes. Her voice was low, meant only for his ears, but there was a sharpness beneath the tenderness. “If ye’d only lean on me for once, ye might make the boat wi’ both feet intact.”

Hennie huffed a bitter laugh, though his gaze never left the horizon. “And if I did, ye’d be in the muck alongside me. What good’s a guide who cannae* keep her own feet dry?”

Renate snorted but reached out to steady him all the same. “Ye’ve no’ dragged me this far to let me drown in this bog, Hennie, and I’d sooner slap sense into ye than let ye waste yerself here.”

“Sense, is it? Sense fled me months ago, when first I raised this Godforsaken banner.” His voice was low, edged with weariness that he could no longer hide from her. “And where did it lead? To this cursed place, wi’ naught to show for it but the blood o’ good men and the Commonwealth’s hounds at our heels.”

She gripped his arm tighter, forcing him to slow as the others trudged ahead, their shadows barely visible through the swirling mist. “And what’d you have done instead, eh? Left Faursia to her fate? Her folk to the whims o’ Aubervijr? Ye gave them hope, Hennie. Hope they’d no’ seen in years. D’ye think that counts for naught?”

Hennie stopped, his boots sinking into the mud as he turned to face her. The faint light of the village painted his features in sharp relief—the hollow cheeks, the lines carved by months of fear and failure. “Hope’s a cruel gift, Renate,” he said, his voice trembling just enough for her to notice. “It burns brightest when it’s forfeit.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The marshes around them seemed to hold their breath, the distant call of a gull the only sound. Then, she released him with a slight shove, her face twisting into something between anger and grief. “We’ve no time for yer broodin’. The boat’s waitin’, and so’s Ceulemans.” She glanced behind them, as though expecting the man’s shadow to rise from the mist. “If ye’ve any thoughts o’ dying, ye can think ‘em on the water.”

He smiled faintly at that, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “On the water, then.”

As they reached the outskirts of Marrenijl, the wooden planks of the bridge creaking beneath their feet, the others began to whisper amongst themselves. Hennie and Renate stayed silent, their breaths visible in the biting nighttime air. Ahead, the boat swayed at its moorings, its small frame seeming too fragile for the vast waters beyond.

“Ye’ve no’ told me where we’re bound,” Hennie said at last, his voice quieter now.

Renate’s lips tightened, her gaze fixed on the vessel. “The ship’s captain promised a place safer than here, God willing. And if He’s not, well…” She glanced at him, her eyes softening just enough to betray the weight she carried. “We’ll face it together, Hennie. As we’ve done since the barn.”

He nodded, though his heart churned with unease. The boat loomed closer, a shadow against the restless tide, and for the first time, he wondered if it truly carried salvation—or merely the end of the road.

“‘Tis ironic… I first landed here o’er a year ago to start this campaign. Marrenijl… we landed with seven men. Some o’ those we lost, the rest are before us now… look at those poor souls.”

The others had already reached the docks, their shapes indistinct in the haze. None of them spoke, though now and then a muffled cough or the scuff of a boot broke the silence. They moved with the weariness of men who had nothing left to say and even less to hope for. Hennie watched them for a moment, his jaw tightening. These were the last of his cause—his cause, not theirs. And yet they had given everything for it, some without question, others against their better judgement. He had led them to Aubervijr and back, from battle to battle and then to Beveren, where thousands were slaughtered—not just men of his cause, but innocent men and women who had no part in any of his chaos, slaughtered in the battle’s aftermath. And now, he had led them across Faursia’s breadth, through its blood-soaked fields and over treacherous passes, his empty promises as empty as their stomachs. Now all that awaited them was the cold expanse of the sea and a boat too small to carry even their grudges.

Renate followed his gaze, her face unreadable. “They’ll follow ye to the end,” she murmured. “They always have.”

“And what has it earned them?” he asked, his voice low. “A future in a shallow grave? Or a nameless one at sea?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her sharp eyes flicking to the shadows behind them. “Better that than the gallows Ceulemans’d have us all swing from,” she said finally. “Whatever waits beyond that water, Hennie, it cannae be worse than what’s behind us.”

Hennie turned away from the men at the docks and fixed her with a searching look. “Ye speak like a woman who still believes in tomorrow,” he said. “Tell me—when was it ye last saw it? Truly saw it?”

Renate’s mouth twitched, a bitter shadow of a smile. “Belief’s all I’ve left, aye? If I set it down, there’ll be no liftin’ it again. But don’t mistake me, Hennie—I dinnae fancy tomorrow any more than ye do.”

A laugh escaped him, rough and humourless. “We’re a fine pair then, are we no’? A fool and a liar, blind and deaf to the end.”

“Blind, maybe,” she said, a touch of steel in her tone. “But no deaf. I hear them out there, same as ye—the wind, the water, the ghosts of all who’ve fallen. And I’ll no’ let them say I lacked the courage to take one more step.”

Her words stirred something in him, though he couldn’t have named it if he tried. She was right, of course. The dead never stopped calling—not the men who had given their lives for his rebellion, nor those who had fallen by his hand. Every gust of wind seemed to carry their whispers, their questions, their reproach. And yet here he was, still walking, still breathing, though he had long since stopped deserving either.

The boat was clearer now, its silhouette rocking gently on the dark water. The captain, a weary man with a face as weathered as the wood beneath his boots, waited at the edge of the dock, his arms folded and his expression grim. He had no love for this venture; that much was clear. But coin had a way of silencing doubts, and Renate had a way of weaving lies of exile and desperation with a fluency that came only to those who had lived close to ruin. The truth, of course, was that they were all but dead already.

“Will it hold us?” Hennie asked, nodding toward the vessel.

Renate tilted her head, considering. “It’ll hold us long enough.”

“And after?”

She met his eyes, her expression hardening. “After, we’ll see. Or we won’t. Either way, it’ll no’ be Ceulemans that writes our epitaph.”

The name sent a chill through him. Herbert Ceulemans, the man who had turned pursuit into art. For five long months, Ceulemans had dogged their every step, cutting off roads before they could take them, laying traps where none should have been possible. Hennie had come to feel as though the man’s shadow followed him closer than his own. It had followed him long enough, chasing him up and down all corners of the Faursian coast. Enough was enough.

“He’s watchin’ us now,” Hennie said softly, glancing back at the dim outlines of the hills beyond the marsh. Somewhere up there, he knew, Ceulemans stood with his officers, silent and implacable as death itself.

“Aye,” Renate replied, her voice steady. “But let him watch. What’s he to see but a boat on the tide? He’ll no’ follow us beyond the water.”

“And if he does?”

Her smile was thin, but her grip on his arm was firm. “Follow? He will no’ dare.”

The captain called out impatiently, beckoning them to hurry. The others had already begun boarding, their movements stiff and weary as they settled into the cramped space. Renate tugged at Hennie’s sleeve, pulling him forward, but he lingered for a moment longer, his eyes sweeping the shore. The reeds swayed in the breeze, their rustling like whispers, and the mist thickened, curling around the bridge as if trying to hold him back.

“It’s strange,” he said quietly. “I always thought the end would come on Faursian soil. That I’d die with the land beneath me. I should have, at Beveren…”

Renate paused, her face softening as she looked at him. “Hennie,” she said gently, “wars are won and wars are lost, ye know that better than I. Besides, the land’s in ye still. It always will be, no matter where ye go. Remember that.”

Her words cut through him more deeply than any blade. With a reluctant nod, he followed her to the boat, each step feeling heavier than the last. As he climbed aboard, the captain cast off the mooring lines, and the vessel began to drift away from the dock, the tide carrying them toward the open sea.

Hennie sat at the bow, his hands clasped tightly as he watched the distant shore fade into the mist. Behind him, the others huddled close, their voices low and uncertain. Renate sat beside him, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm of his thoughts.

For the first time in months, there was no sound of pursuit, no barking orders, no thunder of hooves. Only the endless murmur of the waves and the faint whistle of the wind. And yet, as the boat carried them farther from Faursia, Hennie felt no relief, only the gnawing certainty that they were heading not toward safety, but toward something darker, and more final. And now, as the boat creaked and swayed into deeper waters, they fled not toward sanctuary, but into the unknown.

The boat glided through the mist, its oars slicing the water in rhythmic, hollow strokes. Every creak of the wood seemed magnified in the stillness, the sound carrying out over the vast, unseen expanse of the strait. Hennie kept his eyes fixed on the fading shore, though its outline was little more than a faint smudge in the fog. For months, he had dreamt of reaching the water, of escaping the relentless pursuit that had hounded him across Faursia. Now that he was here, a weight hung heavy in his chest, as if the tide itself sought to drag him down.

Renate sat beside him, quiet for a long time, her hands resting in her lap. She had taken off her cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders like a barrier against the damp chill of the night. The others in the boat—seven men in all—huddled close at the stern, their faces pale and drawn. They spoke in murmurs, voices barely audible over the soft lapping of the waves.

Reinder Wiarda, a weary man who had served with Hennie for the entire campaign, sat with the bulk of the men. He appeared weak, having had his ankles broken by cannister shot at Beveren; he appeared all the more frail from it. However, as the silence seemed to consume them, he began to hum a low, wavering tune. The sound was fragile at first, barely more than a whisper against the night, but it grew stronger as others joined in, their voices threading together into a mournful harmony. Hennie quickly recognised the tune, ‘Purple Heather’, an old Faursian folk song, which he knew off-by-heart.

Renate tilted her head, listening. “They’ve no’ much left, yet they sing…” she murmured.

“It’s all we’ve ever had,” Hennie replied, his voice thick with weariness. “A song to carry us when the land could no’.”

“‘Tis beautiful.” Renate smiled, clasping Hennie’s hand in her own.

He closed his eyes as the melody wrapped around him, stirring memories of better days—of campfires under open skies, of laughter and hope untainted by failure. The words began to rise, soft and tentative at first, then growing in strength as the men found their rhythm:

O’, the summer time has come,
And the trees are sweetly bloomin’,
The wild mountain thyme,
Grows around the bloomin’ heather,
Will ye go, damie*, go?

The words echoed across the water, a fragile defiance against the inevitability that loomed over them. Hennie glanced at Renate, whose lips moved silently with the song. Her eyes were distant, filled with a longing he recognised all too well.

“I never asked ye,” he said quietly, leaning closer so the others wouldn’t hear. “Why ye stayed.”

She looked at him sharply, then let out a soft laugh, though it was tinged with bitterness. “And where would I’ve gone, Hennie? Back to my father’s barn, wi’ Commonwealth soldiers kickin’ down the door? Back to a village burned for the crime o’ takin’ yer side? There’s naught left for me but this.” She gestured to the boat, the water, the faint horizon ahead.

“Naught but a doomed fool and his cause,” he said, though there was no venom in his tone.

She turned to him, her face hardening. “Ye’re no’ doomed yet. And neither am I. Fools, maybe. But if ye’re set on dyin’, at least die wi’ yer back straight.”

The song swelled behind them, the men’s voices lifting with a strange, sorrowful strength:

And we’ll all go together,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin’ heather,
Will ye go, damie, go?

The melody caught on the wind, carrying it back toward the distant shore. For a moment, Hennie imagined Ceulemans standing there in the mist, listening. He wondered if the man would recognise the tune, if he’d remember it as something the Faursians had sung long before Aubervijr had set foot on Faursian soil.

“Ye first came to me in that barn, Hennie, ye were desperate”, Renate began; “ye had soldiers mere seconds behind ye, they came within metres of ye… and I hid ye in a haystack. They missed ye, by yards—and we lived to tell the tale. Ye had faith then… now put that faith in what little ye can.”

“Thank ye. I owe ye my life, Renate.” Hennie said, his gaze finally meeting hers.

Renate’s voice joined the others, low but steady, and Hennie found himself singing as well, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. Each verse was a farewell, not only to the land they were leaving but to the lives they had lost, the futures they would never know.

The captain barked a quiet order, and before long the boat had began turning out of the inlet and toward the open sea. The mist thickened, curling around them like a living thing, and the shore disappeared entirely.

Renate fell silent, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Hennie watched her for a long moment, the sharp lines of her face softened by the dim light. She had carried him through so much in so little time—her determination like a flame that refused to be snuffed out. He had leaned on her more than he cared to admit, and yet here she was, unbroken, even as everything around them crumbled.

“Renate,” he said softly. She turned to him, her expression unreadable. “If we dinnae make it…”

She cut him off with a sharp shake of her head. “We will.”

“And if we don’t?”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away. “Then so be it.”

The words struck him harder than he expected. He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest semblance of a smile.

The men began the final verse, their voices rising in unison, filling the air with a fragile hope that refused to die:

If my true love she’ll no’ come,
I would surely find another,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin’ heather…

“I dinnae like the look o’ that cloud.” Hennie mumbled, gazing at a looming, black mass that raged in the horizon.

“Have faith.” Renate reassured him, pulling on his coat to kiss his cheek, before leaning her head on his shoulder. Hennie wrapped his arm was around the back of her neck, almost automatically, locking the two in a warm embrace. The song’s final line now, seemed to fill the air around them, voices echoing into the night, in harmonic unison…

Will ye go, damie, go?

---

* dinnae - rough translation of an old Faursian word for ‘don’t’
* ye, yer, ye’ve etc - rough translations of old Faursian words for ‘you’, ‘you’re’ and ‘you’ve’
* damie - old Faursian word for ‘woman’ or ‘lady’

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 2

April 29th, 1706
Marrenijl, Faursia
Early morning

The morning air was sharp with salt and cold, the kind of air that burned the lungs and cleared the mind. Hennie Dumonceau stood at the prow of the boat, his eyes fixed on the shoreline of Faursia, where the first light of day brushed the low dunes in pale gold. Marrenijl awaited them, quiet and windswept, its few thatched roofs barely visible through the morning mist. The land seemed to hold its breath, as though unsure of whether to welcome the returning scion of the Dumonceau name or to mark him as the next fool in a long line of them.

Hennie’s fingers tightened around the edge of the boat, his mind heavy with the weight of history. This was no simple landing. It was a wager, one final roll of the dice for a family whose name was written in blood and failure. Hendrik Dumonceau had marched for Faursia’s freedom in 1651, Frederik-Johan had followed in 1675 and 1679, and now Hennie, the last of their line, was here to stake his life—and perhaps his death—on this desolate shore.

“We’ve come tae far tae stop now,” he murmured, half to himself.

Behind him, the seven men who had cast their lot with him huddled together, their breath rising in faint clouds. They were quiet, their faces a study in cautious resolve. Every man among them knew the odds, but something unspoken passed between them—a shared belief that this time, the story might end differently.

“Prince,” Sietse Ouwehand spoke at last, his voice breaking the stillness. He was the eldest of the group, a man who had seen his share of battles and still carried the scars of them. “Do ye think they’ll remember us here?”

Hennie turned, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. “Faursia’s nae forgotten the name Dumonceau. Whether they remember it fondly, though, is another matter.”

The boat shuddered as it hit the sand, and the men moved with practiced ease, jumping into the shallows to haul it ashore. The cold water bit at Hennie’s legs as he waded through it, but he barely noticed. His boots hit dry sand, and he paused, scanning the landscape. Every detail seemed amplified: the hiss of the waves, the call of gulls overhead, the distant smoke curling from a chimney.

This was where it would begin, or where it would end.

“Gather what ye can,” he said, his voice low but firm. “We won’t stay long.”

The men worked quickly, hauling crates of powder and shot from the boat as the sea lapped gently at the shore. Hennie bent to lift a heavy chest, the weight biting into his shoulders. They had little to their names: a few muskets, a pair of rusted swords, and a cause that lived only in the hearts of these men. Yet revolutions were seldom born of wealth. They were the children of desperation and faith, nurtured in the shadows by those who dared to dream of a better dawn.

As they laboured, Hennie turned his gaze toward the marshes beyond the dunes. The landscape was as familiar as his own hands: muted greens and browns stretching endlessly, broken by the winding silver threads of waterways. It was a land he had walked as a child, a land his forebears had ruled and lost. And now he stood here again, not as a prince but as a man with everything to prove and nothing to lose.

Sietse Ouwehand, the eldest among them, approached, his musket slung over his shoulder. “D’ye reckon the road will be clear, Prince? Or shall we bide here till nightfall?”

Hennie shook his head. “We’ll no’ be lingerin’. The longer we stay, the likelier we are tae find Aubervijan steel at our backs.” He looked out over the dunes, his voice firm. “The road ahead is ours. If we falter now, we’ll ne’er see Andijk, ne’ermind Eemshaven.”

Sietse nodded, though his weathered face betrayed a flicker of unease. “Aye, as ye say. But it’s no small thing tae march seven men through lands held by the foe. Ye ken they’ll have ears an’ eyes everywhere.”

“They cannae watch every blade o’ grass,” Hennie replied. His voice softened, almost as if speaking to himself. “And even if they could, Faursia’s no’ theirs tae keep.”

At that, the forty-five year old, Gosse de Vries, chimed in, a faint smirk on his lips. “I’ll nae mind a fight if they come, Prince. It’s been far too long since I’ve had reason tae swing this blade.” He patted the hilt of his sword, the light-heartedness in his tone a stark contrast to the tension around them.

Hennie met his gaze, his expression grave. “Mind yer jestin’, lad. There’ll be blood enough afore this cause is done. But dinnae seek it lightly. Each blow we strike must be worth the cost.”

The men fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them. They knew well the price of failure. Faursia’s soil had been soaked with the blood of their kin in rebellions past, and history had been no friend to the Dumonceaus.

By the time they reached the crest of the dunes, the village of Marrenijl lay spread out below them, its stone cottages huddled against the marshes. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, mingling with the faint smell of salt and fish. A handful of villagers worked in the fields, their heads lifting briefly as the group descended toward the shore.

As they approached the edge of the village, Sietse leaned close to Hennie. “If the folk here ken who we are, they might turn us over tae the Commonwealth.”

“They’ll no’ betray us,” Hennie said firmly. “No’ here, no’ in Marrenijl.” He paused, glancing back at the shoreline where their small boat sat half-hidden among the reeds. “God willing, it the tide’s with us, so will the people be.”

From the group, Gosse called out, “Look there, Prince. The children are watchin’ us as if we’re ghosts.”

Hennie turned to see a small cluster of children standing at the edge of a field, their wide eyes fixed on the armed strangers. He offered a small wave, which sent them scattering back toward the village square. “They’ve seen soldiers afore,” he said quietly. “But no soldiers fightin’ for their freedom.”

Sietse gestured toward the road leading north out of the village. “The path is clear, Prince. If we march now, we’ll reach the outskirts afore sundown.”

Hennie nodded. “Then we march. Gather the men, Sietse. We’ll no’ waste the day.”

As they set off, Hennie allowed himself a final glance back at the sea, its gray expanse stretching endlessly toward the horizon. Hennie knew it would take more than courage to wage a war. Faith, cunning, and sacrifice—those would be the pillars of his fight.

The narrow road from Marrenijl wound through the marshlands, bordered by reeds that swayed gently in the breeze. The men walked in silence, their boots sinking slightly into the damp earth, the weight of their cause as heavy as the weapons they carried. Hennie led the way, his eyes scanning the horizon for signs of movement. Every rustle of wind through the grasses, every distant birdcall seemed to carry the threat of discovery.

Sietse Ouwehand, ever cautious, moved to walk beside him. “The marsh’ll hide us for now, but there’s more’n reeds and water between us and the rest of Faursia. What’s yer thought, Prince?”

Hennie kept his gaze ahead. “My thought, Sietse, is tae keep movin’. Dinnae stop till we see the rooftops o’ Enkhuizen. There’ll be men there wi’ hearts bold enough tae take up our cause, and if they join us, we’ll no’ be seven for long.”

A younger voice from behind interrupted them. It was Dieuwert Vos, always eager to lighten the mood. “Seven’s lucky enough for me. Why, Frederik-Johan’s army wis nae more than a lad wi’ a sling!”

The others chuckled, though the sound was subdued, wary of echoing too far. Hennie allowed himself a faint smile. “Aye, but my father didna march into battle wi’ naught but faith. He’d stones in his pouch an’ God on his side. So keep yer wits about ye, lad, and be sure tae pack more than a jest.”

Dieuwert smirked but nodded, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. Behind him, the others murmured their agreement.

The marshlands soon gave way to rolling fields, the early shoots of spring barley breaking through the soil. In the distance, the first farmsteads of the region dotted the landscape, their chimneys sending thin ribbons of smoke into the air. Hennie gestured for the group to halt, crouching low behind the rise of a small hill. The others followed, their movements careful and deliberate, the weight of silence hanging over them. He scanned the horizon, his sharp eyes fixing on a wagon trundling slowly along a dirt path near one of the farmsteads.

“Sietse,” Hennie whispered, motioning the older man closer. “See the wagon there? Could be naught but a farmer goin’ about his day—or it could be someone tae warn the Commonwealth of our comin’.”

Sietse squinted, his brow furrowing. “Could be either, aye. What’s yer plan, Prince?”

“We’ll no’ risk an open skirmish this close tae the village,” Hennie replied. “But we cannae let news o’ us reach unfriendly ears. Dieuwert,” he called softly, gesturing to the younger man. “Yer fast on yer feet. Take the long way ‘round and see what ye can learn. We’ll keep tae the hill and cover ye if need be.”

“Aye, Prince,” Dieuwert said with a grin, already slipping off toward the edge of the field.

As Dieuwert disappeared into the tall grasses, the others huddled low, their breaths shallow as the wind stirred the barley. Hennie felt the familiar weight of doubt creeping in—what if this was the wrong place, the wrong time? But then he thought of the Dumonceau name, of his father and grandfather who had fought for the same cause. He would not falter where they had fallen.

Minutes passed, feeling like hours, until Dieuwert reappeared, his face flushed and eyes wide. “It’s no’ trouble, Prince,” he said breathlessly. “Just an old farmer and his wife. They were none too pleased tae see me, but they’ve no loyalty tae the Commonwealth. They’ll keep their tongues.”

Hennie nodded, relief softening his features. “Good. Let’s no’ linger. We press on.”

The men rose from their crouch and resumed their march, their steps quicker now, driven by the promise of allies waiting in the north. The fields stretched endlessly ahead, and with each mile they put between themselves and Marrenijl, the weight on Hennie’s shoulders seemed to grow heavier.

“The weight o’ this fight lies heavy on yer back, Prince,” Sietse said after a time, his voice low enough not to carry to the others.

Hennie glanced at him, his jaw set. “Aye, it does. But I’ll bear it, Sietse. Same as my father did. Same as his father afore him. This land is ours, and I’ll no’ rest till it’s free.”

Sietse’s face softened, his weathered eyes betraying a glimmer of pride. “Yer father’d be proud tae see ye leadin’ us. Folk’ll remember this march, Hennie. Even if it’s just seven men tae start, it’s no’ numbers that win hearts. It’s conviction.”

“Conviction alone willna keep swords at bay,” Hennie replied. “We’ll need steel, powder, an’ men brave enough tae wield them. At Enkhuizen, we’ll find out if Faursia still has fight left in her bones.”

The road dipped into a shallow valley, the fields giving way to denser thickets of trees. The sound of their boots softened as the path turned to damp earth beneath the canopy. The air grew cooler, the scent of pine mingling with the faint tang of distant smoke.

It was Sietse who stopped first, his hand raised in warning. The others froze, their hands instinctively going to their weapons. “Hush,” he murmured. “Ye hear that?”

Hennie strained his ears. At first, there was nothing but the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Then it came—a faint clink of metal, the unmistakable sound of harnesses and hooves. Soldiers.

“They’re comin’ this way,” Sietse said grimly, his voice barely a whisper.

Hennie’s mind raced. They were too exposed to fight and too far from cover to scatter without being seen. His eyes darted to the right, where the thicket grew denser. “Into the trees,” he commanded, his voice sharp but quiet. “Move quick and keep yer heads low.”

The men obeyed without question, slipping into the shadows of the forest. They crouched among the undergrowth, their breaths shallow, as the sound of approaching riders grew louder. Hennie’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles whitening as the first figures came into view. Three riders, dressed in the unmistakable dark green, black and brown of the Aubervijan army, their muskets slung lazily over their shoulders. They were speaking, though the words were indistinct at first. Hennie motioned for silence, his men holding their breath as the riders drew nearer.

“…said they had seen movement near Marrenijl,” one of the soldiers muttered, his voice carrying through the stillness of the trees.

“Probably just smugglers,” another replied, his tone dismissive. “This swamp breeds more bootleggers than rebels. If Dumonceau was mindless enough to land here, I would have thought that we would have heard already.”

The third man chuckled, his musket bouncing against his back. “Yes, and what could he muster, eh? Half a dozen farmers with pitchforks? The Dumonceaus know not when to lie down and die. First the civil war, then four risings. A fifth? Goddamned fools, the lot of them.”

Hennie’s jaw tightened at the insult, but he kept his fury in check. A fight here would be certain death for the lonely band. Instead, he leaned closer to Sietse and whispered, barely audible, “If they pass us by, we move fast. No’ a word till we’re clear o’ this place.”

The riders slowed as they reached the clearing where Hennie’s group had been moments before. One dismounted, his boots sinking into the soft ground. He crouched, studying the faint impressions left in the damp earth.

“Boot prints,” the soldier said, his tone cautious. The other soldier leaned forward in his saddle, narrowing his eyes. “How recent?”

“Recent enough,” the dismounted man replied, standing and brushing dirt from his hands. “The ground is still damp, and the impressions are fresh. Someone has passed through here… no less than fifteen minutes ago, I would say.”

The third soldier, still mounted, glanced around, his hand drifting toward the musket at his side. “Could be the smugglers we have been hearing about—or someone more dangerous. We should report this.”

The second soldier scoffed. “Report what? Tracks in the mud? We will be laughed out of camp. Let us ride on. If they were here, they will not have gotten far.”

The dismounted soldier hesitated before swinging back into his saddle. “Fine. But keep your eyes sharp. If it is Dumonceau’s men, there will be hell to pay if we miss them.”

The trio spurred their horses forward, the sound of hoofbeats fading as they disappeared down the road.

Hennie waited, his heart hammering in his chest, until the last echo of the riders had vanished. Slowly, he rose from the undergrowth, motioning for the others to do the same.

“We cannae stay here,” he said, his voice low but firm. “They’ll no’ be the last patrol tae come this way.”

Sietse nodded, brushing leaves from his coat. “They’re sniffin’ for us, that much is clear. If we stay, they’ll catch our scent for certain.”

Hennie’s gaze turned north, toward the distant rooftops of Enkhuizen. “Then we daenae waste time. We march hard an’ fast. If the folk o’ Enkhuizen will stand wi’ us, then we’ll have a fightin’ chance. If no’…” He trailed off, unwilling to voice the thought.

The men exchanged uneasy glances but fell into line. There was no need for further words. The path ahead was fraught with peril, but it was the only path they had.

As they pressed on, the marshlands gave way to rolling fields, and the sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows over the land. Hennie’s thoughts drifted to the stories of his father and grandfather, their failed rebellions, their sacrifices. He clenched his fists.

“No’ this time,” he muttered under his breath. “We will rise again.”

The sun dipped lower, casting the fields and forests in a deep amber glow as the weary group approached the outskirts of Enkhuizen. The once-distant rooftops were now within reach, their silhouettes rising against the horizon. Hennie’s heart pounded—not from exertion, but from the weight of the moment. Here, the fight would begin in earnest.

As they entered the town, the cobbled streets were eerily quiet, save for the faint sound of footsteps echoing from an open square. Hennie turned to Sietse, his voice low. “Do ye think they’ll be there? Or have we marched tae naught?”

“They’ll be there,” Sietse replied with a certainty that Hennie did not feel. “Faursia’s still got fire in her blood, Prince. Ye’ll see.”

Rounding the corner, the square came into view, and there they were: ranks of men, standing beneath the banners of their sibbes*, their swords and pikes glinting faintly in the fading light. Hennie counted their faces, their postures, their readiness—or lack thereof. Seven hundred, perhaps a few more, a far cry from the thousands he would need to take on the Commonwealth of Aubervijr. But it was a beginning.

At the head of the gathering stood Peter Bijlsma, a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and piercing eyes that spoke of both pride and caution. As Hennie approached, Peter stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The two men locked eyes, the weight of history between them.

“So,” Peter said at last, his voice carrying across the square. “The young Dumonceau returns tae raise his standard. But I wonder, is it foolishness or wisdom that brings ye here?”

Hennie squared his shoulders, meeting Peter’s gaze. “It’s duty, Bijlsma. Faursia’s no’ meant tae live under Commonwealth rule. Ye ken it as well as I do.”

Peter’s lips twitched in a faint smile, though it held no warmth. “Duty’s a fine word, but duty doesna fill the ranks or arm the men. Ye come wi’ no more than a handful tae stand against a great power. Do ye truly believe this will end any different than it did for yer father?”

The question hung in the air, and Hennie felt the eyes of every man on him. He took a breath, his voice steady as he replied, “I daenae fight for myself, or even for my name. I fight for every man here, for their freedom and future. Aye, it’s a hard road ahead, but I’d rather die walkin’ it than live bowin’ tae the Commonwealth,” Hennie said, his voice rising with conviction. “If that makes me a fool, then I’ll be a fool fae Faursia, and no’ an exile forever watchin’ my homeland wi’ shackles on her wrists.”

Peter regarded him in silence, his face a mask of stoicism. Behind him, the leaders of the other sibbes exchanged uncertain glances, murmuring among themselves. The men gathered in the square shuffled, some nodding faintly at Hennie’s words, others tightening their grips on their weapons.

Finally, Peter spoke, his voice measured. “Fine words, young Dumonceau. Words that might stir a crowd, but words alone win nae wars. Ye’ll need more than fire in yer voice tae lead us tae Andijk—or beyond.”

“Aye,” Hennie admitted. “But words are where it starts. And strength will follow, if we dare tae act.” He turned, his gaze sweeping over the men assembled before him. “All o’ ye here—ye’ve dared tae act. Ye’ve answered the call, come fae yer fields an’ villages tae stand wi’ yer kin. Look at yerselves! This is Faursia standin’ tall, not bowed tae any foreign land.”

A murmur rippled through the ranks, the sound of steel tapping against shields as men exchanged glances of grim determination. Hennie pressed on.

“Andijk waits for us,” he said, stepping closer to the gathered men. “There’s strength there, allies who’ll take up arms if we show them that Faursia has nae lost her courage. This is only the beginnin’. If we falter now, we’ve already lost. But if we push on—if we show Harlingen we’re no’ broken—then we have a chance.”

Peter folded his arms, his sharp gaze boring into Hennie. “An’ if we dae push tae Andijk, what then? Ye’ve nae cannons, nae powder tae speak of, an’ yer numbers are nae even a fraction o’ what the Commonwealth can muster.”

Hennie met Peter’s challenge head-on, his voice unwavering. “I ken we’re nae ready tae face the full might o’ the Commonwealth yet. But wars are won by more than just numbers an’ guns. They’re won by the will tae fight. Faursia needs a spark, an’ we’ll be the ones tae light it.”

Peter tilted his head, considering the young man before him. “A spark, aye. But sparks burn out quick if they’re nae tended. Ye’ll need tae prove tae us ye can keep the fire burnin’, Dumonceau. The men before ye are wi’ ye—for now. But ye’ll need tae earn their loyalty every step tae Andijk an’ beyond.”

Hennie nodded, his heart pounding as he raised his hand to the standard resting nearby. The Dumonceau banner unfurled as he lifted it high. The men in the square erupted into cheers, their voices echoing into the evening sky.

Peter gave a grudging nod of approval, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles. “Ye’ve got the spark, Prince. Let’s see if ye’ve got the steel tae match it.”

“Very well, Bijlsma”. The two shook hands, pulling each other so their shoulders touched, slapping each other on the back. “Ye will serve as the joint commander of his army. By my side.”

“‘Tis a long way away, Prince. God willing, we survive more than a week.” Bijlsma chuckled wryly—Hennie felt a wripple of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He was right. But the rising had begun. There was no turning back.

---

* a sibbe (old Faursian for ‘kindred, extended family) is a kinship group among the Faursian people. Each sibbe is like its own family, giving a sense of shared heritage and descent to its members.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 3

May 11th, 1706
Erteveldhuis
Harlingen, Aubervijr
12:31 PM

The great oak door of the Chancellor’s office closed with a resonant thud, shutting out the noise of Harlingen’s cobbled streets. The room within was a study in austere grandeur. High, mullioned windows admitted weak shafts of May sunlight that glanced off the polished wooden floor and gilded edges of heavy, leather-bound books. Above the marble fireplace, a somber portrait of Vincent Martien, Aubervijr’s first and most venerated Chancellor, loomed with penetrating eyes, his visage a stark reminder of statesmanship and unyielding resolve. Around him hung an ancestral gallery of Chancellors past, their faces a spectral council presiding over the room.

Chancellor Ferdinand de Girard stood before his desk, hands clasped behind his back, his lean frame taut with thought. At forty, he carried the weight of the Chancellorship with striking poise. His dark coat, fastened high at the neck, bore the subtle embroidery of state office, a muted elegance that befitted his reserved nature. He wore a white ruff, sat above his coat’s collar, his long, brown hair dangling over it; a short, brown beard squashed against it. His hawk-like gaze lingered on the map unfurled before him, marking towns, rivers, and fortresses, each a potential site of contention.

Lieutenant-General Jasper Romeijnders, his closest confidant, stood to his right, his broad shoulders encased in military regalia. A battle-worn sash crossed his chest, a testament to years spent commanding troops dating back to the ‘75 and ‘79 risings. His voice, a deep rumble, broke the silence.

“It begins, then,” Romeijnders said, gesturing to a freshly delivered dispatch on the desk. “Enkhuizen. They rose the banner of Dumonceau like it were some relic of ages past. I can hardly believe men would still march for such a name.”

De Girard exhaled sharply. “Belief is a curious thing, Jasper. Men will cling to it even as it drags them to their doom.” He straightened, his measured tones laced with disdain. “But let us not make the mistake of underestimating this rabble. A wounded beast fights with desperation.”

The door creaked open, admitting a third figure: Herbert Ceulemans, a young commander whose ambition gleamed as brightly as the sword at his hip. Despite being a couple years older than De Girard, his boyish face was offset by a fiery determination, though his manner retained an air of respectful deference.

“Mr Chancellor, Sire,” Ceulemans began, bowing slightly to each man, in-turn. “I have come to offer my services. Give me command, and I will snuff out this revolt before it takes root.”

Romeijnders allowed himself a wry smile. “Eager, are we? You’ve yet to face men who fight as if their very blood cries out for vengeance.”

Ceulemans bristled but kept his composure. “That is precisely why we must act swiftly, sir. Allow Dumonceau to strike first, and we risk more towns falling to his cause. Better to cut him down now, while his forces are weak.”

De Girard regarded Ceulemans with an inscrutable expression. “Patience, Colonel. Wars are not won by haste but by strategy. Dumonceau’s fire must burn itself out. Let him strike first, and the people will see his cause for what it is—a fleeting shadow of rebellion.”

Ceulemans hesitated, then nodded, his fervor tempered by the Chancellor’s cool authority. “As you will, Sire. But mark my words: every day we delay, his forces grow.”

The Chancellor turned back to the map, his shadow stretching long over the parchment. “And so must ours, Colonel. The longer Dumonceau dances his little charade, the greater the storm we shall bring to bear. When we move, we will do so with the full weight of Aubervijr behind us.”

The crackle of the fire filled the silence as Ceulemans withdrew. Romeijnders leaned closer to the Chancellor, his voice low. “Do you trust the man?”

De Girard’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “Trust is a luxury we cannot afford. For now, his ambition is useful. But we shall see how far it carries him.”

Outside, Harlingen’s streets bustled with life, oblivious to the storm gathering within Erteveld House.

The silence lingered for a moment longer, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. Romeijnders traced a finger along the map, pausing at Enkhuizen.

“You mean to wait,” he said, his voice low but edged with caution. “I know your mind, Ferdinand. But every hour we sit idle, Dumonceau makes his case to the people of Faursia. Enkhuizen is only the beginning.”

De Girard walked slowly to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. The view from Erteveld House overlooked Harlingen’s bustling market square, where carts laden with goods from across the realm jostled for space amid the cries of hawkers. It was a city of commerce, of order. A city built on the ruins of rebellions past.

“Let Dumonceau preach,” he said, not turning. “Let him rally his so-called sibbes and fill their heads with the glories of a lost house. The people of Aubervijr know better. They remember the ruin his name has brought before. When the time comes, they will not cheer his cause—they will cheer its demise.”

Romeijnders tilted his head slightly. “Do not forget, we are rulers by the blade as much as by the pen. It was your stroke of the quill that condemned Luttenberg, but it was the steel of my men that made it law. The same will be true of this war. We must act swiftly.”

“Swiftly, yes,” De Girard said, finally turning to meet his friend’s gaze. “But not rashly. You’ve faced these Faursians in battle, Jasper. You know their ways—their stubbornness, their ferocity. To underestimate them is to invite disaster.”

Romeijnders inclined his head, conceding the point. “Then what is your plan?”

De Girard moved to the desk, his movements precise, almost methodical. “We hold our position. Strengthen the garrisons along the Maresdoep Strait and the inland towns. Let him test our defenses. Every failed attack will bleed him dry—of men, of supplies, of spirit. When the time is right, we shall strike, not as defenders but as the executioners of his doomed cause.”

Romeijnders nodded, though his fingers still hovered near Enkhuizen on the map, as if unwilling to let it slip from his focus. “And Ceulemans? What role do you mean for him to play in this?”

The Chancellor smiled faintly, a touch of amusement playing on his lips. “He is eager to prove himself. Let him marshal the reserves. A task suited to his ambition and, should he falter, one that will not cost us the war.”

Before Romeijnders could reply, the door creaked open again, this time revealing a liveried servant bearing a tray with fresh correspondence.

“Urgent dispatches from the northern provinces, my lord,” the man said, bowing as he placed the papers on the desk.

De Girard waved the servant away and broke the seal on the topmost letter. His eyes scanned the page quickly, his brow furrowing.

“News?” Romeijnders asked.

“A report from Daemkiin Fokker,” De Girard said, his tone sharpening. “Dumonceau’s sympathisers are flocking to his cause faster than anticipated. There are whispers of an armed force gathering there, numbering close to a thousand.”

Romeijnders straightened, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword. “Remind me, who is Daemkiin Fokker?”

“A senior government legal officer in Faursia. His title is Lord President or something.”De Girard said after a moment, his eyes dancing across the letter.

“A thousand already? They’ll be in striking distance of Eemshaven and all too soon.” Romeijnders said, his gaze fixsated on the map of Faursia before him.

“He writes that Commonwealth forces available to Koenraad Hendriksen number some 3,000, but they are all untrained recruits. He also says he lacks information on Dumonceau’s intentions, and that Folkert Oosterhof is likely to join Dumonceau at Andijk.”

“Is the name Oosterhof supposed to ring a bell?” Romeijnders asked inquisitively.

“Perhaps… he was an old advisor to Fokker, he says he knows him well, that he is predictable. Fokker says he has failed to secure the loyalty of some sibbes, namely Wiarda… but Strikwerda, Meppelink and Musscher have all swore an oath to the Commonwealth.” De Girard concluded, dropping the letter onto his desk. “The farther he stretches, the weaker his grip,” he said calmly, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. “No rebellion has ever been crushed by panic, Jasper. We stay the course.”

Romeijnders hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “As you will, Chancellor. But mark me—Faursia’s blood runs deep, and it does not forget. Let us hope your patience is not mistaken for weakness. Is Dumonceau in Andijk yet?”

“No… but these sibbes, however you say that, are supposedly eager to join him. These sibbes are the only thing that worry me. Enkhuizen is where that damned De Vries resides. He will no doubt rally the men of Andijk.”

De Girard returned to the map, his fingers tracing the line of the Maresdoep Strait. Beyond it lay Faursia, its hills and forests now stirred to rebellion. And yet, his gaze drifted north, to Harlingen’s bustling atmosphere. For all its noise and clamour, the city’s pulse beat steady, unshaken by the storm brewing in distant fields.

“When this is done,” De Girard murmured, almost to himself, “it will not be just Dumonceau who falls. It will be the memory of his house, the very idea of their claim. It should have been done away in ‘49 and ‘51, nevermind ‘75 and ‘79. When Dumonceau’s head sits on a pike, Aubervijr will stand taller for it.”

Romeijnders said nothing, his silence laden with unspoken doubts.

The quiet tension in the room thickened, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. De Girard moved to the fireplace, his hands resting on the mantel as he gazed into the flames. His face, illuminated by the flickering light, seemed carved from stone, unyielding and unreadable.

“Fetch Herbert.” De Girard barked, and Romeijnders motioned to the door, cracking it open, before Ceulemans entered once more, closing the door behind him. Romeijnders lingered silently behind him, his eyes following Ceulemans with a curious intent.

“Herbert,” De Girard said suddenly, his voice carrying an almost paternal authority, “a man’s worth is tested not by the fire he leaps into, but by the fire he builds within himself. Your time will come. But for now, I need you to see to the reserves. Rally the young men of Harlingen and the surrounding countryside. Ensure they are drilled and ready. Every sword counts in this fight.”

Ceulemans, who had remained silently outside of the room, stepped forward, his youthful energy barely restrained. “I will do as you command, Chancellor,” he said, though his tone betrayed his disappointment. “But I would ask only this—when the time comes to strike, grant me the honour of leading the charge.”

Romeijnders’ eyes widened slightly. He knew Ceulemans was no more than an inexperienced, arrogant Colonel, compared to his years of experience and much higher rank. “Upon what—“

De Girard turned to Ceulemans, his piercing gaze softening just slightly, his words cutting Romeijnders off in his tracks. “If the day comes when I must entrust the charge to you, Herbert, it will mean I trust you to finish what we began four years ago. Do not seek glory for its own sake. Seek victory for Aubervijr.”

Ceulemans bowed, though his jaw tightened. “I understand, my lord.”

De Girard inclined his head. “Good. Go now. There is much to prepare.”

With a sharp salute, Ceulemans turned and strode from the room, the echo of his boots fading into the distance.

Romeijnders exhaled and crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “He has no right. You’ve given the boy his task, but you’ve also fed the fire in him. Ambition, Ferdinand, is as dangerous as any rebellion. Do you not fear it will burn out of control?”

De Girard allowed himself a small smile. “Ambition is a weapon, Jasper, and like any weapon, it can be turned to one’s advantage. For now, his zeal serves our purpose. Should it threaten us, we will temper it—or break it.”

Romeijnders chuckled darkly. “Ever the calculating one. Perhaps that’s why you sit in this chair and not Luttenberg.”

The Chancellor’s expression turned cold. “Luttenberg was a fool who mistook arrogance for strength and sentiment for wisdom. His blood was the price of his failure, and it bought Aubervijr a future. I do not intend to squander it.”

Before Romeijnders could reply, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway, followed by a sharp knock at the door.

“Enter,” De Girard commanded.

The door opened to reveal a messenger, his uniform dusty from travel. He stepped inside, bowing low before the Chancellor and General.

“My lords,” the man began, his voice tight with urgency. “A rider from the south brings word from Marrenijl. Dumonceau’s forces have begun to move. Scouts report they are marching toward Andijk.”

De Girard’s eyes narrowed, the faintest smile curling at the corner of his lips. “So, the mouse ventures from its hole.”

Romeijnders stepped forward, his tone brisk. “What are their numbers? Their route?”

“Unclear, sir,” the messenger replied. “The scouts estimate several hundred at least, and they move swiftly. They’ve already crossed the lowlands and are expected to reach Andijk within days.”

De Girard nodded, his mind already turning. “Dismissed,” he said.

The messenger bowed again and exited, leaving the room in heavy silence.

Romeijnders turned to De Girard, his eyes alight with restrained excitement. “If they take Andijk, it’ll embolden the rest of Faursia. We must act now, Ferdinand. A strike from Harlingen could crush them before they gather strength.”

De Girard returned to his desk, his fingers brushing the edges of the map. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, measured. “And if we move too soon, we give them what they crave—a martyr. Let Dumonceau overreach himself. Let him think his cause is gaining ground. When the time comes, we will not simply defeat him—we will obliterate him.”

Romeijnders hesitated, his instincts urging action, but he knew better than to argue further. De Girard’s patience was a blade honed to a razor’s edge, and it had served them well before.

The Chancellor straightened, his gaze fixed on the map. “Are our garrisons in the Highlands any use?”

“The Highlands is untamable, Ferdinand. Most garrisons there have long since been abandoned, I am afraid—it is hard to keep consistent supply to them. The army and her command thought it better to prioritise lowland garrisons.”

“Untamable?” Ferdinand scoffed, “Let me remind you of Brekhoe, Jasper. Sibbe Trombel massacred sibbe Brekkanald on our behalf, albeit for a good number of coin. If I remember correctly, Trombel came in the night, in a blizzard… Brekkanald gave them shelter, a roof over their heads, dry shoes for their feet. Wined them, dined them… then Trombel murdered them as they slept. When was it again?”

“1654… if I remember right.” Romeijnders said with a distinct lack of confidence in his answer. “That was cruel, but nonetheless necessary. The sibbes did not react well, though.”

“When do they ever? Nevertheless, we will tame them. By words, or by actions. Irregardless, we must ensure our spies are in place. If Dumonceau wishes to play the king, let him. For soon, he will learn what it costs to challenge Aubervijr.”

Romeijnders nodded, a grim smile forming on his face. “As you say, Chancellor. Let the rebellion come to us.”

The words lingered in the air a moment, as a realisation struck De Girard. “Come to us…” he repeated, “if we remain indecisive for too long, he may cross the Maresdoep. I had not looked at it from that perspective… he wants not only the crown of Faursia, but Aubervijr too. He wants what once belonged to his ancestors…”

“Indeed. Should I reinforce the garrison at Ostend?”

“Yes.”

Outside, the distant bells of Harlingen rang out over the city, their tolls swallowed by the bustling streets. Within the quiet walls of Erteveld House, the first moves of a deadly game were being set into motion.

Ceulemans’ absence from the room did little to ease the lingering tension. Romeijnders paced the length of the office, his boots clicking against the polished wood floor. His gaze kept drifting to the door through which the younger man had departed, as though Ceulemans’ ambition had left a palpable residue in the air.

“You know he covets my position,” Romeijnders said abruptly, breaking the uneasy silence between the two friends with his sharp tone.

De Girard, seated once more behind the desk, raised a brow. “Who, Herbert?” De Girard scoffed wryly, a teasing smile curving across his face, “Do you feel threatened, Jasper? That would be unlike you.”

Romeijnders stopped pacing and turned to face the Chancellor, his expression stony, evidently finding the Chancellor immensely unfunny. “Not threatened. Irritated. He has more fire than sense. A commander must temper ambition with caution, and he has none of the latter. If you think him ready for greater responsibility, I urge you to reconsider.”

De Girard leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Your concern is noted, but you underestimate him. Ceulemans is untested, yes, but so were we once. The question is not whether he is ambitious—that much is plain. The question is whether that ambition can be directed.”

“And if it cannot?” Romeijnders pressed.

De Girard’s gaze turned icy. “Then it will be extinguished, as all threats to the state must be.”

The two men held each other’s gaze for a long moment, the room heavy with unspoken implications. Romeijnders was the first to break the silence, his voice measured but firm.

“You place much trust in unproven men, Ferdinand. Remember that it was seasoned steel, not youthful flame, that brought you this far.”

De Girard inclined his head slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You talk of experience, except you are but two years my senior, and I am forty. We are perhaps, the most inexperienced men to hold our offices, ever. Besides, it is seasoned steel that will lead our forces to victory when the time comes. Have no doubt, Jasper—I trust you to deliver that victory.”

Romeijnders nodded, but the tension in his posture remained. “You will have it,” he said, his voice resolute.

The Chancellor stood, signaling that the discussion was at an end. “Good. Then see to it that the garrisons are ready and the men prepared. Dumonceau will not find us wanting.”

“God willing.” Romeijnders reassured, almost attempting to heal the doubts within his own mind.

“You will not speak of God, Jasper. He has no place where we are going.”

Romeijnders nodded and offered a sharp salute and turned on his heel, his strides purposeful as he left the office.

De Girard remained standing, his gaze drifting to the portrait of Vincent Martien. The painted eyes of Aubervijr’s first Chancellor seemed to meet his own, a silent reminder of the weight of power and the cost of failure.

Alone in the room, De Girard thought softly to himself, “The flames of ambition consume many. Let us see who is left standing when this fire burns out.”

Beyond the walls of Erteveld House, the city of Harlingen bustled on, unaware of the storm gathering in Faursia—or the quiet power struggles simmering in the heart of its leadership.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 4

June 11th, 1706
Road to Andijk
Central Faursia
Afternoon

The road to Andijk wound through fields dotted with wildflowers, the vibrant yellows and purples standing out against the green expanse. Hennie Dumonceau led the way, his thoughts heavy despite the beauty around him. Behind him, nearly 700 men marched, their boots crunching on the Commonwealth road. They were a mix of farmers, fishermen, and tradesmen, hastily gathered but driven by the dream of a free Faursia.

The march was not without its trials. The sun burned fiercely in the open fields, and tempers frayed as thirst and fatigue set in. Hennie found himself riding up and down the column, offering words of encouragement to the men and barking orders when discipline began to waver.

“Keep yer heads high, lads!” he called, his voice carrying over the weary muttering. “Every step takes us closer tae Andijk, and closer tae our destiny!”

Beside him, Peter Bijlsma rode in grim silence. He had taken it upon himself to act as quartermaster, though the meager supplies they had managed to gather hardly warranted the title.

“Ye ken, Hennie,” Peter said after a while, “these men’ll no march much farther if we cannae find a decent well or stream. Their spirits are high, aye, but that’ll no fill their bellies or quench their thirst.”

Hennie nodded, his brow furrowing. “We’ll find what we need in Andijk. They’ve heard of our cause—they’ll no turn us away.”

Peter’s expression didn’t shift. “Let’s hope yer faith is well-placed, lad. Else we might find ourselves turning back tae Marrenijl with fewer men than we came wi’.”

They reached Andijk in the late afternoon, the spire of its ancient church visible long before the town itself. The narrow streets were crowded with townsfolk, who had gathered to watch the Henricist army approach. There was no cheering, no open displays of support—just quiet murmurs and wary glances.

Hennie dismounted as they entered the square, his boots clicking on the cobblestones. He raised his hand to silence the murmuring crowd and called out in a clear voice.

“People of Andijk! I am Hennie Dumonceau, son of Frederik-Johan, grandson of Hendrik Dumonceau, and all our ancestors before him. We march nae for ourselves, but for every Faursian who has suffered under the yoke of the Commonwealth. We ask nae for much—only for yer hearts, yer hands, and yer loyalty!”

There was a moment of silence, and then an older man stepped forward, leaning heavily on a cane. His face was lined with years of hard work, and his voice trembled as he spoke.

“Ye’ve a bold tongue, young Dumonceau. But bold words dinnae put food on the table or keep soldiers at bay. What makes ye think ye can do what yer father and yer grandfather could not?”

Hennie met the man’s gaze. “Because, sire, I’ve nae choice but tae try. Faursia’ll no survive another generation of Commonwealth rule. If we fail, then let it be said we failed wi’ honor and courage, fighting for the land we love.”

The old man stared at him for a moment longer before nodding slowly. “Ye’ll have my sons, then. But may God help ye if ye lead them tae their deaths.”

That evening, the camp buzzed with activity. Fires lit up the fields around the town as the Henricist army settled in for the night. Hennie sat with Gosse de Vries, Peter Bijlsma, and their newest yet oldest ally, Folkert Oosterhof, around a large fire. The map of Faursia lay spread before them, its edges held down by stones to stop the wind from curling it.

“We’ve twa routes tae Eemshaven,” Peter said, tracing a line with his finger. “We can follow the main road, but that’ll leave us exposed tae Commonwealth patrols. Or we can take the river path, though it’ll slow us down and risk cutting off our supply line.”

Gosse frowned. “We’ve nae much tae supply as it is. I say we take the main road—better tae face the Commonwealth head-on than tae skulk in the shadows.”

“And lose half our men tae an ambush?” Peter retorted. “D’ye think we’ve the numbers tae fight every patrol they send our way?”

“Enough,” Hennie said sharply, his voice cutting through the bickering. He turned to Folkert, who had been listening in silence. “What say ye, Folkert? Ye’ve seen more battles than the rest of us combined.”

Folkert leaned forward, his weathered face lit by the flickering flames. “Ye’ll take the main road,” he said firmly. “Not because it’s safe, but because it’s fast. The longer ye wait, the more time the Commonwealth’ll have tae rally their forces. And when ye march, ye’ll do it in the way of yer forebears—by sibbe. Let them see their kin beside them, and they’ll fight like devils.”

Gosse nodded in agreement, but Peter looked skeptical. “It’ll take time tae reorganise the men like that. Time we cannae afford.”

“Then ye’ll make the time,” Folkert replied. “If ye want tae take Eemshaven, ye’ll do it wi’ a force that fights like Faursians, not Aubervijans.”

Hennie leaned back, his gaze fixed on the map. “Then it’s decided. We march at dawn. Peter, see tae it that the men are ready. Gosse, ye’ll take the lead with yer sibbe. Folkert, I’ll leave the reorganisation tae ye.”

The others nodded, and the fire crackled as silence fell over the group. Hennie stared into the flames, feeling the weight of the coming days settle heavily on his shoulders. The march to Eemshaven would be the true test of their resolve—and their cause.

As night settled over Andijk, the flickering light of campfires spread across the fields like a constellation. The hum of conversation, punctuated by the occasional cheer or burst of laughter, filled the air. Despite their weariness, the soldiers found a second wind in the warmth of the firelight and the promise of shared camaraderie.

Near the edge of the square, a group of men sat around a keg of ale, their voices rising in song. The women of Andijk, initially hesitant to approach, had begun to drift into the camp, drawn by the soldiers’ earnest charm and bold, exaggerated stories of the rebellion. Some brought loaves of bread or wheels of cheese; others carried pitchers of homemade cider.

Hennie Dumonceau stood at the edge of the largest gathering, his arms folded as he watched his men celebrate. He felt a pang of unease as he noticed some of them grow louder and more boisterous, but Peter Bijlsma’s firm hand seemed to keep the excesses in check.

“Let them have this night,” Folkert Oosterhof said, stepping up beside him. The older man’s face was calm, his eyes scanning the scene with a practiced gaze. “It may be the last chance they have tae laugh freely.”

Hennie gave a tight nod. “Aye, but they’ve still tae march tae Eemshaven. I cannae have them staggering about drunk like a pack o’ fools.”

“If anything, they’ll march quicker pished.” Folkert snorted, perhaps a little drunk himself. Hennie gave him an icy stare, quickly wiping the smile from his face. “Peter’ll see tae it,” Folkert resigned, his voice now remarkably steady. “Ye’ve done well tae bring them this far, lad. Dinnae let the weight crush ye before the real fight’s begun.”

Across the camp, Gosse de Vries sat with his men near one of the smaller fires. The sibbe leader had a mug of ale in hand but barely sipped it, his attention focused on the young recruits clustered around him. They hung on his every word as he recounted tales of his own battles, his voice low and steady.

“And when we took the field,” Gosse said, his eyes glinting in the firelight, “there were nae more than fifty o’ us left standing. But we held, lads, because we fought for each other—fer kin, fer blood.”

One of the younger soldiers, barely more than a boy, spoke up. “D’ye think we’ll win this time, Gosse? Or are we doomed tae end like all the rest?”

Gosse stared into the boy’s wide eyes for a moment before answering. “We’ll win, lad. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s right. And if we fall, then we’ll fall wi’ honour. But only a coward thinks o’ failing before the fight’s even begun.”

The boy nodded solemnly, his grip tightening on the mug in his hands. Gosse’s words carried weight, and they left the men around him quieter, more reflective, as the fire crackled between them.

Hennie made his way toward another fire, drawn by the sound of singing and laughter. There he found Peter Bijlsma, who had taken a seat on an overturned barrel, holding court among a small group of men. A half-empty mug of ale rested in his hand, but his sharp eyes darted around the camp, watching for any sign of trouble.

“Hennie!” Peter called out as he approached. “Come and join us, lad. Ye look like ye’ve the weight o’ the world on yer shoulders.”

Hennie smirked but shook his head. “Someone’s got tae carry it, Peter. And ye’ve enough tae worry about without me adding tae it.”

Peter chuckled, gesturing toward the men gathered around him. “Ye see this lot? A sorry band they were when we left Marrenijl, but now look at them—singin’, laughin’. They’ve found their fight, Hennie. Ye gave them that.”

Then, out of seemingly nowhere, a soldier ran up behind Hennie, a mug of ale in his hand, “get this down yer throat, Prince. Loosen up a little!”, before stumbling away into the bustling crowds, leaving Hennie standing awkwardly, with a mug half-full of ale; the soldier clumsily spilling some as he thrusted it into Hennie’s hands.

Before Hennie could reply, a young woman stepped into the circle of light, her hands carrying a small basket filled with freshly baked bread. She was slender, with dark hair braided neatly down her back, her face bearing the cautious curiosity of someone unsure whether she belonged.

“Pardon me,” she said softly, her accent marking her as a native of Andijk. “I thought ye soldiers might like something tae eat.”

Peter was the first to stand, offering her a small bow with exaggerated flair. “Andijk hospitality! A finer gift there’s never been, lass. Come, sit wi’ us, and tell us what they put in yer bread that makes it smell like a bit o’ heaven.”

The men laughed, their spirits buoyed by Peter’s charm, but the woman hesitated. Her eyes flicked to Hennie, clearly intrigued by the man standing slightly apart from the group, his gaze steady and unreadable.

“Ye’re Hennie Dumonceau, are ye no’?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“Aye,” Hennie replied, stepping closer. “And ye are?”

“I’m no one,” she said simply, dipping her head. “My brothers march wi’ ye. When they heard yer words in the square, they couldnae stay back. I just wanted tae see who it was they were ready tae die for.”

Her words hit like a blow, and Hennie’s expression softened. He took the basket from her hands, setting it down on the barrel beside Peter. “I dinnae ask them tae die, miss no name. I ask them tae fight—for Faursia, for their families, and for a future where they’ll no’ have tae take up arms again.”

She met his gaze, her fear slowly giving way to determination. “Then see that they come home, Prince. Alive, or nae at all.”

Hennie nodded solemnly. “Ye have my word.” He paused a moment, gazing at her. “Do ye want to sit wi’ us a while?”

“If ye’re offerin’.” She said, placing herself on an empty tree stump beside Hennie.

“So what’s yer name, miss no name? Yer bound to have a name.”

“Heede.” She smiled, leaning and reaching over to Hennie, taking the mug of ale that the soldier had handed him, from which he had not even taken a sip.

“Help yerself…” Hennie chuckled, almost impressed.

“Maybe I will.” She teased, peering at Hennie from the corner of her eye. The soldiers around them began to roar, perhaps to tease their Prince, though it seemed to unsettle the woman.

“And who are yer brothers?” Hennie asked, his motive for asking as unclear as ever.

“Dinnae worry ‘bout them.” Heede said into her mug as she finished its contents, handing the mug back to Hennie. “I’ll see ye, Prince.”

“Goodbye.”

Hennie’s eyes followed her as she stood up, sending a scent of freshly baked bread, hurtling towards Hennie’s nose, before she disappeared into the crowds. Hennie’s eyes lingered on the crowd a moment, as if waiting for her to reappear.

Later, as the fires burned lower and the night deepened, Folkert found Hennie sitting alone on the steps of an abandoned inn, his back to the revelry. The older man approached quietly, lowering himself onto the step beside him.

“Ye cannae save them all, lad,” Folkert said without preamble.

Hennie didn’t look at him. “I ken that, Folkert. But every one o’ them that falls will weigh on me like a stone. And ye ken as well as I do, we’ll lose far too many before this is done.”

Folkert sighed, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. “Aye, we will. But they dinnae follow ye tae live forever. They follow ye because ye gave them something worth dyin’ for. That’s a rare thing, Hennie. Dinnae cheapen it wi’ guilt.”

Hennie finally turned to him, his expression grim. “If I dinnae carry their deaths, who will?”

Folkert’s gaze was steady. “Carry them, aye. But let it make ye stronger, no weaker. A leader who forgets his fallen men is no leader at all. But a leader who lets their loss break him is even worse.”

For a long time, neither man spoke. The camp grew quieter as the fires dimmed and the soldiers drifted into uneasy sleep. Finally, Hennie rose, brushing the dirt from his coat.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said quietly. “We march as Faursians. Together, or nae at all.”

Folkert stood as well, his hand resting briefly on Hennie’s shoulder. “Together, lad. Always.”There was a brief silence between the two. Folkert leaned in a little closer, “she’s no’ bad, that girl.” He handed him a second mug of ale, this time, full. “Get this down ye, then go find her.”

Hennie stood in silence as Folkert trudged away. Once he was certain Folkert was out of view, he tossed the mug back, downing its contents in one, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, before setting back out and into the town.

As dawn broke over Andijk, the camp stirred to life. The townspeople who had remained distant the day before now ventured closer, bringing baskets of food and offers of help. The men, freshly organised by sibbes under Folkert’s direction, stood straighter as they prepared to march.

Hennie stood at the head of the column, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. He raised his sword, the morning light catching on its blade.

“Faursians!” Hennie called, his voice rising above the clamor of the waking camp. The men turned to face him, their disheveled ranks straightening as they saw their leader standing tall and resolute.

“The road ahead will test us, as it has tested every man and woman who’s ever fought for our land. But we dinnae march for glory alone. We march for freedom—for Faursia, for our families, and for a land that’s ours once more!”

A cheer rose from the ranks, ragged but growing in strength. Even the most bleary-eyed among them rallied to his words, some raising their swords or pikes in salute.

Peter Bijlsma, standing nearby with his arms crossed, muttered to Folkert Oosterhof, “A fine speech, aye, but half these lads’ll be wishin’ they were dead before we’ve gone three miles.”

Folkert chuckled, adjusting the wide brim of his hat. “Aye, but a speech like that can make a man forget his pounding head—for a while, at least.”

The aftermath of the previous night’s revelry was plain to see. Men stumbled about the camp, groaning as they gathered their belongings, their faces pale and lined with regret. Empty mugs and discarded bottles littered the ground, and a few fires still smoldered, sending tendrils of smoke into the morning air.

Gosse de Vries barked orders at his sibbe, his patience thinner than usual. “Get up, ye useless sods! The Commonwealth’ll nae wait fer ye tae find yer boots!” His men scrambled to obey, though several looked as if they might collapse at any moment.

At another corner of the camp, Heede appeared again, her basket now filled with water jugs. She handed one to a soldier who was leaning heavily on his pike, muttering, “Ye’ll need this more than any ale ye had last night.”

The soldier gave her a sheepish smile and a nod of thanks.

She wandered her way to Hennie, who perhaps looked the healthiest out of his whole army.

“Bread, Prince? Ye must be hungry.” She asked, her voice as innocent as ever.

“Thank ye.” He reached into the basket, breaking off a piece of a loaf.

“Yer always welcome here, Prince. Come back if ye ever have the chance.” Hedde smiled, placing her spare hand on his shoulder and kissing his cheek. Hennie could see Folkert over her shoulder, pulling a face at him; Hennie nearly cracked a smile.

“If I do, I’ll look for ye. And yer bread.”

“I’ll be here.” She chuckled, before walking to the next soldier to offer them food.

Peter walked among the men, nudging those who lagged behind with the blunt end of his musket. “On yer feet, lads. It’s a march we’ve ahead of us, nae a stroll tae the tavern!”

Folkert oversaw the assembling ranks, his experience evident in the steady way he directed the men, despite their groans and complaints. He took note of which sibbes were the quickest to form up and which lagged behind, his sharp eyes already planning how to address the gaps in discipline.

Hennie, watching from the front, allowed himself a small smile. The army was a shambles in the moment, but they would find their stride soon enough.

By mid-morning, the camp was dismantled, the fires extinguished, and the army was ready to march. The townsfolk of Andijk gathered to see them off, offering final gifts of food and drink. Some of the women wiped tears from their eyes as they watched their sons and brothers leave, while others clutched the hands of children too young to understand what was happening.

Hennie mounted his horse, raising his sword once more. “We leave Andijk wi’ its blessings and its hopes. But we march wi’ somethin’ greater—the spirit o’ Faursia herself. Let’s show the world what that means!”

The men cheered again, this time stronger, their voices carrying across the fields. The column began to move, the tramp of boots and the clink of weapons filling the air.

As they left the town behind, the soldiers began to sing, their voices rising in a defiant, ragged chorus. It wasn’t long before the townsfolk joined in, their voices carrying on the wind even as the Henricists disappeared down the road toward Eemshaven.

And so, with heads pounding and stomachs still turning, the Henricist army began the march that would take them to the heart of Faursia—and into the pages of history.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 5

23rd of June, 1706
Outskirts of Eemshaven
North-East Faursia

The Henricist army dragged itself toward Eemshaven under the sweltering June sun. For what felt like months, they had marched across Faursia’s lowlands, their ranks swelling with new recruits but their bodies taxed by exhaustion. Boots worn through, tempers fraying, and rations dwindling, the men trudged along dusty roads lined with ditches and hedgerows, driven only by Hennie Dumonceau’s fiery speeches and the promise of freedom.

At the head of the column, Hennie wiped the sweat from his brow with a threadbare sleeve. His once-pristine coat was streaked with grime, the blue and white of his standard dulled by the road. Beside him rode Gosse de Vries, his armor gleaming despite the weariness in his sharp, weathered face.

“There she is,” Gosse muttered, pointing to the faint outline of Eemshaven on the horizon. The city shimmered in the heat, its spires and rooftops wavering like a mirage. “The gates’ll open to us easy enough. But the castle…” He trailed off, squinting at the dark silhouette of Eemshaven Castle rising above the skyline.

Hennie followed his gaze. “The castle can wait,” he said. “For now, we give the men rest and the people of this city a reason to believe in us.”

“Aye,” Gosse replied grimly, “but castles don’t wait forever.”

Behind them, the murmur of conversation among the officers rose above the trudge of boots. Folkert Oosterhof, a grizzled veteran with a hawk-like stare, rode up to join them. His horse snorted, as if impatient to reach the city.

“Ye can’t let them rest too long,” Folkert said, his tone clipped and commanding. “Every day that garrison holds is a day they’re strengthening their defenses.”

“Let the men catch their breath, Oosterhof,” Gosse snapped, his tone sharp. “You’ve driven ‘em hard enough as it is.”

Folkert’s jaw tightened. “Ye coddle ‘em too much, De Vries. A tired soldier can fight. A soldier who’s lost his nerve cannot.”

Hennie raised a hand, silencing them. “Enough. We’ll reach the gates before nightfall. For now, let them march and save their strength for what lies ahead.”

The tension between Gosse and Folkert hung heavy in the air as the column pressed onward.

Eemshaven sprawled before them like a fortress of commerce and tradition. Its docks were alive with activity, merchant ships swaying gently in the Maresdoep Strait, their sails snapping in the summer breeze. Narrow streets twisted and turned between rows of tall, gabled houses, their facades painted in vibrant reds and yellows. Yet for all its color, the city felt subdued.

The gates creaked open without resistance, and the Henricists entered the city to wary eyes. Men and women watched from shuttered windows, their faces half-hidden in the shadows. Children darted out to gape at the banners of Dumonceau, only to be pulled back indoors by nervous mothers.

Hennie felt their fear as keenly as the ache in his legs. “They’ll come around,” he said softly to Gosse, though the words sounded more like a prayer than a statement.

As the soldiers fanned out to secure the streets, Folkert barked orders with the precision of a man used to being obeyed. “Hold the main square and set up defenses around the market,” he commanded. “And get scouts to watch the castle. I’ll not have anyone sneakin’ up on us.”

Gosse muttered under his breath, but Hennie shot him a warning look. “He’s right, De Vries. We need to make a show of strength.”

“Strength is one thing,” Gosse replied, his voice low, “but if ye let him take too much command, lad, ye’ll find yerself left behind in yer own rebellion.”

That evening, the Henricist army gathered in the old market square, a space ringed by crumbling statues of Faursian kings long dead. The air was thick with heat and anticipation as Hennie stood before the assembled men, his voice steady despite the knot twisting in his stomach.

“This day, we crown a king!” Hennie called out, his words carrying over the square. “Not here in body, but in spirit. Ye all ken my father, Johan-Frederik. He is older than he was in ‘75 and ‘79, but he nonetheless takes his place as the rightful ruler of Faursia. And I—your regent—stand before you as his sword and shield. Together, we will bring this land back to its rightful sons!”

The soldiers roared their approval, raising their fists and muskets high. Gosse stood at Hennie’s side, his expression unreadable, while Folkert surveyed the men with a calculating look, already planning the next steps.

Priests of the Old Faith stepped forward, their white robes stark against the dusty square. They carried an ancient circlet, its gold dulled by time, and placed it reverently on a stone altar. With solemn chants in the Faursian tongue, they declared Frederik-Johan Dumonceau the King of Faursia, anointing the crown with holy oil.

Then, they turned to Hennie. A simpler circlet of silver was placed on his brow, marking him as regent and leader of the Henricist cause. As the final blessings were spoken, Hennie rose and raised his sword high, the cheers of his men echoing across the square.

Yet as he met the eyes of Gosse and Folkert, he saw not triumph, but the seeds of division—an uneasy alliance that threatened to tear apart the fragile unity they had built.

The city square transformed after the coronation. Fires crackled in every corner, casting flickering shadows against the weathered statues and gabled houses. The Henricist soldiers, weary from their march and battle-scarred from skirmishes, finally allowed themselves to taste the sweetness of victory. Casks of ale and barrels of wine, liberated from Eemshaven’s reluctant merchants, were passed around, and the music of Faursian fiddles and pipes filled the air.

Laughter echoed through the narrow streets as men and women danced around the fires, their shadows merging with the smoke curling toward the darkening sky. The old songs of Faursia—ballads of triumph and sorrow—were sung with hoarse voices. Hennie Dumonceau, still clad in his regent’s cloak, stood by one of the fires, a tankard of ale in hand.

Gosse de Vries approached him, his movements slower than usual, weighed down by fatigue. “Ye’ve done well, lad,” he said, raising his own drink in salute. “It’s no small thing, what ye’ve managed here.”

Hennie chuckled, his cheeks flushed from both drink and the warmth of the fire. “We’re not done yet, Gosse. This is just the start.”

“Aye, but let the men have this night,” Gosse replied, gesturing to the revelry around them. “They’ve earned it.”

“They had their night in Andijk”, Hennie muttered, “after tonight, we simply cannae drink n’ party after e’ery city or town we enter. One of these days, the Commonwealth will come in the night and find us drowning in our tankards. It will be a massacre…”

“Maybe. But there’s little risk o’ that tonight. There’s guards, perfectly sober outside… the Commonwealth dinnae have the number in the castle to take this lot on.” Gosse chuckled, casting a glance at all the men.

At another fire, Folkert Oosterhof sat stiffly, a small group of officers around him. While others laughed and sang, Folkert remained sober, his keen eyes scanning the square. One of the officers, a younger man who had joined them at Andijk, leaned in and said, “Ye look as though ye’d rather be in the castle than here, Oosterhof.”

Folkert’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Aye, lad. Ye’re not wrong. Every moment we sit here, they sit in that castle watching us. I don’t like being watched.”

The officer hesitated, then nodded. “But what can they do?”

“They can hold,” Folkert said simply, his tone grim. “And while they hold, they weaken us.”

Hennie felt the weight of Folkert’s stare from across the square, even as he laughed and clinked tankards with the men. He knew the commander’s caution was not unwarranted, yet he resented the shadow it cast over their moment of triumph. As the night deepened, he found himself retreating to a quieter corner of the square, where Gosse soon joined him.

“Folkert doesn’t trust me,” Hennie said quietly, staring into the flames of a nearby fire.

“He doesn’t trust anyone,” Gosse replied. “It’s not about ye. It’s how he’s made. He thinks of nothin’ but the fight.”

“And you?”

Gosse took a long swig from his tankard before answering. “I trust ye, Hennie. But I’ve lived through too many fights to trust any man completely. Ye’ll make mistakes, same as the rest of us. The question is whether ye’ll learn from them.”

Hennie nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve no choice, have I?”

“Nay,” Gosse said with a faint smile. “But ye’re learnin’ fast, lad.”

Far above the celebrations, Eemshaven Castle stood silent and dark. Its defenders watched from the battlements, their faces grim as they listened to the sounds of Faursian music and laughter drifting up from the square below. The commander of the Commonwealth garrison, stood with his arms folded, his expression a mask of cold calculation.

“They celebrate as though they have already won,” one of his officers said, shaking his head.

“Let them,” the commander replied. “Their time will come.”

The first light of dawn found the Henricist camp in disarray. Men lay sprawled across the cobblestones and grassy patches, their snores mingling with the occasional groan of someone stirring. The fires had long since burned out, leaving trails of ash and embers scattered across the square.

Hennie awoke in the guildhall, his head pounding and his mouth dry. The cloak he’d thrown over himself the night before had done little to stave off the chill of the early morning. He rubbed his temples, cursing himself for indulging too much the night before.

Down in the square, Folkert Oosterhof was already up and moving, his voice cutting through the groans of hungover soldiers. “On yer feet, lads! Ye think the Commonwealth will wait for ye to nurse yer heads? Oh, poor you! Get up and get ready!”

Gosse de Vries appeared, looking equally bleary-eyed but trying his best to appear composed. “God save us,” he muttered as he joined Hennie in the square. “The man’s a machine. Does he never sleep?”

Hennie managed a wry smile. “I think he gets his rest by barking orders.”

Folkert caught sight of them and strode over. “Yer Majesty,” he said sharply, using the title with just a hint of sarcasm, “while yer men lie half drunk in the square, Hendriksen’s garrison sits snug in that castle. Ye’ve a choice to make—fight or move on.”

Hennie straightened, brushing off the remains of sleep. “We’ll move on,” he said firmly. “The castle is no threat as long as we hold the city. Let Hendriksen sit there and stew.”

“Wise,” Gosse murmured.

Folkert’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “If that’s yer decision, I’ll see it’s carried out.”

The three men stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of the waking army rising around them. The night of celebration was over, and the hard work of rebellion loomed ahead.

By midmorning, the Henricist commanders gathered in the guildhall, a council that had met every single day since Andijk. The long table in the chamber was littered with half-empty tankards, scraps of bread, and a hastily sketched map of the surrounding region. Hennie sat at the head, flanked by Gosse de Vries and Folkert Oosterhof. Around the table were a dozen other officers, sibbe leaders and fresh officers elevated to command out of necessity.

The mood in the guildhall was grim. The Henricist commanders sat around the table, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of low-burning lanterns. Outside, the sounds of soldiers rousing themselves from the night’s revelry mingled with the distant cries of gulls. Hennie Dumonceau sat at the head of the table, his face pale but determined.

The map before them was cluttered with hastily drawn lines marking key roads, rivers, and towns. Eemshaven Castle, still under Commonwealth control, was circled in red ink—a stark reminder of the threat lingering in their midst.

Gosse de Vries leaned over the table, his finger tracing a line southward. “If we move north and cross the Maresdoep, a road into Aubervijr will be open to us,” he said firmly. “If we strike now, we’ll catch their forces off guard. Supplies, arms, even more men—we’ll find them there. Aubervijan royalists are just waitin’ for a signal.”

Folkert Oosterhof, seated opposite Gosse, frowned deeply. “It’s madness,” he said. “Ye want to abandon our foothold here, risk our entire army for a cause that’s already weak?” He jabbed a finger at the map, punctuating his words. “What happens if Hendriksen gathers his men and traps us in Aubervijr? Or worse, what happens if the royalists ye speak of turn on us?”

“Ye’ve no faith,” Gosse shot back, his voice rising. “This rebellion isn’t just about Faursia—it’s about all our lands, Aubervijr included. If we’re to win, we need allies, arms, and legitimacy. A strike into Aubervijr could turn the tide.”

“Or break us entirely,” Folkert replied coldly. “Ye think Hendriksen will sit idle while we march off to Aubervijr? The man’s no fool. He’s got numbers—more than we do—and the resources to outlast us. We’ve a chance to fortify here, to build somethin’ real. Instead, ye’d chase a dream.”

Hennie raised a hand, silencing the two men. His gaze swept the room, meeting the eyes of every officer present. “This rebellion isn’t about safety,” he said. “It’s about takin’ what’s ours. Faursia alone can’t support an army strong enough to overthrow the Commonwealth, but Aubervijr can. If we march south and succeed, we’ll have the weapons, the gold, and the men we need to carry on this fight.”

Folkert’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“We’re marchin’ east,” Hennie continued. “That’s the decision. Gosse, I want ye to organise the vanguard. Folkert, ye’ll handle the rear guard. We are to move tomorrow morning.”

The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the scratching of quills as officers began drafting orders. Folkert stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. “As ye command,” he said stiffly, then strode out of the room.

Gosse watched him go, a hint of a smirk on his face. “He’s a good soldier,” he said quietly, “but he doesn’t see the bigger picture.”

“Maybe not,” Hennie replied, his tone thoughtful. “But he’s no’ wrong about the risks. We’ll need to move fast and strike hard.”

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 6

14th of July, 1706
Outskirts of Zeidendijs
9 miles from Eemshaven
Midnight

The barn was heavy with tension, the air as stifling as the arguments that erupted within. A flickering lantern hung from a beam, its weak light falling on a well-worn map spread across the table. The Henricist commanders surrounded it, each bearing the weariness of days of marching and the weight of impending battle. Outside, the murmurs of restless soldiers mingled with the distant crackle of campfires.

Hennie leaned forward over the table, his voice steady but charged. “We’ve nae time for games. Hendriksen is upon us, an’ we dinnae stand idle while he draws breath. This is our moment.”

Gosse, standing by his side, nodded firmly. “Aye. The men are ready, an’ we’ve pushed harder for less. We dinnae falter now.”

Across the table, Folkert’s brow furrowed deeply, his arms crossed. “An’ ye’ve pushed them hard enough tae break them already. Tell me this, Hennie—what exactly is yer moment? A charge across open marshland? Or a headlong sprint into Hendriksen’s guns? Ye think them green recruits’ll scatter the moment we shout loud enough?”

The jab stung, and Hennie’s voice rose. “An’ what would ye do, Folkert? Leave the lads tae stew while Hendriksen outflanks us? He’s nay fool. Waitin’ only plays into his hands.”

“An’ marchin’ blind disnae?” Folkert shot back, his tone sharpening. “Ye think Hendriksen’s fortifications are half-planned? He’ll bleed us dry if we rush him now.”

Gosse stepped forward, his tone dripping with disdain. “Always the pessimist, aren’t ye, Folkert? Ye’d have us run for the hills if it were yer decision. But it’s no’, thank the gods.”

Folkert’s glare turned to Gosse. “An’ it’s yer blind faith in glory that’s kept us squabblin’ like bairns instead o’ leadin’ like men. Ye follow Hennie wi’out question, aye, but it’s questions that keep an army alive.”

“I’ll hear nae more o’ that,” Hennie cut in, his voice firm. “Folkert, ye’ve marched wi’ me long enough tae ken I trust my men, aye, even you. But trust works both ways, an’ yer doubts serve nay one but the enemy.”

“Trust?” Folkert laughed bitterly. “Ye call it trust? I’d call it a lack o’ sense. Ye an’ Gosse blind yerselves tae what’s in front o’ ye. Hendriksen’s men are green, aye, but they’ve cannon, an’ terrain on their side. Ye ken what’ll happen if we charge across that bog? They’ll cut us doon before we reach ‘em!”

Hennie’s fists clenched, but he forced himself to take a breath. He needed Folkert, as much as he despised his sharp tongue and relentless doubts. “An’ what would ye have us do, then? Flee? Give Hendriksen the land we’ve fought tooth an’ nail tae take? Ye say we blind ourselves, but it’s nay blindness tae see the fight before us.”

Before Folkert could respond, Reinder, standing near the barn’s entrance, cleared his throat. “There is a pass tae the east. A lad told me—his father farms the land. He says it’s clear, though narrow.”

Gosse rolled his eyes. “A farmer’s tale is nae plan, Reinder. We’ve nae time for guesswork. I say we take the fight tae Hendriksen here an’ now, before he gathers his wits.”

Folkert slammed a hand on the table, silencing the room. “An’ I say that’s daft. Look here.” He jabbed a finger at the map, his tone brooking no argument. “The marsh protects his centre, aye, an’ the park walls hold his right. But the left? It’s exposed, Hennie. Lightly guarded if he’s split his force tae cover his defenses. A charge there could roll him up like a carpet.”

Gosse scoffed. “An’ if it’s a trap? If he’s baitin’ us tae his left while the right comes ‘round an’ crushes us? I’d rather die fightin’ than skulkin’ through some muddy trail.”

The tension in the barn was suffocating. Hennie’s eyes darted between Folkert and Gosse. He trusted Gosse implicitly—his loyalty had been unshakable since the first days of the rising—but Folkert’s competence was undeniable, even if it came with barbs of criticism. For all his doubts, Hennie wanted to trust Folkert. But time and again, the man’s biting words and air of superiority made it nearly impossible.

Peter finally spoke, his calm voice cutting through the argument. “Enough. We’ve nae time for this bickering. Folkert’s plan has merit. If we use the night tae shift east, we can strike at dawn while Hendriksen still thinks us in front o’ him.”

“Aye,” Folkert added, his tone softening slightly. “An’ a feint tae the centre would keep his cannon fixed while we take his left. We dinnae have tae like each other, but we cannae afford tae lose this chance.”

Gosse bristled but said nothing, deferring to Hennie’s judgment. Hennie glanced at the map, the weight of command pressing heavily on his shoulders. He met Folkert’s eyes, the fire in his own dimming just enough to let reason prevail.

“Fine,” he said at last, his voice low but resolute. “We move east under cover o’ night. Reinder, take ten men an’ scout this pass. If it’s clear, we march. If no’, we regroup an’ plan again. But mark me, Folkert,” he added, his gaze narrowing, “if this plan fails, it’ll be on yer head.”

Folkert nodded curtly, though the tension between them remained thick. As the commanders filed out of the barn, Gosse lingered by Hennie’s side. “Ye’re puttin’ a lot o’ trust in a man who’d sooner lead than follow.”

Hennie sighed, his voice barely above a whisper. “An’ I’ve nay choice. Folkert’s sharp, aye, but he disnae ken loyalty like we do. I’d rather trust a blade than a tongue, Gosse. But blades dull, an’ we’ve nae others tae sharpen.”

Folkert, overhearing as he stepped into the cool night air, muttered under his breath. “Blind loyalty’ll be the death o’ ye both. Mark me, this’ll no’ be the last time it costs us.”

The dim light of the barn was now gone, replaced by the faint silver glow of the moon as it danced on the rippling marshes. The Henricist camp lay in silence, save for the occasional crack of a twig or the soft murmur of a soldier’s prayer. Hennie stood by the edge of the camp, his hands clasped behind his back. Though he feigned calm, his mind churned with worry, replaying the arguments in the barn. Behind him, the figures of his officers loomed in the dark, waiting.

Reinder finally appeared, his shadowed form moving quickly through the gloom. His face was streaked with dirt, and his breathing came hard, but there was an urgency to his step that spoke louder than words.

“The pass is clear,” he said, stopping before the commanders. “It’s narrow, aye, but it’ll take us through the marshes an’ tae Hendriksen’s left. We’ll have tae go single file in parts, an’ it’ll slow us, but there’s cover. If we’re quick, he’ll nae ken we’ve moved until it’s too late.”

Hennie’s shoulders relaxed, though only slightly. “Ye’re sure o’ it? Ye’ve seen it with yer own eyes?”

“Aye,” Reinder replied. “The lad was right. It’s clear. But Hendriksen’s pickets are close—ye’ll have tae keep the men quiet if we’re tae reach it wi’out bein’ seen.”

Folkert stepped forward, his arms crossed but his expression less combative than earlier. “Then we’ve nae time tae lose. The men’ll march now, three abreast where the ground allows, single file where it disnae. Once we reach the far end, we’ll form ranks an’ prepare tae strike. If Hendriksen’s still lookin’ tae his front, we’ll catch him blind.”

Hennie nodded, though his voice betrayed his lingering uncertainty. “Very well. Reinder, ye’ll lead the vanguard tae guide the men. Peter, take the centre. Gosse, ye’ll bring up the rear. Folkert…” He paused, his words measured. “Ye’ll handle the flanks once we’re in position. Keep the men from scatterin’. We’ll nae have chaos in the ranks when the time comes.”

Folkert smirked faintly, but there was no malice in his tone as he replied. “Aye, Hennie. Chaos is the last thing we’ll need.”

The orders were given swiftly, and within the hour, the camp began to stir. Men rose quietly, gathering weapons and provisions. The soft rustle of movement filled the air as the Henricist army prepared to march under cover of darkness.

The route was as treacherous as Reinder had warned. The narrow trail wound through patches of deep mud, the earth sucking at the boots of the soldiers as they trudged forward. The moonlight barely penetrated the canopy of trees that lined the pass, leaving much of the army in near-complete darkness.

Hennie marched with the vanguard, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. Beside him, Reinder moved with the ease of one who knew the land well, his quiet instructions keeping the men in line.

Behind them, Folkert moved among the flanks, his sharp voice a constant reminder to the men to stay alert. “Keep close!” he hissed. “One misstep, an’ we’ll bring Hendriksen’s dogs down upon us!”

Gosse grumbled as he brought up the rear, his frustration clear even in his whispered commands. “Folkert’s actin’ like he’s the only one who kens how tae march in a line,” he muttered to Peter, who walked beside him.

Peter chuckled softly, though his tone was grim. “He kens what’s at stake, Gosse. Let him bark if it keeps the men from strayin’. We’ve nae room for error now.”

Hours passed as the army wound its way through the marshes. The men moved slowly but steadily, their nerves taut as they neared their destination.

By the time the first rays of dawn began to creep over the horizon, the Henricists had reached the far end of the pass. The land opened into a wide field, dotted with low shrubs and patches of grass. To the south, Hendriksen’s army lay entrenched, their campfires still flickering in the early light.

Hennie stood with his commanders on a low rise, surveying the enemy’s position. Hendriksen’s forces were arranged in a tight formation, their centre protected by the marsh and their right flanked by the walls of the park. The left, as Folkert had predicted, was exposed.

“It’s nae perfect,” Folkert said quietly, his gaze fixed on the enemy lines. “But it’s our best chance. We hit them hard an’ fast before they can wheel their guns. If we’re lucky, they’ll break before they even ken what’s happenin’.”

Hennie nodded, his jaw tight. “An’ if they dinnae?”

“Then we’ll fight them as we’ve fought every other foe,” Folkert replied. “Wi’ steel an’ fire.”

The plan was simple: a feint toward the centre to keep Hendriksen’s guns fixed, while the bulk of the Henricist forces struck the left flank. Reinder would lead the feint, supported by a small detachment, while Hennie and Folkert commanded the main assault. Gosse and Peter would hold the reserves, ready to exploit any weakness in the enemy lines.

At precisely 4am, the Henricist forces began to move. Reinder led his detachment into the marshy ground before the enemy’s centre, their movements deliberate but conspicuous. As expected, Hendriksen’s cannon began to fire, the thunderous booms echoing across the battlefield.

“Hold yer lines!” Reinder shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. The men pressed forward, their advance slow but steady as they drew the enemy’s fire.

Meanwhile, the main force moved swiftly along the left flank. Folkert’s sharp commands kept the men in line, their movements precise despite the growing light. Hennie marched at the head, his heart pounding as they closed the distance.

The enemy pickets spotted them too late. By the time Hendriksen’s officers realised what was happening, the Henricists were already upon them.

“Charge!” Hennie roared, his voice carrying over the din of the battle. The Highlanders surged forward, their swords gleaming in the dawn light as they descended upon the enemy’s left.

The Henricists hit Hendriksen’s left flank like a storm. The roar of Highland war cries filled the air, drowning out the desperate shouts of the Aubervijan officers trying to rally their men. Hennie was at the forefront, sword in hand, his voice hoarse from shouting commands. Around him, the clash of steel on steel mingled with the cries of the wounded.

Hendriksen’s pickets were swept aside with terrifying speed. The poorly trained infantry, many of whom had been pressed into service weeks prior, faltered almost immediately. Some threw down their weapons and fled, while others fought back in disorganised pockets, only to be overrun by the relentless Highland charge.

“Hold the line!” an Aubervijan captain screamed, his voice cracking as he tried to rally his men. He was silenced moments later, struck down by a Faursian broadsword.

Hennie fought with a ferocity that belied his inexperience. His sword found its mark again and again, cutting down enemies with every swing. Beside him, Folkert was a steady presence, his commands sharp and decisive even in the chaos.

“Press them back!” Folkert shouted. “Dinnae let them regroup!”

The Henricists surged forward, their momentum carrying them deeper into the enemy’s left flank. Hendriksen’s cannon, hastily turned to face the new threat, managed only a few shots before the gunners abandoned their posts.

From his vantage point near the centre of the Commonwealth line, Hendriksen watched in growing horror as his left flank crumbled.

“Where are the dragoons?” he barked, turning to his second-in-command, an older officer named Captain Emiel Beenhouwer.

“Fled, sir,” Beenhouwer replied grimly. “Both regiments broke the moment the charge hit.”

Hendriksen swore under his breath, his face pale but resolute. “Order the centre to wheel east. We must stabilise the flank before the entire line collapses.”

“It’s too late, sir,” Beenhouwer warned. “The left’s been overrun. If we pull back now, the reserves won’t hold.”

“Then we fight where we stand!” Hendriksen snapped, his voice harsh with desperation.

Despite the chaos, the Commonwealth centre began to reposition, their ranks shifting to face the Highland assault. Hendriksen himself rode among his men, shouting orders and trying to rally his troops.

This repositioning bought time for some of the infantry on the left to retreat behind the park walls, but it came at a cost. The movement left the centre vulnerable, and the Henricist reserves, led by Peter Bijlsma and Gosse de Vries, seized the opportunity.

“Now’s our chance!” Peter called to Gosse as they advanced with the reserves. “Strike hard, an’ we’ll cut them in two!”

The reserves charged forward, crashing into the Commonwealth centre with brutal force. The already stretched Aubervijan line began to buckle, and Hendriksen’s efforts to stabilise the situation proved futile.

The final blow came when the Henricist forces broke through the baggage train. Soldiers who had been holding the line turned back to defend their supplies, creating chaos in the Commonwealth ranks.

Folkert, spotting the opening, shouted above the din, “Press them! They’re done for!”

Hennie hesitated for a moment, his eyes scanning the battlefield. The Commonwealth troops were retreating in disarray, their officers powerless to restore order. Victory was within reach.

“Advance!” he finally roared, his voice carrying across the battlefield. “Dinnae let them escape!”

The Highlanders surged forward, their cries of triumph mingling with the panicked shouts of the retreating Aubervijans.

By mid-morning, the battlefield was quiet. The marshes and fields were littered with the dead and dying, the air heavy with the stench of blood and smoke.

Hennie stood amid the wreckage, his face streaked with dirt and blood. Around him, his men moved among the fallen, gathering weapons and tending to the wounded.

“How many, d’ye think?” Hennie asked Folkert, who stood beside him, his expression grim.

“Forty o’ ours, maybe eighty wounded,” Folkert replied. “They lost far more. Hendriksen’s line was shattered—at least five hundred dead an’ easily six hundred captured.”

“An’ what o’ Hendriksen?”

“Fled, like a coward,” Folkert said, his voice laced with disdain. “His officers too. The field is ours, Hennie, but they’ll regroup soon enough.”

Hennie nodded, though his face remained troubled. Victory had come at a cost, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the Commonwealth struck back.

“Celebrate what ye will,” Folkert added quietly, “but ken this: the hardest part is still ahead. An’ we’ll nae win it by squabblin’ among ourselves.”

Hennie didn’t reply. He turned his gaze to the horizon, where the first rays of the morning sun were breaking through the clouds, casting a pale light over the battlefield.

He knew Aubervijr was next.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 7

21st of July, 1706
Ertveldhuis, Harlingen
Aubervijr
14:51

The dimly lit chamber of Erteveld House was heavy with the smell of tobacco and the tension of unspoken judgments. Around the grand oak table, six men sat in silence, their gazes flicking between Chancellor Ferdinand de Girard and the letter he held in his trembling hands. Outside, Harlingen bustled with its usual vigor, yet within the walls of this 15th-century guildhall, the atmosphere was suffocating.

De Girard’s eyes burned into the page before him, his features darkening with every word. The seal of Fort Zutphen was unmistakable, but the message it carried might as well have been a death knell for Hendriksen’s career—and, as the council knew, likely his life.

“Two thousand five hundred rebels,” De Girard hissed, breaking the silence. He raised his gaze, his tone clipped and venomous. “Against an army nearly twice their size, equipped with artillery, cavalry, and the finest position imaginable. And yet, he lost. Not just that, by the time he reached Fort Zutphen, he had only…” his eyes darted back to the paper, “four hundred and fifty men.”

Lieutenant-General Jasper Romeijnders cleared his throat, leaning forward. “Hendriksen miscalculated, Chancellor. That much is evident. His reliance on inexperienced recruits—”

“Spare me the excuses, General!” De Girard slammed his hand on the table, causing the inkpot to quiver. “This was not an affair of numbers or training. It was incompetence! A failure to anticipate, to lead. And now, the rebels sit in triumph, their morale higher than ever. Do you not see the consequences of this disaster?”

Romeijnders stiffened, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing. Beside him, Herbert Ceulemans allowed himself a small smirk, though he quickly masked it behind a look of mock concern.

De Girard stood, pacing before the portraits of his predecessors, their painted faces almost judging his own actions. “Hendriksen claims he had no choice but to retreat,” he continued, reading from the letter aloud. “‘My men were in disarray; the artillery abandoned; the cavalry scattered. I led what few remained to safety at Fort Zutphen.’ Safety? There is no safety when the enemy dances on your doorstep!”

The Chancellor tossed the letter onto the table, where it landed like a hammer blow. “Gentlemen, I will not tolerate such failures in this campaign. Hendriksen must be court-martialed and made an example of. Let his folly serve as a warning to any officer who underestimates the enemy.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, though Romeijnders hesitated. “Chancellor,” he began cautiously, “Hendriksen’s position was compromised before the engagement even began. He was operating with faulty intelligence—”

De Girard whirled on him. “Do not defend him, General. Faulty intelligence does not excuse cowardice or incompetence. Hendriksen had every advantage and squandered them all. The Henricists now all of Faursia, while we are left to lick our wounds.”

“May I speak plainly, Chancellor?” Ceulemans interjected, his tone smooth but pointed.

De Girard gestured impatiently. “Speak.”

“Hendriksen’s failures are a symptom of a larger issue,” Ceulemans said. “The command of this campaign has been disjointed from the start. What we require now is decisive leadership, someone who can restore order and strike at the rebels before they entrench themselves further.”

The room fell silent, all eyes on De Girard. The Chancellor studied Ceulemans for a moment before turning his attention back to Romeijnders. “General, you have the seniority and the experience. You will take command of the campaign in Faursia. I trust you will not disappoint me.”

Romeijnders inclined his head, though there was no mistaking the tension in his expression. “You have my word, Chancellor.”

De Girard’s gaze shifted back to Ceulemans. “You, Ceulemans, will accompany Romeijnders as his deputy.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Ceulemans’s face, quickly replaced by a knowing smile. “An honour, Chancellor.”

“You will report directly to me,” De Girard continued, his voice icy. “I want regular updates on the General’s progress. And if he fails, I expect to hear of it before any other man.”

Romeijnders stiffened again, his lips pressed into a thin line. He said nothing, but the weight of the implication hung heavy in the air.

“Gentlemen,” De Girard said, his tone final, “the Henricists grow bolder by the day. It is time we remind them why Aubervijr has ruled Faursia for generations. This rebellion will be crushed, and those who dared to challenge us will face the consequences. See to it.”

Romeijnders said nothing, but his glare spoke volumes.

De Girard’s voice still echoed in the chamber as the council sat in uneasy silence. Herbert Ceulemans leaned back in his chair, his gaze flicking between the faces of the other councilors, savouring the discomfort his words had stirred.

“Chancellor,” began Jacobus van Weert, one of the more senior members of the council, “may I suggest caution before we condemn Hendriksen outright? The man has served us faithfully for years—”

“Faithful service does not excuse gross incompetence,” De Girard snapped, cutting him off. “The Henricists are emboldened, our position in Faursia has weakened, and now our enemies across the sea will smell blood. Would you have me reward him for this?”

“Of course not,” Van Weert replied, his voice measured. “But surely there are alternatives to execution. A demotion, perhaps. A public reprimand.”

Ceulemans chuckled softly, drawing the room’s attention. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but the Chancellor is correct. A slap on the wrist for losing three thousand five hundred and fifty men? What message would that send to our officers, to our soldiers? If you wish to embolden the rebels further, by all means, coddle Hendriksen.”

Romeijnders, who had been silent for several moments, finally spoke. “And what message does it send if we rush to execute one of our own? That we are ruled by fear, not reason? Discipline must be tempered with wisdom, Chancellor.”

De Girard rounded on him. “Wisdom, General? I have entrusted you with great responsibility, but let me remind you that it is my name that bears the burden of this rebellion’s consequences. Hendriksen’s failure is a stain on my administration. You were by my side when we had Luttenberg executed. You had no objections or mercies then, and he was the Goddamned Chancellor! Hendriksen will pay for it.”

Ceulemans tilted his head, feigning deference. “Perhaps we are overthinking this. Hendriksen’s execution should be swift, quiet, but effective. It need not linger in the public eye. Justice can be served without spectacle.”

“And yet,” Romeijnders countered, “the spectacle is what strengthens morale. A hanging in Harlingen, or before the army itself, would remind our officers what is at stake.”

De Girard frowned, considering the suggestion, before shaking his head. “No. The army in Faursia needs to remain focused on the rebels, not on politics. Hendriksen’s punishment will be carried out swiftly at Fort Zutphen. No trial, no theatrics. He will simply… disappear.”

The bluntness of the statement hung in the air, leaving the council in stunned silence. Romeijnders clenched his jaw, but Ceulemans allowed himself a faint smile, satisfied with the Chancellor’s ruthlessness.

“Very well,” De Girard said, resuming his seat. “The decision is made. General Romeijnders, you will leave for Faursia immediately. Ceulemans, prepare yourself to accompany him. Our victory depends on the two of you. Do not fail me.”

Romeijnders offered a curt nod, his expression unreadable, while Ceulemans bowed his head slightly, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

The meeting ended with little ceremony, the council members filing out one by one. Ceulemans lingered just long enough to catch Romeijnders’s eye, offering a sly grin.

“Looks like we’ll be working closely, General,” he said. “I’m sure it will be… enlightening.”

In the corridor, De Girard returned to his desk, staring at the letter one last time before throwing it into the fire. The flames consumed Hendriksen’s plea for understanding, leaving only ash.

As the council adjourned, the Chancellor remained seated, staring at the fading embers of the fire.

“Justice,” he thought to himself, “is the weight of leadership.”

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 8

28th of July, 1706
Fort Zutphen
Northern Faursia
Midday

Hendriksen sat slumped over his desk in the cramped command office of Fort Zutphen, the air thick with the smell of damp wood and wax. A single candle burned low, its light throwing restless shadows over the maps and scattered correspondence that cluttered the surface. The faint clatter of boots echoed from the parade ground outside, but within these walls, it was oppressively quiet.

Lieutenant Van Gelder hovered nervously by the window, glancing between the stormy skies outside and the colonel. He was a slight young man, his uniform too large for his frame, his hands perpetually fidgeting with the edges of a letter. Hendriksen’s once-pristine coat, now wrinkled and stained, hung loosely around his shoulders, its brass buttons dulled from neglect.

“You’re certain this will reach Harlingen?” Hendriksen asked, his voice rasping from exhaustion. He gestured vaguely to the letter Van Gelder clutched like a lifeline.

“Yes, sir,” Van Gelder said hesitantly. “But with all due respect, do you think the Chancellor will even read it? He… well, the rumours—”

Hendriksen waved a dismissive hand. “De Girard thrives on fear, Lieutenant, but he isn’t a fool. Once he sees the reasoning behind the retreat, he’ll understand.” He leaned back in his creaking chair, the words unconvincing even to himself.

Van Gelder hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. “And if he doesn’t?”

Hendriksen snorted bitterly. “If he doesn’t, then we’re all damned, aren’t we? Not just me. The entire army.” He rubbed his temples, as though the pressure might force clarity from the haze of his thoughts.

The uneasy quiet lingered until a sharp knock at the door jolted them both.

Hendriksen straightened, his brow furrowing. “Enter,” he barked, though his tone lacked its usual authority.

The door creaked open, revealing two men in heavy, mud-splattered boots. Their uniforms bore the insignia of captains, though their posture betrayed none of the deference Hendriksen would have expected. Captain Maartens, a grizzled man with a thick scar across his cheek, stepped forward, his dark eyes fixed squarely on the colonel. Behind him stood Captain Veltman, younger, stockier, and visibly uneasy, though he tried to hide it beneath a stoic mask.

“Colonel Hendriksen,” Maartens said, his voice flat and businesslike. “By order of Chancellor de Girard, you are hereby relieved of command and placed under arrest.”

Hendriksen blinked, his expression a mix of confusion and growing anger. “Arrest? On what grounds?”

“Dereliction of duty,” Maartens replied curtly. “The Chancellor has already rendered judgment.”

Van Gelder stepped back instinctively, his face pale. Hendriksen shot to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the floor.

“Judgment? Without a hearing? Without—this is madness!” His fists clenched at his sides. “You’re under my command, Maartens. I gave you your commission. You dare come in here with this… this farce?”

Maartens’ expression didn’t waver, though Veltman shifted uncomfortably. “The orders come from Harlingen, sir. We are bound to carry them out.”

“Bound?” Hendriksen spat, his voice rising. “Bound to what? Betrayal? Cowardice?” He stepped around the desk, glaring at the two captains. “You have no authority to do this. I am still your superior officer.”

“Not anymore,” Maartens said, his tone cold as steel.

When Maartens and Veltman moved to flank him, Hendriksen shoved Maartens hard in the chest, sending the older man stumbling back. “I’ll not go quietly to the gallows for doing my duty!”

Veltman hesitated, glancing to Maartens, whose scarred face hardened with grim resolve. “Then you leave us no choice,” Maartens growled, stepping forward again.

The struggle was brief but violent. Hendriksen swung out wildly, landing a blow to Veltman’s jaw before Maartens slammed him against the desk. Papers and ink spilled onto the floor as the colonel thrashed, shouting obscenities and accusations of betrayal. Van Gelder stood frozen in the corner, clutching the letter as if it could shield him from the scene unfolding before him.

“Lieutenant!” Hendriksen roared, his voice hoarse and desperate as Maartens and Veltman restrained him. “Send that letter! Do you hear me? Send it!”

Van Gelder nodded shakily, though his feet remained rooted to the floor.

“Enough!” Maartens snapped, forcing Hendriksen upright. “You’ll answer for your crimes, Colonel, whether you like it or not.”

Hendriksen’s struggling ceased, his chest heaving as the fight drained out of him. He glanced toward van Gelder one last time, his voice quieter now. “Send it, Lieutenant. Please.”

The aide nodded again, his eyes brimming with tears as Maartens and Veltman dragged Hendriksen from the room. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving van Gelder alone in the dim, wrecked office, the colonel’s fate sealed.

Hendriksen stumbled as Maartens and Veltman hauled him into the rain-slick courtyard, the sky above swollen with gray clouds. The sound of boots crunching on gravel mingled with the faint patter of drizzle, the fortress walls looming oppressively around them. Soldiers lined the edges of the square, their muskets slung over their shoulders, their expressions guarded. These were his men—men who had followed him into battle, shared the hardship of the campaign, and now stood as witnesses to his fall.

Ahead, a wooden post had been planted in the center of the yard, its crude design almost mocking in its simplicity. Hendriksen’s lips curled in bitter disdain. “Efficient, aren’t they?” he muttered under his breath.

Maartens ignored the comment, tightening his grip on Hendriksen’s arm as they approached.

The post grew closer, and Hendriksen caught sight of the squad already assembled—a half-dozen soldiers in neat formation, their faces set in expressions that were anything but neutral. He recognized each of them. There was Corporal de Bruin, who had carried the regimental colors at Zeidendijs, and Private Wessels, barely out of boyhood, his trembling hands betraying his nerves. Hendriksen’s gaze lingered on Wessels for a moment, and the young man looked away, shame burning red in his cheeks.

“They’ll shoot me like a dog?” Hendriksen spat, twisting against the hands that restrained him. “By my own men? Have you no shame, Maartens?”

“This isn’t my decision, Colonel,” Maartens replied, his tone measured but cold. “You brought this on yourself.”

“Brought it on myself?” Hendriksen laughed, though there was no humor in it. “A retreat is treason now, is it? I saved what was left of the army, damn you! You’d have us all butchered for the sake of the Chancellor’s pride.”

“Enough,” Maartens snapped, nodding to Veltman. The younger captain moved forward hesitantly, untying a length of rope from his belt.

Hendriksen’s resistance flared again as the rope was forced around his wrists. “Don’t you dare—don’t you dare! I am a soldier of Aubervijr, a servant of the realm! You’ll not bind me like some criminal!”

“Hold him,” Maartens ordered sharply, though the soldiers around him faltered.

For a moment, no one moved. The men closest to Hendriksen shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting to one another. These were men who had fought under him, who had seen his courage firsthand. To raise their hands against him now felt like a betrayal that cut deeper than any battlefield wound.

It was Veltman, his jaw clenched and his movements stiff, who finally stepped in. He caught Hendriksen’s wrist and looped the rope tightly, ignoring the colonel’s struggles. “Forgive me, sir,” Veltman muttered under his breath.

Hendriksen stilled, staring at him with an expression that was equal parts fury and heartbreak. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said bitterly. “You’re just following orders, isn’t that right?”

Veltman averted his gaze, tightening the knot.

Once Hendriksen was secured, Maartens stepped back and nodded toward the squad. “Prepare.”

The soldiers moved hesitantly, their boots splashing in the shallow puddles as they formed a line. Muskets were raised, their barrels catching the faint, watery light of the overcast sky. Hendriksen’s chest heaved as he looked at them, his lips curling in disdain.

“Do any of you understand what you’re doing?” he demanded, his voice rising. “This isn’t justice—it’s murder! You’ll live with this, each and every one of you. When you close your eyes, you’ll see my face.”

The soldiers faltered, glancing at one another. Maartens barked sharply, “Eyes forward! Take your positions!”

Hendriksen turned his attention to the young lieutenant who stood to the side, gripping the execution orders in trembling hands. “Van Gelder,” he called, his voice steady now. “You’re better than this. Send that letter to Harlingen.”

Van Gelder’s face was pale as chalk, his lips moving wordlessly.

“Send it,” Hendriksen pressed, his voice softening. “They have to know the truth. Someone does.”

Van Gelder swallowed hard and nodded.

“Squad, ready!” Maartens’ voice rang out across the courtyard.

The soldiers raised their muskets, their movements mechanical. Wessels’ hands shook as he tried to aim, his knuckles white around the stock. Hendriksen straightened, his bound hands gripping the rough wood of the post behind him.

“You can take my life,” he said, his voice cutting through the rain-soaked air, “but you’ll never take the truth. History will remember me as the man who did his duty, while you lot… you’ll be forgotten.”

“Squad, aim!”

The barrels leveled, and Hendriksen closed his eyes for a brief moment, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint, defiant smile.

“Fire!”

The volley cracked like thunder, reverberating off the cold stone walls. Hendriksen’s body slumped against the post, the force of the musket balls snapping him backward before he hung lifeless, bound by the ropes that had held him upright. A faint trail of smoke curled from the barrels of the muskets, mingling with the drizzle that continued to fall in soft, unrelenting whispers.

For a long moment, no one moved. The courtyard seemed to hold its breath, the execution hanging heavy in the air. The six soldiers of the firing squad stared at their weapons as if unsure what to do with them now. Some turned their eyes downward, their boots shifting in the mud. Others glanced toward the officers, silently begging for orders, for a release from the crushing weight of what they had just done.

Maartens strode forward, his face a mask of cold determination, though his eyes betrayed the tight line of conflict simmering just beneath the surface. He reached Hendriksen’s body and placed a hand on the colonel’s chest. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face before he drew a sharp breath, turned to the men, and said, “It’s done.”

A faint murmur rippled through the gathered soldiers. Some saluted out of habit, though their gestures were stiff, half-hearted. Others turned away entirely, unable to look at the man who had once commanded their respect now lying dead at their hands.

Veltman lingered at the edge of the platform, his shoulders rigid as he watched the executioner cut Hendriksen’s body loose. The lifeless form crumpled into the mud with a sickening thud, and Veltman flinched, a subtle but telling movement.

“He deserved better,” he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible over the rain.

Maartens turned to him sharply. “What was that, Captain?”

Veltman hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Nothing, sir.”

“Good. Then get these men back to their posts,” Maartens snapped, his voice cutting through the tension like a whip. “We’ve wasted enough time here.”

Veltman nodded stiffly and stepped down from the platform, addressing the soldiers with a tone that lacked its usual authority. “You heard the orders. Back to your stations.”

The soldiers dispersed slowly, their movements weighted with reluctance. Wessels, the youngest of the firing squad, fumbled as he tried to return his musket to its sling. His hands trembled violently, and he dropped the weapon into the mud with a sharp clang.

“Leave it, boy,” a grizzled corporal muttered, clapping a hand on Wessels’ shoulder and steering him away.

From across the yard, Van Gelder remained rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on the crumpled body of Hendriksen. The rain had smudged the ink on the letter in his hands, the edges curling as the parchment soaked through. He gripped it tightly, as if afraid to let it go.

Maartens noticed him and approached, his steps measured. “Lieutenant,” he said curtly, snapping Van Gelder out of his trance. “Burn it.”

Van Gelder blinked. “Sir?”

“The letter,” Maartens said, his tone as sharp as the crack of the muskets moments ago. “You’ll burn it.”

For a moment, Van Gelder hesitated, his grip tightening on the soaked parchment. “Colonel Hendriksen wanted it sent to Harlingen,” he said quietly, the words trembling with uncertainty.

“And Colonel Hendriksen is dead,” Maartens replied, his voice hard. “That letter dies with him. Destroy it.”

Van Gelder’s throat tightened, but he nodded mutely. He turned toward a nearby brazier, the flames sputtering under the rain, and held the letter over it. The edges caught quickly, curling black as the flames consumed the words. He let the ashes fall into the coals, his hand lingering over the warmth longer than necessary.

Behind him, Veltman approached, his expression conflicted. “Was that necessary?” he asked Maartens, his voice low enough to avoid carrying.

“You know the answer to that, Captain,” Maartens said, his gaze fixed on the dying flames. “The Chancellor would have had us all hanging beside Hendriksen if anything of his reached Harlingen.”

“And what of the men?” Veltman pressed. “Do you think they’ll forget this? Shooting their own commander?”

“They’ll forget,” Maartens said coldly. “Or they’ll learn to live with it. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The army has its orders, and so do we.”

Veltman’s lips thinned, but he said nothing more. He cast a glance back at the platform, where the executioner was already dragging Hendriksen’s body toward the edge of the yard. The rain had begun to fall harder now, washing the blood into the mud, erasing the physical evidence of what had taken place.

As the officers turned to leave, a faint noise caught their attention—a soldier, one of the younger privates, vomiting violently in the corner of the yard. Veltman paused, his eyes softening, but Maartens waved him forward. “Let him deal with it himself,” he said gruffly.

The two captains walked in silence toward the fortress barracks, their boots squelching in the mud. Veltman finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “If this is how we treat our own men, what kind of army are we?”

Maartens didn’t respond. His expression hardened as they reached the heavy oak doors of the barracks, and he pushed them open with a firm hand.

“An army that survives,” he said simply, stepping inside.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 9

28th of August, 1706
Port of Eemshaven, Faursia
Banks of the Maresdoep Strait
Mid-morning

The port of Eemshaven stretched like a hive of restless industry. The Henricist army, now swelled to 5,500 strong, filled the streets, docks, and encampments with the energy of men on the brink of destiny. Merchants and townsfolk scurried amidst the troops, shouting over one another as carts groaned under the weight of supplies. Children peered cautiously from doorways, their faces caught between awe and fear as the soldiers, in their red and gold tunics, prepared to board the fleet of small but sturdy ships that had been assembled for the crossing.

The ships, painted in faded blues and greens, bobbed in the harbour, their sails furled and masts towering over the water like sentinels. The sea breeze carried the scent of brine, wet wood, and the faint tang of tar from the freshly sealed decks. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries a counterpoint to the grunts of labourers and the clatter of muskets being loaded.

At the heart of the commotion, Hennie Dumonceau paced along the docks, his black boots crunching against the damp wooden planks. He nodded curtly to passing soldiers, offering a few words of encouragement here and there, but his focus was elsewhere. His dark eyes scanned the horizon, lingering on the faint outline of the Aubervijan mainland. Behind him, his commanders assembled near the largest of the ships, a three-masted frigate that would serve as Hennie’s flagship for the crossing.

Folkert Oosterhof was the first to speak, his voice sharp as the breeze that whipped at his dark coat. “I’ve counted the wagons twice, an’ the cannon still aren’t properly secured. If one o’ them rolls free mid-crossin’, we’ll lose men before we even set foot on their soil.”

“See to it, then,” Hennie replied without turning, his tone curt.

Folkert’s lips tightened, but he gave a short nod and stalked off toward the nearest ship. Gosse de Vries watched him go, his expression sour. “Folkert acts as if he’s the only one tae ken a battle’s dangers. But what o’ this plan o’ yours, Hennie? We’ve the men, aye, but we’re marchin’ blind onto foreign soil.”

Hennie spun on his heel to face Gosse, his face set in a hard mask. “I’ll no’ hear this from ye again, Gosse. We’ve won Faursia, an’ the men’ll follow us tae the gates o’ Harlingen if need be. Do ye doubt them, or is it me ye doubt?”

Gosse’s eyes narrowed, but before he could reply, Reinder Wiarda raised a placating hand. “Peace, lads. Ye’ll not raise morale squabblin’ like a pair o’ bairns.” His calm voice cut through the tension like a cool blade. “The men are ready. I’ve seen it in their faces. They’ll fight, an’ they’ll fight well. But what they need is a leader who believes in the cause, nae a command divided by whispers an’ doubts.”

Hennie relaxed slightly but shot Gosse a final glare. “Let’s see that the whispers stop, then.”

As the commanders dispersed to their duties, Hennie lingered by the docks, his hands clasped behind his back. He could hear the distant strains of a soldier’s song rising from the campfires behind the harbour. It was a Faursian tune, one of defiance and pride, but the words carried a weight that Hennie could not ignore:

“We’ve nae land but what we hold, nae king but one tae rise;
We’ve nae rest till tyranny falls an’ freedom lights our skies.”

The voices grew louder, and Hennie felt a flicker of doubt twist in his chest. What if Brouwer did not come? What if the crossing turned into disaster?

“Ye’re thinkin’ too loud,” came a voice at his shoulder.

Hennie turned to see Folkert standing behind him, his arms crossed. “I’ve nae patience for folk second-guessin’ me today, Folkert.”

“Nae second-guessin’, lad,” Folkert said. His voice was softer now, almost reflective. “Just remindin’ ye that the sea has swallowed many a fine man who thought destiny was his tae claim. Remember, Hennie—ye may lead, but ye dinnae march alone. If ye forget that, the Maresdoep’ll be the least o’ yer troubles.”

Hennie said nothing, but the words stayed with him as Folkert walked away.

As the sun climbed higher, the harbour of Eemshaven buzzed with an almost feverish intensity. Soldiers, stripped to their shirtsleeves despite the chill, hefted barrels of gunpowder and sacks of grain onto the rocking ships. Officers barked orders, their voices hoarse from the effort of keeping order among the throng. Hennie watched as a group of young recruits struggled to haul a heavy crate of shot aboard one of the smaller vessels. The crate teetered dangerously, and with a loud crash, it spilled its contents across the pier.

“Mind yerselves, lads!” bellowed a young officer as he strode over, his wiry frame deceptively commanding. He crouched down, scooping up a handful of the scattered shot and fixing the recruits with a stern glare. “Ye’ll no’ get tae Aubervijr droppin’ our powder an’ shot in the sea like fools. Now pick it up, an’ be quick about it.”

The recruits scrambled to obey, their faces reddening under the young man’s sharp gaze. As he turned back toward the flagship, Hennie caught his eye and nodded in approval.

Behind him, Reinder stood with his arms folded, observing the scene with a faint smile. “He’s got a knack for keepin’ the lads in line,” he remarked. “But if only he could do the same wi’ some o’ the officers.”

Hennie let out a short laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Aye, if only.”

Their brief camaraderie was interrupted by Gosse’s sharp voice. “D’ye ken what I’ve just seen?” he said, storming toward them. His face was flushed with frustration, and his thick brows were drawn together in a scowl. “A full wagon o’ powder barrels left sittin’ under the sun, nay a cover tae be seen. If that catches a spark, we’ll light up the whole bloody harbour.”

“Then see it’s dealt wi’, Gosse,” Hennie said, his tone clipped. “I cannae be everywhere at once.”

Gosse bristled. “I’m nae yer quartermaster, Hennie. I’m here tae fight a war, nae babysit fools who cannae mind their own supplies.”

Reinderraised a hand before Hennie could snap back. “Enough, the both o’ ye. We’re all strained. But if we’re tae take the mainland, we’ll need tae act as one. A divided command’ll lose us this war before we’ve fired a shot.”

Hennie looked away, his jaw tight. Gosse muttered something under his breath but stalked off toward the offending wagon, his complaints trailing behind him like smoke.

“It’s nae just the powder that’s volatile,” Reinder said quietly, glancing at Hennie. “Folkert, Gosse—ye’ve got men who could lead armies o’ their own, but they’ll nae follow ye blindly. Ye’ll need tae keep them onside.”

Hennie sighed, rubbing a hand across his brow. “D’ye think I dinnae ken that, Jan? I’ve led this army from the start, through victory an’ defeat alike. I’ve nae time for their petty grievances now.”

“Petty or nay, grievances’ll tear us apart if left untended,” Reinder replied. “An army’s like a ship, Hennie. Ye’ve the helm, aye, but if the crew dinnae row in the same direction, ye’ll founder.”

Before Hennie could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention. Folkert returned, his face set in its usual stoic mask. He carried a piece of parchment in his hand and held it out to Hennie.

“The manifests,” he said. “I’ve checked them twice. We’ve enough powder, shot, and provisions tae last a month, but ye’ll want tae stretch it. If we dinnae secure a foothold early, we’ll be runnin’ lean afore Brouwer even hears we’ve landed.”

Hennie took the parchment, glancing over the tidy script. “Brouwer’ll come,” he said, more to himself than to Folkert.

Folkert tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp. “Ye’ve more faith in men than I do. Faith’s fine for speeches, but it’ll nae fill empty bellies or hold an enemy charge.”

“An’ yet ye’re still here,” Hennie shot back, his tone sharp.

“Aye,” Folkert said, his voice calm but firm. “Because I’ve seen what failure looks like, an’ I’ll be damned if I let this turn tae ashes like the rebellions afore it.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. Reinder glanced between them, his brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

The docks swelled with soldiers, their faces a mix of grim determination and quiet anticipation. A brisk wind stirred the banners atop the masts, the lion of Dumonceau catching the first light of the morning. Among the men, conversations ebbed and flowed like the tide—some spoke of glory, others of dread, but most kept their thoughts to themselves, focusing on the tasks at hand.

A young officer approached Hennie, saluting with the briskness of someone eager to impress. His uniform still bore the creases of its tailoring, the red-and-gold trim vibrant against the dull greys of the docks.

“Sir,” he began, his tone steady. “The last o’ the powder’s aboard, an’ the men’ve been assembled for the final roll call.”

“See to it then,” Hennie replied, nodding curtly. The officer hesitated a moment, then turned on his heel, vanishing into the crowd.

Behind him, the commanders gathered again, drawn by the natural gravity of Hennie’s leadership. Gosse leaned against a stack of barrels, his expression unreadable, while Reinder paced slowly, his eyes darting between the soldiers. Folkert, as ever, stood slightly apart, his posture stiff, his gaze piercing the horizon as if searching for answers in the distance.

Reinder broke the silence first. “The men are ready,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Nae fear in them, only fire. They’ll follow us wherever we lead.”

“Aye, they will,” Gosse said, his tone carrying the faintest edge of doubt. “But it’s nae them I’m worried about. What o’ the Aubervijans? What do we ken o’ their defenses? Their numbers?”

“Enough,” Hennie cut in sharply. “We’ve nae the luxury of knowing every detail. This war’ll be won by strength an’ resolve, nae idle speculation.”

Folkert, arms crossed, spoke without looking at Hennie. “An’ what o’ Brouwer? Strength an’ resolve’ll mean little if we’re outnumbered two tae one.”

“Brouwer’ll come,” Hennie snapped, his voice rising slightly. “He gave his word. Would ye have us sit idle, waiting for his ships while the Aubervijans prepare their own? Every day we delay is a day we risk losing what we’ve already won.”

Folkert turned to face him fully, his expression calm but his words pointed. “I’d have us plan for every outcome. Ye cannae fight a war wi’ faith alone, Hennie. Brouwer’s nae here, an’ we’re the ones who’ll pay the price if he decides tae stay home.”

Before the argument could escalate further, Reinder stepped between them, raising a hand. “Enough,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “The tide’s turning, an’ the fleet’s ready. If there’s any doubt left tae settle, it’ll be done on the other side o’ the strait. For now, we move as one.”

There was a long pause, the air heavy with tension. Finally, Hennie gave a curt nod, turning back toward the fleet. “Get the men aboard,” he said. “We’ve waited long enough.”

As the commanders moved to their tasks, Hennie lingered at the edge of the dock, staring out at the Maresdoep. The water was calm, but the far shore seemed shrouded in an almost unnatural haze. The weight of the moment pressed on him, though he would never let it show. Behind him, the army moved with renewed purpose, the sound of boots and the creak of wood filling the air.

The call to board rang out across the harbour, a series of sharp whistles from the officers accompanied by shouted commands. Soldiers began forming into lines, their packs slung over their shoulders and their muskets held loosely in their hands. The chatter from earlier faded as the enormity of the moment settled over them. The sea loomed large before them now, no longer just a distant horizon but an unavoidable reality.

The ships, though sturdy, groaned and rocked as they were loaded with men and supplies. The smaller vessels filled first, their decks crowded with soldiers pressed shoulder to shoulder. In the deeper waters, the frigate awaited, its broad deck offering just enough space for the Henricist banners to be raised high above the fleet.

Hennie made his way down the pier, nodding to the soldiers as he passed. Many stood silently, their eyes focused ahead. Others exchanged quiet words, their voices low. A few laughed nervously, the sound brittle in the chill air. The officers, stationed along the pier and aboard the ships, barked commands with crisp precision, herding the men into their assigned places.

On the deck of the frigate, Folkert stood with a clipboard in hand, his sharp eyes scanning the lists of supplies. He was flanked by Jan, who leaned on the rail with a faint smile as he watched the men below boarding the smaller ships. Gosse was pacing along the pier, muttering under his breath as he inspected the final wagons being hauled toward the loading ramp.

“Everything in order?” Hennie asked as he approached Folkert.

“Aye, for the most part,” Folkert replied without looking up. “The cannon are aboard, the powder’s secure, and the men seem eager enough. Still, it’s a tight fit—too many men, no’ enough ships. If the wind turns against us, we’ll be crammed together like fish in a barrel.”

“Let’s hope the wind stays with us, then,” Hennie said, though his tone lacked conviction.

From the far side of the pier, Gosse’s voice rang out sharply. “Watch yer step, ye fool! If I see one more crate dropped, I’ll have the lot o’ ye flogged!” He turned toward Hennie, his face dark with frustration. “Ye’d think we were marchin’ children tae a fair, no’ soldiers tae war.”

“Yer concern’s noted, Gosse,” Hennie said dryly. “But unless ye plan tae march yerself tae Aubervijr, I suggest ye focus on gettin’ aboard.”

Gosse muttered something under his breath but moved toward the frigate, his scowl deepening.

Reinder chuckled quietly. “Ye’ve a way wi’ people, Hennie. A rare gift.”

“Rare, indeed,” Hennie said with a smirk, though his eyes betrayed his weariness. He turned to Folkert again. “How long till we’re ready?”

“Another hour, maybe less,” Folkert replied. “The tide’s in our favour, but we’ll need tae be swift. The Aubervijans’ll nae be idle while we’re crossin’.”

“They’ll be ready,” Hennie said firmly. “But so will we.”

As the final supplies were loaded and the men filed aboard, the Henricist banners were raised above each ship, their vibrant colours catching the morning light. The sight drew murmurs of approval from the soldiers, who began to cheer as the last of the boarding calls were made.

Hennie stood at the prow of the frigate, his gaze fixed on the distant shore. Behind him, the commanders gathered, their earlier tensions set aside for the moment. The fleet was ready, the men were aboard, and the tide was turning.

The frigate swayed gently in the harbour as the final crates of supplies were hoisted aboard. Hennie remained at the prow, his hands gripping the rail as he stared out across the Maresdoep. The distant coastline of Aubervijr was shrouded in a pale mist, the faint outlines of hills barely visible against the horizon. Around him, the hum of activity continued, but it felt muted now, like the final breaths before a storm.

Folkert approached, his boots clinking softly against the deck. He stood beside Hennie, arms crossed, and gazed out at the same horizon. For a moment, neither man spoke.

“It’s a fine fleet ye’ve built,” Folkert said at last, his tone neutral. “For all our doubts, it’s no small thing tae see it ready tae sail.”

“Aye,” Hennie replied quietly. “But fine ships an’ eager men are only the beginning. It’s what comes after that’ll decide if this fleet’s remembered in triumph or ruin.”

“Or forgotten entirely,” Folkert muttered, though he said it more to himself than to Hennie.

Hennie glanced at him but chose not to respond. Instead, he turned back toward the pier, where Gosse was barking orders at a group of soldiers who were struggling to haul a heavy crate of ammunition aboard. Reinder stood nearby, his posture relaxed as he supervised the last of the boarding process. Piet was already on one of the smaller ships, moving among the men and checking their equipment with his usual quiet efficiency.

Hennie straightened, his voice carrying above the commotion. “Commanders! Join me aboard the flagship. It’s time.”

Gosse gave a final, sharp order to the soldiers before making his way up the gangplank, muttering under his breath as he did. Reinder followed more casually, stopping briefly to exchange a few words with Piet before climbing aboard. Folkert remained where he was, his eyes scanning the fleet one last time before nodding to himself and stepping back toward the centre of the deck.

When they had all assembled, Hennie turned to address them. The light of the morning sun gleamed off the polished wood of the deck, and the sound of gulls filled the air. “This is it,” he said, his voice firm. “Faursia stands free, an’ now we take the fight tae the enemy’s heart. Across that strait lies the land o’ our oppressors, but it’s no longer their land alone. When we land, we’ll claim it for our cause—for Faursia, an’ for all who seek freedom.”

The commanders stood silent, their expressions varied. Gosse’s brow furrowed slightly, his arms crossed as he listened. Reinder nodded faintly, his face calm but thoughtful. Folkert, as always, remained unreadable, his sharp gaze fixed on Hennie.

Hennie met each of their eyes in turn before continuing. “We’ve faced doubt, aye, an’ we’ll face more. But doubt has nae place here, nae place among us. If Brouwer comes, then we’ll have the strength o’ 8,000 more. But if he doesnae, then we’ll fight wi’ what we’ve got. Because this is our time, our chance tae end what we’ve started. We cannae turn back now.”

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the creak of the ship and the distant cries of the gulls. Then Reinder stepped forward, clapping a hand on Hennie’s shoulder. “The men are ready, an’ so are we,” he said simply. “Let’s get it done.”

Hennie nodded, a faint smile breaking through his tension. “Aye, let’s.”

From the far side of the ship, a sailor called out, “Tide’s turning, sir! Sails are ready!”

Hennie raised his hand, signalling to the smaller vessels. One by one, the sails unfurled, snapping sharply in the wind. The frigate’s own sails followed, catching the breeze as the ship’s anchor was hoisted. A cheer rose from the soldiers aboard the ships, the sound carrying across the water like a battle cry.

The fleet began to move, the oars dipping into the calm waters of the Maresdoep with a steady rhythm. The shoreline of Eemshaven receded slowly, the shouts and bustle of the harbour fading into the distance. On the deck of the frigate, Hennie stood at the prow, his commanders gathered behind him. The horizon ahead seemed endless, with ocean in all directions.

For now, there was unity among them—men bound by a common purpose, their doubts and tensions swept aside by the wind and the promise of what lay ahead.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a golden glow across the waters of the Maresdoep. The fleet sailed on, its sails painted in the warm hues of dusk. The rhythmic creak of oars and the steady crash of waves against the hulls filled the air, punctuated by the occasional shout of a sailor adjusting a line or calling out to another ship. On the smaller vessels, soldiers sat huddled together, their laughter and conversation fading as the first stars began to pierce the darkening sky.

On the frigate’s deck, the mood was quieter. The bustling energy of the departure had given way to a calm that bordered on unease. The soldiers had been sent below deck to rest, their hammocks swaying gently with the movement of the ship. Only a handful of sailors remained above, tending to the rigging and keeping watch as the light waned.

Hennie stood at the prow, his silhouette outlined by the last glimmers of sunlight. His gaze was fixed firmly ahead, though the distant shore of Aubervijr was still invisible in the growing darkness. The wind had picked up slightly, tugging at his coat and filling the sails with a soft, steady whisper.

Behind him, the other commanders gathered near the mainmast, their voices low as they spoke in hushed tones. Reinder leaned casually against a barrel, his broad frame relaxed but his eyes sharp. Gosse sat on a crate, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression unreadable. Folkert stood a little apart, staring out at the water with a look of quiet contemplation. Piet paced slowly back and forth, his boots tapping softly against the wooden deck.

“The men’ve settled for the night,” Reinder said, breaking the silence. “If the sea stays as calm as this, we’ll make good progress.”

“Aye, if the wind holds,” Folkert replied without looking away from the horizon. “But it’ll be days afore we see land, an’ we’ve nae guarantee the Aubervijans’ll let us land easy.”

“They’ve nae fleet tae speak of,” Piet said, stopping his pacing. “If they had, they’d’ve used it by now.”

“Maybe,” Gosse muttered. “Or maybe they’re waitin’. Let us cross the strait an’ tire ourselves out, then strike when we’re weakest.”

Reinder raised an eyebrow. “Ye’d have us see ghosts in every shadow, Gosse. The men’ll tire enough without ye addin’ fear tae the mix.”

“Fear’s a better friend than overconfidence,” Gosse shot back. “An’ ye’d do well tae remember it, Jan.”

“Enough,” Hennie said, his voice cutting through the argument as he turned to face them. The fading light made his features appear sharper, more angular. “We’ve nae time for bickering. The men look tae us for strength. If they see us divided, they’ll start tae doubt, an’ doubt’ll sink us faster than any enemy.”

Folkert shifted his stance, his expression calm but unreadable. “The lad’s right,” he said quietly. “There’ll be plenty o’ time tae argue when we’re ashore.”

“If we make it ashore,” Gosse muttered under his breath, though not quietly enough.

“Ye’ve a sour tongue, Gosse,” Reinder said, his voice light but edged with warning. “If it’s nae the sea ye’re complainin’ about, it’s the cannons, an’ if it’s nae the cannons, it’s Brouwer. What’s left tae gripe about?”

“The fact that we’re marchin’ tae a battlefield wi’out so much as a clear plan,” Gosse snapped. “An’ if ye think Brouwer’ll come, ye’re as daft as Hennie.”

Hennie stepped forward, his jaw tight. “That’s enough. I’ll nae hear another word about Brouwer. He gave his word, an’ until we’ve cause tae think otherwise, I’ll trust him.”

The tension between them hung thick in the air, but it was Folkert who broke the silence. “An’ if he doesnae come?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm. “What then?”

Hennie’s gaze flicked to Folkert, then to each of the others in turn. “Then we fight wi’ what we’ve got,” he said simply. “An’ we win.”

No one replied, but the unspoken doubts lingered in their eyes. One by one, they turned back to the night, their voices falling silent as the first stars began to fill the sky.

The sea grew darker, the waters reflecting the faint light of the crescent moon. The fleet sailed on, its sails ghostly white in the dim light. The commanders remained on deck, each lost in his own thoughts, the quiet of the night broken only by the steady creak of the ship and the distant murmur of waves.

As the hours stretched on, the chill deepened, and a thin mist began to settle over the water. Hennie remained at the prow, his hands gripping the railing as he stared out into the darkness. Behind him, the faint murmurs of his commanders carried on the breeze, but he paid them no mind. His thoughts were elsewhere—on the shore that lay ahead, the battles to come, and the weight of the hopes resting on his shoulders.

The fleet sailed on into the deepening night, the faint glow of the crescent moon casting a silvery sheen across the calm waters. The sails above swelled with the steady breeze, their soft creaks blending with the rhythm of the oars dipping into the sea. The Maresdoep stretched endlessly around them, its surface smooth and black as obsidian, interrupted only by the ripple of the ships cutting through its depths.

On the deck of the frigate, the commanders remained scattered, each man a shadow against the dim light. The soldiers below deck had fallen quiet, the steady sway of the ship lulling many into uneasy sleep. The occasional clatter of a musket shifting in its rack or the soft murmur of a dreamer carried up through the wooden boards, blending with the low hum of the sea.

Hennie had not moved from the prow. His fingers tapped lightly against the railing as his eyes remained fixed on the horizon, though there was little to see beyond the faint outlines of the ships ahead and the stars above. His thoughts churned like the waters below—Brouwer, the Aubervijans, the men who trusted him to lead them into a war that felt both inevitable and impossible.

Behind him, Folkert and Reinder stood side by side near the mainmast, speaking quietly. Reinder had a flask in hand, which he offered to Folkert with a slight tilt of his head.

“Go on, take a draught,” Reinder said with a faint smile. “The sea’s colder than I expected.”

Folkert hesitated for a moment before taking the flask. He drank quickly, the faint sound of liquid sloshing audible in the stillness, then handed it back. “Aye, colder than I’d like,” he admitted. “But the cold’s the least of our worries.”

Reinder leaned against the mast, studying Folkert’s face. “Ye’ve been watching Hennie all night. What is it ye’re thinking?”

Folkert’s gaze flicked toward the prow, where Hennie stood unmoving. “I’m thinkin’ he’s carryin’ too much weight on his shoulders. He’s led us this far, aye, but there’s nae guarantee the lad can see it through.”

“Ye think he’ll fail?” Reinder asked, his tone curious rather than accusatory.

“I think he’s young,” Folkert replied. “Young an’ ambitious. That’s a dangerous mix, especially when we’ve nae room for mistakes.”

Reinder chuckled softly, though there was little humour in it. “Ye’ve got nae love for the lad, do ye?”

“It’s nae about love,” Folkert said evenly. “It’s about what’s needed. Hennie’s got fire in him, aye, but fire burns out quick if ye dinnae keep it in check. An’ I’ve nae seen him take kindly tae checks.”

Reinder nodded slowly, his gaze shifting to the stars above. “Maybe so. But I’ll tell ye this—there’s nae other man the men’d follow like they do him. He speaks, an’ they listen. That’s rare, Folkert. Rare an’ precious. If it takes a bit o’ ambition tae win this fight, I’ll take it.”

Folkert said nothing, his expression unreadable. He turned back toward the horizon, his arms crossed tightly against the chill.

Further aft, Gosse sat hunched on a crate, his arms folded and his brow furrowed. He muttered to himself, the words indistinct but clearly laced with frustration. Piet, pacing near the railing, paused and glanced at him.

“Yer mood’s fouler than the bilges, Gosse,” Piet said lightly. “What’s eatin’ at ye now?”

Gosse looked up, his scowl deepening. “Everything,” he said bluntly. “The sea, the ships, the plan—if ye can call it that. It’s all madness. Marchin’ into the lion’s den wi’out so much as a shield.”

Piet shrugged, leaning casually against the rail. “An’ yet here we are. Ye may gripe all ye like, but it’ll nae change what’s ahead.”

“Ye’d do well tae gripe yerself, Piet,” Gosse shot back. “Might remind ye that there’s more tae this than blind faith in Hennie’s dreams.”

“Maybe,” Piet replied, his tone unbothered. “But I’ve followed worse dreams than this, Gosse. If there’s a chance—just a chance—that we can finish what we’ve started, I’ll take it.”

Gosse snorted but said nothing more, turning his gaze to the dark waters below.

Meanwhile, Hennie remained at the prow, his thoughts interrupted by the soft sound of boots approaching. He turned slightly to see Folkert standing a few paces behind him, his face shadowed in the dim light.

“Ye’ve nae slept,” Folkert said, more an observation than a question.

“Neither have ye,” Hennie replied, his voice quiet but firm.

“Aye, but I’ve less on my mind,” Folkert said, stepping closer. He rested a hand on the railing, his eyes scanning the horizon. “I’ll nae tell ye how tae lead, Hennie. But I’ll tell ye this—ye’ll need tae trust more than yer own fire if we’re tae make this work.”

Hennie looked at him, his expression guarded. “An’ who would ye have me trust, Folkert? The man who doubts every word I say? Or the one who’d turn this fleet back tae Faursia if I let him?”

Folkert met his gaze evenly. “Trust those who see the whole picture, even if it’s nae the one ye’d like tae paint.”

The two men stood in silence for a long moment, the creak of the ship and the faint whispers of the sea filling the space between them.

“I’ll take yer advice for what it’s worth,” Hennie said finally, his tone clipped. “But the picture’s mine tae paint, Folkert. An’ I’ll paint it as I see fit.”

Folkert gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable. “Then I hope ye’ve got steady hands, Hennie. The canvas ahead’s a tricky one.”

With that, Folkert stepped back, retreating into the shadows of the deck. Hennie watched him go, his jaw tightening. The man’s words had a way of digging under his skin, not because they were insubordinate, but because they often held more truth than he cared to admit.

He turned back to the horizon, gripping the rail tightly as he tried to push the doubts from his mind. Ahead, the Maresdoep stretched on, vast and impenetrable in the moonlight. The other ships of the fleet were dark shapes on the water, their sails faintly illuminated by the soft glow of the stars.

Behind him, the murmured conversations of the commanders had faded. Gosse remained seated on his crate, his scowl softened slightly as the chill of the night seemed to cool even his temper. Piet had resumed his pacing, his movements slower now, as though the rhythm of the sea had seeped into his bones. Reinder leaned against the mainmast, his eyes half-closed but still watchful, while Folkert stood alone near the stern, his gaze fixed on the distant shadows of the smaller ships trailing behind.

The frigate swayed gently beneath their feet, the steady creak of the timbers a reminder of their fragile existence upon the vast, unyielding sea. The fleet had made good progress through the day, but there were still hundreds of miles ahead before they would even glimpse the shores of Aubervijr. The journey would be long, and though the wind had been kind so far, there was no guarantee it would remain so.

As the night deepened, Hennie finally stepped away from the prow, his boots thudding softly against the deck as he approached the commanders. They turned to him in unison, their postures straightening slightly despite the hour.

“We’ve a long way yet,” Hennie said, his voice low but firm. “Get what rest ye can. We’ll need clear heads an’ strong hands in the days ahead.”

Reinder nodded, pushing himself off the mast with a faint smile. “Aye, rest’ll do us good. But ye should take yer own advice, Hennie. Ye’ll nae lead wi’ an empty tankard.”

Hennie let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. “I’ll rest when we’ve landed.”

“Or when ye keel over,” Piet added with a wry grin. “Whichever comes first.”

The faint humour broke some of the tension, but Folkert’s voice cut through it like a blade. “He’s right, though. Ye’ll nae do us any good if ye’re too tired tae see what’s in front o’ ye.”

Hennie met his gaze, his expression hardening slightly. “I see plenty, Folkert. Enough tae ken we’ve nae room for delays. If ye’re finished lecturin’, I’ll see ye in the morn.”

Without waiting for a reply, Hennie turned and descended into the captain’s quarters below, leaving the others to the quiet of the deck.

For a while, none of the commanders spoke. The night stretched around them, vast and heavy, the sea lapping softly against the hull. Gosse broke the silence first, his voice low and gruff. “He’s pushin’ too hard.”

“Aye,” Folkert replied, his tone thoughtful. “But pushin’s all he kens. It’s what’s kept him alive this long.”

“An’ what’ll break him if he’s nae careful,” Reinder said, his voice unusually serious. “The lad’s got fire, aye, but even fire burns out if it’s nae tended.”

Piet shook his head, leaning on the rail. “He’ll learn. He’s stubborn, aye, but he’s nae fool. He’ll see what he needs tae see when the time comes.”

Folkert gave a short, quiet laugh. “For all our sakes, I hope ye’re right.”

The commanders fell silent again, each man lost in his own thoughts. Overhead, the stars glittered in the dark sky, their cold light reflected in the endless black of the Maresdoep. The fleet sailed on, its ships moving as one through the vast and indifferent sea, their sails full with the wind of a fate none of them could yet see.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 10

30th of August, 1706
Maresdoep Strait
Near the Aubervijan Coast
Early-morning

The Maresdoep stretched endlessly before the Henricist fleet, a vast expanse of restless waters that seemed to blur into the pale-grey sky. The ships moved steadily, their sails catching the cold wind as oars dipped and rose in measured rhythm. The morning air was sharp and damp, heavy with the scent of brine. Soldiers crowded the decks, their faces pale and drawn as the waves rolled gently beneath them.

Hennie Dumonceau stood at the prow of the flagship, his coat buttoned tightly against the chill. His light curls fluttered in the breeze, his hand gripping the rail as if to steady himself against the weight of the moment. The sea stretched out before him, grey and unbroken, its vastness reflecting the silence that had settled over the fleet.

Behind him, the commanders gathered in small clusters, their voices low and tense. The mood was sombre, weighed down by the knowledge of what lay ahead. They had been at sea for a day and a half, and though the mainland of Aubervijr still lay beyond the horizon, the tension among them was already fraying at the edges.

Peter Bijlsma was the first to approach, his boots striking the deck in a deliberate rhythm. The adjutant-general’s calm presence had always been a steadying force in the campaign, but even he looked uneasy as he joined Hennie at the rail.

“Nae sight o’ them yet,” Peter said, his voice low. “It’s a strange thing, this silence. The men’re feeling it.”

Hennie didn’t turn to look at him, his gaze fixed on the empty sea ahead. “They’ll feel it more when the cliffs rise tae meet us,” he replied. “Let them sit wi’ it for now. Fear sharpens a man.”

Peter folded his arms, his eyes narrowing as he studied Hennie’s profile. “Aye, but too much dulls him. Ye ken that as well as I do.”

Hennie’s grip on the rail tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he cast a glance over his shoulder at the deck behind them, where soldiers moved restlessly in small groups, murmuring quietly or staring out at the endless waves. The faint clang of boots and muskets punctuated the silence, but the usual banter was absent.

“Peter,” Hennie said finally, his voice quieter now, “how long do ye think it’ll take tae unload? Five thousand men, supplies, cannon…”

“Hours, if nae longer,” Peter replied. “It’ll be a bloody mess, even wi’ calm waters. If they’re waitin’ for us tae flounder, the beach’ll be the place for it.”

Hennie nodded, his jaw tightening. “Then we’ll make it work. Get the officers moving. Let the men ken the plan—keep them busy.”

Peter hesitated, his eyes searching Hennie’s face. “An’ what about the cliffs? If there’s cannon up there—”

“They’d’ve fired by now,” Hennie interrupted sharply. “They’re nae fools. If they’ve let us come this far, it’s because they think they’ve already won.”

Before Peter could respond, the sound of heavy boots approached from the quarterdeck. Folkert Oosterhof stepped into view, his sharp eyes fixed on the horizon as he strode toward them. His coat billowed slightly in the breeze, and the set of his jaw betrayed his usual mix of irritation and scepticism.

“Five thousand men tae land, an’ we’ve nae sight o’ the enemy,” Folkert said without preamble. “It’s a bloody invitation, if ye ask me. An’ invitations like this dinnae come wi’out strings.”

Peter bristled, his voice cold. “An’ what would ye have us do, Oosterhof? Sit in the middle o’ the Maresdoep till the tide turns?”

“I’d have us nae charge blind intae a trap,” Folkert shot back. “We’ve nae scouts ahead, nae cannon ready tae fire back. If the cliffs’re armed, we’re nae landing an army—we’re landin’ corpses.”

Hennie turned to face them both, his eyes flashing. “Enough. We’ve heard yer concerns, Folkert, an’ they’ve been noted. But we’ll nae turn back now.”

Folkert’s lips curled in a faint sneer. “Concerns, aye. But if they’ve cannon up there, yer ‘noting’ them’ll dae little good when they tear us tae ribbons.”

“An’ if they dinnae?” Peter cut in sharply. “What then? D’ye suggest we sit an’ wait for the gods tae decide our fate? If ye’ve another plan, I’ve yet tae hear it.”

Folkert’s glare shifted to Peter, but before he could respond, a new voice interrupted.

“This bickerin’ serves nae purpose,” said Reinder Wiarda as he joined the group. His calm tone carried an edge of impatience. “The men’re watchin’, an’ the last thing they need tae see is their commanders snappin’ at each other like bairns.”

Hennie sighed, dragging a hand across his brow. “Reinder’s right. Enough talk. Peter, Folkert—get tae yer posts. We’ll reach the cliffs soon, an’ I want us ready tae land.”

The two men exchanged a final glare before stepping away, their boots clacking against the deck as they returned to their duties. Reinder lingered a moment longer, his gaze thoughtful as he studied Hennie.

“They’re nae wrong tae question it, ye ken,” he said quietly. “The cliffs’re too quiet.”

“Aye,” Hennie replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “But we’ve nae time for doubts, Reinder. We’ve come too far for that.”

The fleet pressed on, carving a steady path through the vast waters of the Maresdoep. The horizon remained an empty stretch of grey-blue, Aubervijr’s coastline still hidden beneath the haze. Every stroke of the oars and every groan of the timbers added to the weight of the journey, the tension climbing with every passing hour.

Soldiers huddled along the decks of the ships, clutching their muskets or leaning on their packs. A few whispered prayers, while others sat in strained silence, their eyes flicking between the distant horizon and the commanders above. The stillness of the sea and sky gnawed at them, fraying nerves already worn thin by weeks of preparation.

Hennie Dumonceau paced the length of the flagship’s deck, his boots striking the wood in a steady rhythm. He paused occasionally to cast a glance toward the horizon, his brows furrowed. The air carried a chill that cut through even his heavy coat, but he barely noticed it. His focus was elsewhere—on the growing silence among the men, the weight of their unspoken doubts.

Peter Bijlsma returned from the far side of the ship, his step brisk as he joined Hennie near the prow. He carried himself with his usual confidence, though there was a tightness around his eyes that betrayed his concern.

“The lads’re restless,” Peter said without preamble. “The quiet’s eatin’ at them, an’ the arguments below deck dinnae help. It’s a powder keg waitin’ tae go.”

“They’ll hold,” Hennie replied, his voice firm. “They’ve held this far.”

“Aye,” Peter agreed. “But it’ll nae take much tae set them off. The cliffs’ll need tae show soon, or ye’ll have more than Folkert tae argue wi’.”

Hennie nodded, but before he could respond, the sound of boots on wood drew their attention. Gosse de Vries approached, his expression grim as always. He glanced between the two of them, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“We’ve another problem,” Gosse said, his voice low but steady. “The Highlanders’re startin’ tae question the loadin’. They’ve nae patience for waitin’, an’ they’re claimin’ it’s takin’ too long tae get their cannon positioned.”

Peter scoffed. “Let them question it. They’ve nae mind for logistics, Gosse. Their role’s tae fight, nae tae lead.”

“That’s a bold claim, comin’ from a man who’s nae lifted a barrel o’ powder in months,” Gosse shot back. “If ye’d spend half as much time with them as ye dae barking orders, ye’d ken why they’re uneasy.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, but Hennie raised a hand before the argument could escalate. “Enough. The Highlanders’ll settle once they’ve sight o’ the shore. Until then, we hold them steady. Gosse, see tae it.”

Gosse gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, his muttering audible even as he walked away. Peter shook his head, his expression tight.

“He’s nae wrong,” Peter admitted reluctantly. “But it’s nae an easy thing tae balance. The Highlanders’ve nae patience for the drill an’ order we’ve tried tae instill.”

“They’ll learn,” Hennie said sharply. “Or they’ll fall behind.”

Peter’s gaze lingered on Hennie for a moment before he nodded and stepped away. Hennie turned back to the rail, exhaling slowly as he scanned the horizon again.

The hours dragged on. The mainland remained hidden, and the fleet’s pace, though steady, began to feel agonisingly slow. The commanders took turns moving between the ships, their voices carrying across the water as they issued orders and calmed the men.

Reinder Wiarda crossed to the flagship, his presence cutting through the tension like a blade. He moved to Hennie’s side, his musket slung over his shoulder and his expression calm but watchful.

“Still nae sign o’ them,” Reinder said quietly. “It’s a strange thing, tae be this far wi’out a glimpse o’ what’s tae come.”

“Aye,” Hennie replied. “But it’s comin’. Ye ken as well as I dae, Reinder—this isnae the kind o’ quiet that lasts.”

Reinder nodded slowly, his gaze shifting to the restless soldiers below. “Ye’ll need tae be careful, Hennie. Folkert’s already stirrin’ the pot, an’ Gosse’s nae far behind. If they start tae pull in different directions…”

“They won’t,” Hennie interrupted. “I’ll see tae it.”

Reinder hesitated, then said, “See tae it quick, then. They’re nae the only ones watchin’. The men’ll take their lead from what they see up here.”

As Reinder moved away, Folkert Oosterhof stepped forward, his coat snapping in the wind. He joined Hennie near the rail, his eyes sharp as they fixed on the horizon.

“We’ve been on this bloody sea too long,” Folkert said bluntly. “If the cliffs dinnae show soon, the men’ll start tae wonder if we’ve led them tae naught.”

“They’ll show,” Hennie said, his tone firm. “An’ when they dae, we’ll be ready.”

Folkert let out a low laugh, the sound devoid of humour. “Ready, aye. But for what? Five thousand men’s a fine number, but nae when they’re spread thin on a beach wi’ nae cover.”

“They’ll be fine,” Hennie replied, though there was a flicker of unease in his voice. “Ye’ve trained them yerself, Folkert. Or dae ye doubt yer own work?”

Folkert’s expression darkened. “I doubt plenty, Hennie. But it’s nae my own work I’m worried about—it’s the mess that comes when plans fall apart.”

The two men stood in silence for a long moment, the tension between them unspoken but palpable. Finally, Hennie turned away, his jaw tight.

“Signal the ships,” he said to a nearby officer. “We press on.”

As the flag rose above the flagship, the fleet adjusted its course, oars dipping in unison as the ships pressed forward.

And then, fainlty, the pale white cliffs of Aubervijr rose slowly from the haze, pale and jagged against the faint glow of the late morning sky. The sight drew murmurs from the soldiers crowded on the decks, their unease shifting to quiet anticipation. The mainland was no longer an abstract idea—it was real, sharp, and looming ever closer. The fleet’s oars cut steadily through the water, the rhythm unwavering as the commanders moved among their men.

Hennie Dumonceau’s eyes remained fixed on the cliffs, his grip on the rail tightening. The sight should have brought relief, but instead, it only deepened the tension gnawing at him. The shore was empty—no banners, no watchfires, no sign of movement. It was as if Aubervijr had turned its back on them entirely, and that absence was more unsettling than an army on the beach would have been.

Peter Bijlsma returned to Hennie’s side, his boots striking the deck with familiar purpose. His voice was low, meant only for Hennie’s ears. “That’s it, then. We’re close enough tae see their shadows, an’ yet there’s naught tae see.”

“They’re waitin’,” Hennie said quietly. “Either they’ve nae force tae meet us, or they’ve a reason tae hide. Either way, we’ll land. Signal the men tae prepare.”

Peter nodded, his expression calm despite the weight of the moment. “The men’re restless, but they’ll move when called. They’ve faith in ye, Hennie. Dinnae forget that.”

Before Hennie could reply, Gosse de Vries strode up, his heavy boots thudding against the deck. The colonel’s face was flushed, his brows knitted in frustration. “We’ve nae seen hide nor hair o’ them, an’ ye mean tae press ahead?”

“Aye,” Hennie replied, his voice clipped. “The shore’s ours till they claim it otherwise. An’ if ye’ve a better idea, Gosse, now’s the time tae speak.”

Gosse exhaled sharply, running a hand through his greying hair. “It’s nae the landin’ that bothers me—it’s the mess that comes after. Five thousand men tae unload, an’ nae guarantee we’ll hold the beach.”

Peter’s voice cut in, cold and firm. “We’ll hold it, De Vries. Ye’ve seen tae the organisation yerself. Or have ye doubts about yer own work?”

“Doubts, aye,” Gosse snapped. “Because I’ve nae love for the chaos that comes wi’ landin’ an army under uncertain skies.”

“Then mind yer role,” Peter said sharply. “Quartermaster general’s a fine title, but it’ll mean little if ye keep stokin’ fear in the ranks.”

Before Gosse could retort, Reinder Wiarda approached, his musket slung over his shoulder and his expression unreadable. “The men’re ready,” he said calmly, his voice cutting through the rising argument. “They’ve seen the cliffs, an’ they’ll follow. But they’re watchin’ us. If we falter now, they’ll feel it.”

Hennie glanced at him, his tone softening slightly. “They’ll see what needs seein’. An’ they’ll land as planned.”

The commanders fell silent, their gazes shifting back toward the cliffs. The fleet’s pace slowed as the waters shallowed, the oars pulling with less force. The ships began to drift into position, their sails furled and anchors ready to drop.

From the quarterdeck, Folkert Oosterhof’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “Lower the boats! Have the cannon ready tae move! If we’re tae land, we’ll do it wi’ precision!”

Hennie turned toward him, his voice carrying over the bustle. “See tae it, Oosterhof. An’ mind the pace—we’ve nae need tae rush.”

Folkert’s lips twitched in what might have been a smirk. “Aye, but we’ve nae time tae waste, either.”

As boats were lowered into the water, the soldiers began their descent, climbing carefully down the ropes to avoid tipping the delicate craft. The boats rocked precariously as soldiers climbed down from the ships, their boots scraping against the damp wood. Muskets and powder bags were passed hand-to-hand, crates of ammunition carefully lowered by ropes that groaned under the strain. Each movement was deliberate, each step slow, as the men adjusted to the unfamiliar sway of the boats.

The process was painstaking, and the tension only deepened as the minutes dragged on. Orders barked from the commanders echoed across the water, but the soldiers responded in muted silence, their focus on balancing themselves in the crowded boats. Above them, the larger ships creaked and groaned as supplies continued to descend.

On the frigate, Hennie Dumonceau kept his gaze on the cliffs, though his mind was acutely aware of the chaos unfolding behind him. Every delay, every misstep, felt amplified. He clenched his jaw, willing the process to move faster, though he knew better than to show impatience.

Reinder Wiarda stepped up beside him, his musket resting on his shoulder. “It’s slow work,” he said quietly, his eyes on the boats below. “Slower than we’d like. But they’ll get it done.”

“They’d best,” Hennie replied, his tone sharp. “The cliffs’ll nae wait forever.”

Reinder’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “They’ve waited this long. I doubt they’ll move unless we give them reason.”

Hennie didn’t reply, his fingers tightening on the rail. Behind them, Peter Bijlsma and Gosse de Vries were deep in discussion, their voices low but edged with tension.

“The Highlanders’re nae happy wi’ the order o’ things,” Gosse was saying. “They’re grumblin’ about the loadin’—claim it’s takin’ too long tae get the cannon down.”

Peter’s expression was cold. “Let them grumble. They’re here tae fight, no’ tae plan. If they’ve complaints, they can take them tae Hennie.”

“Aye,” Gosse muttered. “But their grumblin’s catchin’. The last thing we need’s a mutterin’ army.”

Peter shot him a sharp look. “Then silence it. The men’ll follow if they see strength above. Let them see ye work, no’ worry.”

Nearby, Folkert Oosterhof was overseeing the lowering of another boat, his sharp commands cutting through the noise. His coat billowed in the wind as he moved along the deck, pointing out flaws in the rigging and snapping at sailors who fumbled the ropes.

“Careful wi’ that barrel!” he barked, his voice rising over the creak of wood. “If it goes overboard, ye’ll go in after it!”

One of the younger soldiers flinched at the tone, his hands trembling as he steadied the rope. Folkert’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer. “If yer hands’re nae steady now, lad, they’ll nae be steady when the bullets fly. Get it right or yer useless to us.”

Hennie turned at the commotion, his voice cutting through the tension. “Enough, Oosterhof. The lad’s working. Let him do it wi’out yer breath on his neck.”

Folkert’s gaze flicked to Hennie, his jaw tightening. “Ye’ve a mind tae see us on that beach, aye? Then let me see tae it my way.”

“We’ll land wi’out chaos,” Hennie replied firmly. “An’ we’ll dae it wi’ the men’s heads steady. Ye’ve a job tae dae, Folkert, an’ it’s nae tae unsettle them.”

Folkert’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, his tone clipped. “Aye, as ye say.”

As Folkert turned away, Peter Bijlsma stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Hennie could hear. “Ye’ve a fire in him, Hennie, but it burns wild. If ye pull the reins too tight, it’ll break.”

“Then let it,” Hennie said sharply, his eyes flicking toward Folkert’s retreating figure. “But I’ll nae have him underminin’ us. We’ve come too far tae falter now.”

Peter didn’t reply, though his expression betrayed a flicker of unease. Instead, he turned back to oversee the next wave of boats being prepared. The soldiers on deck moved quickly but cautiously, their movements deliberate as they lowered barrels of powder and crates of shot into the waiting craft.

Below, the first wave of soldiers was already ashore. The beach was a flurry of activity as men scrambled to unload supplies and establish a defensive line. The Henricist banners snapped in the breeze, their vivid colours defiant against the muted tones of the cliffs. Folkert moved among the men, barking orders as they positioned themselves at the base of the rocky outcrops.

From the flagship, Hennie could see the second wave of boats setting out, their oars churning the shallow waters as they approached the sand. The process was slow and arduous, every movement feeling heavier under the weight of anticipation. The cliffs above remained silent, the enemy’s absence unnerving even the most seasoned soldiers.

“Powder barrels secured,” Gosse de Vries called as he approached Hennie and Peter. His tone was brisk, but his brow furrowed as he added, “But the Highlanders’re stirrin’. They’re nae happy wi’ the delay.”

“They’re never happy,” Peter muttered. “Tell them tae keep their swords sharp an’ their mouths shut. They’ll move when called.”

“They’ll move,” Gosse replied, though his voice carried a note of warning. “But they’re nae blind. If they think this landin’s mismanaged, they’ll grumble tae the point o’ underminin’ us.”

Hennie straightened, his tone cutting through the conversation. “Then they’ll see it done right. Gosse, get back tae the supplies. I’ll nae lose another hour tae arguments.”

Gosse gave a curt nod and turned back toward the ropes, his grumbling barely audible as he strode away. Peter glanced at Hennie, his voice low. “Ye’re pushin’ them hard.”

“They need it,” Hennie replied, his eyes fixed on the beach. “Hard men survive. Doubt kills.”

As the second wave of boats neared the shore, another voice joined the fray. Sietse Ouwehand climbed aboard the flagship from a nearby vessel, his weathered face set in a grim expression. His boots thudded against the deck as he approached, his sharp gaze flicking between Hennie and Peter.

“I’ve seen slower landin’s, but nae by much,” Sietse said. “The lads’re workin’, aye, but they’re nae machines. An’ those cliffs…” He gestured toward the jagged rocks rising above the beach. “If there’s cannon up there, we’re sittin’ ducks.”

“We’ve heard it before,” Peter replied tersely. “If ye’ve suggestions tae speed the process, we’re all ears.”

Sietse’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his tone steady. “Ye’ve too many chiefs an’ nae enough hands. Folkert’s pullin’ in one direction, De Vries in another. The lads feel it. Ye’ll lose control if ye dinnae settle it.”

Hennie stepped forward, his voice firm. “It’s settled. This landin’ will hold, an’ the men’ll see it done. If they’ve doubts, they’ll speak them tae me.”

Sietse held his gaze for a moment before nodding slowly. “Aye, lad. But remember this—ye’re nae leadin’ an army. Ye’re leadin’ men. Men wi’ doubts, fears, an’ families back home. Keep them movin’, but dinnae drive them tae break.”

With that, Sietse turned and moved toward the ropes, helping secure the next round of supplies. Hennie exhaled sharply, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

Reinder Wiarda appeared at his side, his musket slung over his shoulder. “The men’ve seen the cliffs now,” he said quietly. “It’s stirrin’ them more than the waves.”

“Let them stir,” Hennie replied. “It’ll sharpen them when the time comes.”

“Or dull them,” Reinder countered. “Fear’s a blade that cuts both ways.”

The two men stood in silence for a moment, watching as the third wave of boats prepared to leave the flagship. The beach was filling with activity now, the pickets forming ranks at the base of the cliffs while supply crates piled up along the sand.

The landing continued with steady precision, the beach growing busier as wave after wave of boats reached the shore. The soldiers leapt from the boats as they hit the sand, their boots sinking into the soft ground as they hurried to form ranks. Supplies were unloaded next—barrels of powder, crates of shot, and small cannon—all carefully maneuvered onto the beach under the watchful eyes of the commanders. The silence from the cliffs remained unbroken, the lack of resistance pressing on every man like a weight they couldn’t shake.

From the flagship, Hennie Dumonceau watched the process unfold. The sea breeze whipped at his coat, and though his expression was calm, his mind churned with the enormity of the task. 5,500 men. 5,500 lives relying on this landing to go smoothly. Each step forward, each crate moved, brought them closer to solidifying their position—but also closer to the moment when the enemy might appear.

Reinder Wiarda stood beside him, his musket slung over his back. “It’s nae much o’ a defence yet,” he said quietly, his eyes on the beach. “But they’re workin’. The lines’re startin’ tae take shape.”

“Aye,” Hennie replied, his voice low. “But they’ll nae feel safe till it’s done. Nor will I.”

Reinder nodded, his gaze shifting to the cliffs. “Still nae sign o’ them. If they’re watchin’, they’re quiet about it.”

“They’re watchin’,” Hennie said, his tone certain. “They’ve seen us. But whether it’s fear or arrogance keepin’ them still, I cannae say.”

Below, Folkert Oosterhof moved briskly along the shoreline, his voice rising above the din of the unloading. “Keep the powder away from the water! An’ get those cannon set before ye stack the shot—do it right the first time!”

The soldiers obeyed without hesitation, though their movements were slow under the weight of the supplies. The waves lapped at the shore, threatening to swallow crates and barrels left too close to the water’s edge. Folkert’s sharp eye caught every misstep, and he barked orders until the beach began to take the shape of a makeshift supply depot.

On the far side of the sand, Gosse de Vries oversaw the positioning of the Highlander levies. The tall colonel moved among the men with a steady gait, his gruff voice guiding them into their lines. The Highlanders muttered among themselves, their broad swords gleaming in the sunlight, but they fell into place without argument. Despite their rough appearance, they looked ready—restless, even—for the fight to come.

Peter Bijlsma approached Hennie on the flagship, his steps quick and measured. “The boats’ve brought down the first cannon,” he reported. “De Vries has the Highlanders set on the left, an’ the musket lines’re fillin’ the centre. We’ll hold if they come, Hennie.”

“They won’t come,” Hennie replied, his eyes narrowing. “They’ve had every chance, an’ still they’ve done naught. If they’re nae here now, they’ll be beyond the cliffs, waitin’.”

Peter frowned, but nodded. “An’ if they’re waitin’, they’ll find us ready.”

As the last of the smaller boats left the flagship, another figure stepped into view. Sietse Ouwehand climbed back aboard, his weathered face creased with a scowl. He walked up to Hennie and Peter, his boots striking the deck with deliberate force.

“The beach’s comin’ tae order,” Sietse said, his tone gruff. “But it’s slow work. The Highlanders’ve been eyein’ Burmania’s lads, an’ they’re nae happy tae be takin’ orders from a latecomer.”

Hennie’s brow furrowed. “Burmania’ll take his place like any other officer. If they’ve complaints, they can bring them tae me.”

Sietse’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Aye, but the Highlanders dinnae take kindly tae new blood. Especially nae blood they dinnae trust.”

Peter interjected before Hennie could respond. “The Highlanders’ll fight when it matters. Let them grumble for now. It’ll pass once they’ve a common enemy.”

“They’ve a common enemy already,” Sietse said dryly, his gaze flicking toward the cliffs. “But the cliffs’ll nae shout back when they curse.”

Hennie stepped forward, his voice firm. “It’s nae the cliffs they’ll fight. It’s what’s beyond them. An’ I’ll nae have this army divided before it’s marched a step inland.”

Sietse held his gaze for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “Aye, lad. Just mind yer lines.”

As Sietse walked away, Peter exhaled softly. “He’s right, ye ken. The Highlanders’re nae used tae Burmania’s kind. It’ll take time tae settle them.”

“They’ll have tae settle fast,” Hennie replied. “This beach is ours, but the fight’s beyond it. An’ they’ll follow where I lead.”

On the sand, the final wave of boats had landed, bringing the last of the supplies and soldiers ashore. The Henricist banners flew high over the beach, their colours a defiant statement against the silent cliffs above. Cannon were being positioned, their wheels creaking as soldiers hauled them into place. The pickets stood in disciplined lines, their muskets gleaming faintly in the sunlight.

Folkert’s voice rang out from the centre of the beach. “Get the lines tighter! If they come, we’ll nae leave gaps for them tae break through!”

From the left flank, Gosse called back. “The Highlanders’re ready! If they’ve tae fight, they’ll fight!”

The beach was alive with activity, but it was the silence beyond that held everyone’s attention. The cliffs remained empty, the shadows long and still in the fading light. For all the noise of the landing, the enemy had not shown themselves.

Reinder rejoined Hennie on the shoreline, his musket slung across his back. “It’s done,” he said simply. “The beach is ours.”

Hennie nodded slowly, his gaze shifting toward the cliffs. “Aye. But the fight’s yet tae come.”

The soldiers had now formed their tight ranks along the sand as the boats returned to the fleet. Cannon wheels groaned as teams of men dragged them into rough firing positions near the base of the cliffs, the barrels aimed upward in a gesture of readiness. The beach had come to life in a flurry of controlled chaos, but for all the noise and effort, the cliffs loomed above like a silent judge, their stillness unnerving.

Hennie Dumonceau stepped down from the flagship, his boots crunching against the sand as he joined the other commanders near the centre of the beach. His sword hung at his side, its hilt catching the sunlight as he surveyed the scene. The banners of Dumonceau fluttered in the breeze, vivid against the pale sky, but Hennie’s eyes were fixed on the cliffs.

“We cannae stay here long,” he said, his voice cutting through the din. “The cliffs’re too high, an’ the beach leaves us open. We move tae the top before night falls.”

Folkert Oosterhof, standing nearby, nodded sharply. “Aye, an’ fast. The men’ve done well tae land, but they’ll nae hold if the enemy comes now. The cliffs’ll give us what the sand won’t—cover.”

Peter Bijlsma stepped forward, his tone measured. “The cannon’ll take time tae haul, Hennie. The men’ve spent their strength gettin’ them ashore. If we rush them, we’ll lose more than time.”

“Then we’ll take what strength they’ve left,” Hennie replied firmly. “Every second we sit here, we give them more time tae ready themselves. I’ll nae risk it.”

Reinder Wiarda joined the group, his musket resting across his shoulder. “The men’re ready tae move,” he said. “But there’s nae clear path tae the top. The cliffs’re steep, an’ if there’s anythin’ waitin’ up there…”

“They’ll find us ready,” Folkert interrupted. “We cannae let shadows keep us here. The Highlanders’ll climb fast enough—they’ve done worse wi’ less.”

Nearby, Sietse Ouwehand folded his arms, his expression grim. “Aye, the Highlanders’ll climb. But it’s nae their climb that worries me. It’s what waits at the top. If they’ve cannon, it’ll nae matter how fast we move.”

Hennie turned to face him, his gaze steady. “If we wait here, we give them the time tae place cannon we cannae see. The top’s a risk, aye, but the beach’s a certainty. We move.”

Sietse’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “As ye say, lad. But dinnae rush it tae ruin. A broken climb’s nae better than a broken beach.”

Hennie motioned toward Gosse de Vries, who was overseeing the Highlander levies on the left flank. “De Vries! Get the Highlanders in place tae lead the climb. Pickets tae follow, an’ I want cannon teams ready tae move as soon as we’ve ground above.”

Gosse turned, his expression unreadable as he raised a hand in acknowledgment. “Aye, they’ll move,” he called back. “But they’ll grumble the whole way.”

“They can grumble,” Peter muttered. “As long as they keep movin’.”

Folkert stepped closer to Hennie, his voice low. “The climb’ll be slow. If they’ve eyes above, they’ll ken we’re comin’ before we’ve even set foot on the rocks.”

“Then we move faster,” Hennie replied, his tone brooking no argument. “This beach’ll be nae man’s grave.”

The orders were relayed quickly, the soldiers forming into loose groups as they prepared to ascend. The Highlanders led the way, their boots digging into the rocky earth as they searched for footholds along the steep paths winding upward. Behind them, musket teams followed, their weapons slung across their backs as they carried powder bags and shot.

The climb was arduous, each step feeling heavier under the weight of the men’s exhaustion. The cliffs rose steeply, the loose rocks and uneven ground threatening to trip even the steadiest soldier. The sound of boots scraping against stone filled the air, punctuated by the occasional grunt or shout as someone stumbled.

Folkert moved among the ranks, his sharp voice keeping the men focused. “Eyes up! Keep yer lines tight! If ye fall, ye’ll take the man behind ye wi’ ye!”

On the ground below, Gosse oversaw the cannon teams, his gruff commands cutting through the effort of hauling the heavy weapons upward. The soldiers strained against the ropes, their muscles burning as they dragged the cannon toward the base of the cliffs. Each inch gained felt like a victory, but the work was slow, the wheels catching on every rock and crevice.

Hennie followed the climb closely, his sword drawn as he walked with the rear ranks. His eyes scanned the cliffs above, searching for any sign of movement among the rocks. But the silence remained, unbroken except for the sound of his men.

As the first group reached the top, a shout rang out. “It’s clear!”

The relief was palpable, rippling through the ranks as the soldiers began to spread out along the ridge. The ground above was uneven, dotted with sparse grass and jagged stones, but it was defensible—something the beach had never been.

Hennie reached the top moments later, his boots crunching against the loose earth. He looked out over the horizon, his breath steadying as he took in the expanse of land stretching before him. It was quiet—too quiet—but they had the high ground now, and that was something.

Folkert stepped up beside him, his gaze scanning the ridge. “The beach’s a mess, but they’ll hold. The cannon’ll take time tae set, but we’ve ground tae work wi’ now.”

“Aye,” Hennie said, his tone thoughtful. “But the fight’s yet tae come. Let’s see what lies ahead.”

“They’ve done nothin’,” Reinder Wiarda muttered as he emerged beside Hennie, his musket resting over his shoulder. “Not a scout, not a shot—nothin’. What kind o’ army lets five thousand men land wi’out so much as a look?”

Hennie’s gaze remained fixed on the cliffs. “Either one that’s nae ready, or one that’s too ready tae care.”

Reinder frowned, his eyes narrowing. “They’ve had days tae ken we’re comin’. Surely they’d’ve done somethin’. This… it doesnae feel right.”

“It’s nae for us tae feel right,” Hennie replied curtly. “It’s for us tae land an’ move before they change their minds.”

The remaining Henricists pressed forward, their boots crunching against the loose stones as the climb continued. The soldiers moved with determination, their eyes flicking toward the cliffs above, but there was no sound of enemy voices, no glint of steel, no telltale signs of cannon. Even as they reached the crest and began spreading out to secure the ridge, the silence remained.

For men who had spent days bracing for battle—visions of Aubervijan scouts or entrenched defenders haunting their every thought—the stillness was bewildering. Many of the soldiers exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of relief and confusion. It felt wrong, as though the cliffs themselves were playing tricks on them.

Folkert Oosterhof stood at the edge of the ridge, his boots scuffing the uneven ground as he surveyed the horizon. “Nae a man in sight,” he muttered, his voice carrying just enough to reach Hennie. “We’ve climbed wi’ our swords drawn, an’ we’ve no one tae meet us. It doesnae sit right.”

Hennie joined him, his eyes scanning the expanse before them. The land stretched out in rolling hills and sparse grasslands, the faint outline of a forest in the far distance. It was empty, unnaturally so. “Aye,” Hennie said quietly. “They’ve seen us, an’ yet they’ve done naught. It’s nae the welcome we expected.”

“They’ve had time,” Folkert pressed. “Time tae prepare, tae dig in. An’ we’ve given them the finest show tae see it by. So why let us land wi’out so much as a skirmish?”

Peter Bijlsma arrived at their side, dusting his hands off as he approached. His expression was tight, though there was a flicker of unease in his usually steady gaze. “The men’ve seen it, too,” Peter said. “They’re askin’ the same questions, Hennie. Nae a scout, nae a shot fired… It’s got them talkin’.”

“Let them talk,” Hennie replied firmly. “But let them ken this, Peter: silence is nae safety. If the enemy waits beyond, we’ll meet them there.”

Peter hesitated, then nodded. “Aye. But we’ll need tae move fast. The beach’s clear, but it’s nae where we want tae fight.”

Reinder Wiarda joined the group, his musket slung across his back as he climbed the last stretch of the ridge. “It’s clear,” he reported, his tone low but edged with disbelief. “The lads’ve searched from end tae end. Nae barricades, nae traps, nae men.”

“Nothin’?” Folkert asked sharply. “Not even tracks?”

“Nothin’,” Reinder repeated. “It’s like they’ve vanished.”

Gosse de Vries arrived moments later, his coat dusted with sand from the beach. “Vanished or nae, the Highlanders’re startin’ tae believe the cliffs’re cursed. They’ve fought ghosts before, but they’re nae keen tae do it again.”

Hennie turned to face the gathered commanders, his voice cutting through the unease. “We’ll nae give them time tae spin tales. This ridge is ours now. Get the cannon in place, set the pickets, an’ move the men up. If Aubervijr’s given us this ground, we’ll take it gladly.”

Folkert snorted, though there was no humour in it. “Gladly, aye. But it’s a gift I’ll nae trust.”

The commanders dispersed, their voices rising over the din of soldiers as they relayed Hennie’s orders. The beach below began to empty as the remaining men climbed the ridge, their supplies hauled up with ropes and sheer determination. Cannon teams strained against the weight of their loads, their curses echoing against the cliffs as they dragged the heavy weapons upward.

By the time the last of the soldiers reached the top, the sun was beginning to sink low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the ridge. The pickets formed a loose perimeter, their muskets at the ready, though their eyes betrayed the same unease that rippled through the rest of the army.

Hennie stood at the centre of the ridge, his sword still drawn as he looked out over the quiet landscape. The vast emptiness seemed to stretch endlessly, its silence louder than any cannonfire. He exhaled slowly, his voice low as he muttered to himself, “If they’re waitin’, we’ll find them soon enough.”

As the day pressed on and the last rays of sunlight began to disappear behind the horizon, the Henricists settled into their positions along the ridge. The soldiers worked quietly, hauling the last of the supplies into place and forming makeshift shelters against the chill of the approaching night. The cannons stood like silent sentinels, their barrels pointed outward toward the darkening horizon. The Henricist banners still fluttered in the wind, a defiant reminder of their presence in this foreign land.

Hennie remained at the ridge, his silhouette stark against the fading light. His sword remained in his hand, though he held it loosely now, the tip resting against the earth. The silence from the cliffs had followed them here, as oppressive as the sea’s vast emptiness had been. Yet now it seemed heavier, a stillness that clung to the air and refused to lift.

Peter Bijlsma joined him, his steps slow as he approached. He carried a flask in one hand, which he offered to Hennie without a word. Hennie took it, drinking deeply before handing it back.

“They’ve set the pickets,” Peter said, his voice low. “The men’re exhausted, but they’ll hold.”

“They’ll hold,” Hennie echoed. He glanced back toward the camp, where the glow of small fires lit the weary faces of his soldiers. “An’ they’ll fight when it comes.”

Peter hesitated, his expression uncharacteristically uncertain. “If it comes,” he said quietly. “It’s been too quiet, Hennie. It’s nae like them tae sit idle.”

“Then they’re plannin’ somethin’,” Hennie replied. “An’ when it comes, we’ll be ready.”

Peter nodded, though his unease lingered. “Ye’ve their loyalty, Hennie. Even the ones who question. They’ll follow ye tae the end.”

“An’ I’ll lead them there,” Hennie said firmly. He turned back toward the horizon, his voice softening. “But it’s nae loyalty I’ll ask for. It’s trust. That’ll carry us further.”

Peter left him there, returning to the camp to see to the last of the preparations. One by one, the commanders found their places for the night. Reinder Wiarda moved among the pickets, checking their positions with quiet efficiency. Gosse de Vries oversaw the storage of powder barrels, his gruff voice a constant presence near the supply lines. Folkert Oosterhof stood near one of the cannon teams, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon as if daring the enemy to show themselves.

Only Hennie remained at the ridge’s edge, his figure unmoving against the night sky. The stars began to appear, faint pinpricks of light that offered little comfort. The wind carried the faint murmurs of the camp, but beyond that, there was nothing—no enemy movements, no distant shouts, not even the howl of a distant wolf.

He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, the weight of the silence pressing against him. For all their successes—landing unopposed, claiming the ridge—something felt amiss. Aubervijr’s absence was too deliberate, too calculated. He knew better than to mistake this stillness for safety.

Behind him, the fires of the Henricist camp burned low, casting flickering shadows across the ridge. The men were settling into uneasy rest, their breaths visible in the cold night air. They whispered among themselves, their words too soft to carry, but Hennie could feel their doubts, their questions.

He turned his gaze back toward the horizon, where the land stretched endlessly into darkness. Somewhere beyond, the enemy was waiting. And when they came, Hennie would meet them, sword in hand.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 11

3rd of September, 1706
Aubervijan Coast
22:41

The tent was silent, save for the constant sound of heavy rain pattering against the canopy and the howl of the wind. The lantern hanging from the centre pole swayed faintly, its flickering light illuminating the rough canvas walls and the heavy wooden table that dominated the space. Hennie Dumonceau sat alone, his back hunched as he leaned over the map laid out before him. His gloves, worn and cracked from years of use, rested on the table beside his sword. His hands were bare, his fingers tracing the coastline of Aubervijr as though searching for answers in the ink.

The landing should have felt like a victory. They had achieved what so many had deemed impossible—5,500 men, cannon, and supplies, brought ashore without a single shot fired. Yet, the silence from the enemy had followed them to the cliffs, clinging to the air like a fog. It wasn’t right. Aubervijr had not survived centuries of war by giving ground freely. Hennie knew they were watching, waiting, but for what, he couldn’t say.

His fingers curled into fists as the weight of it all pressed down on him. He had promised these men a cause worth dying for, a campaign that would restore Faursian pride and bring Aubervijr to its knees. But as he sat there, surrounded by shadows and doubts, he wondered if he had promised too much. The men trusted him; they had followed him across the sea. But trust, he knew, was fragile.

The flap of the tent stirred, the faint sound breaking the oppressive quiet. Hennie glanced up sharply, his hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of his sword. It wasn’t an enemy, of course—it never would be in this camp—but the instinct remained.

Peter Bijlsma stepped inside, his movements deliberate as he pushed the flap closed against the wind. He carried a sheaf of papers under his coat, and his sword hung at his side, the scabbard soaked and still faintly dusty from the day’s march. His face was calm, as it always was, but there was something in his eyes—a shadow of worry that he rarely let show.

“Hennie,” Peter greeted quietly, moving toward the table. He set the papers down with care before pulling out a chair to Hennie’s right. “Ye’ve been here alone awhile. I’d thought tae leave ye to it, but…”

“But ye’ve never been good at leavin’ me tae it,” Hennie finished, a faint smile tugging at his lips. It didn’t last. He sat back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the edge of the table. “I needed the quiet. But it doesnae help much, does it?”

Peter sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Quiet’s a dangerous thing,” he said. “It leaves too much room for thinkin’. An’ I’d wager ye’ve been thinkin’ plenty.”

Hennie didn’t reply immediately. He reached for the map, his fingers brushing against the inked lines. “The cliffs’re ours,” he said finally. “But it doesnae feel like a victory. Nae cannon, nae scouts, nae fightin’. Just… quiet.”

Peter nodded slowly. “The men feel it too. They’ve been askin’ questions, wonderin’ why we’ve seen nae one. It’s hard tae keep them steady wi’ nae answers.”

“What dae ye tell them?” Hennie asked, his gaze flicking to Peter.

“The truth,” Peter replied. “That we’ve landed, an’ we’ll hold. The rest… we’ll ken it when it comes.”

Hennie leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly. “An’ if it doesnae come, Peter? If this quiet’s nae a mistake but a plan? They’ve let us come this far wi’out a fight. What if they’re waitin’ for somethin’ worse?”

Peter studied him for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “If they’re waitin’, then we’ll meet them on our terms. Ye’ve done what needed doin’, Hennie. Dinnae let the quiet tell ye otherwise.”

The tent fell into silence again, the only sound the faint rustle of the canvas. Hennie closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. Peter’s words were steady, reassuring, but they didn’t erase the unease gnawing at him.

The flap rustled once more, and both men turned as Reinder Wiarda stepped inside. His musket was slung over his back, and his heavy boots left faint tracks in the mud as he closed the tent behind him. He paused just inside, his sharp eyes taking in the scene before he approached the table.

“Hennie. Peter,” Reinder said with a nod, pulling out a chair to Hennie’s left. “I see we’ve nae hurry for the rest.”

“Nae hurry,” Hennie replied, his tone flat. “What’s the word from the pickets?”

“Steady,” Reinder said. “The men’re holdin’ their places, but they’ve been lookin’ tae the cliffs more than the land ahead. They’re waitin’, same as us.”

Peter sighed. “The cliffs’ve done enough tae unnerve them, then.”

“Aye,” Reinder agreed. “But it’s nae just the cliffs. It’s the quiet. They’ll fight if it comes, but this stillness… it’s stirrin’ them in ways I cannae quite place.”

Hennie rubbed a hand over his face, leaning back in his chair. “It’s stirrin’ all o’ us, Reinder. But they’ll need tae hold steady, as will we.”

The three men sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the day settling heavily over them. The flap moved again, and they turned as Folkert Oosterhof strode in. He paused at the entrance, his sharp eyes sweeping over the room before he stepped fully inside.

“Looks like I’m late tae the quiet,” Folkert said, his voice carrying a dry edge as he took a seat across from Hennie. “An’ here I thought the council’d be crowded by now.” Folkert Oosterhof pulled out his chair with deliberate ease, the scrape of its legs against the ground cutting through the stillness. He sat down heavily, leaning back with one arm draped over the chair’s backrest, his sharp gaze flicking between Hennie, Peter, and Reinder.

“I’ve seen quieter councils,” Folkert remarked dryly, crossing his arms. “Or maybe it’s the company that’s so quiet. What’s got ye all brooding like widows?”

Hennie didn’t immediately respond. He studied Folkert for a moment, the man’s cocky demeanor a stark contrast to the tension that had settled over the tent. Folkert’s confidence had always been both an asset and a curse, but tonight, it grated.

“We’re thinkin’,” Hennie said finally, his tone measured. “Something I’d wager ye could stand tae do more of.”

Folkert raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “I think plenty, Hennie. Like how we’ve hauled five thousand men tae the top o’ these cliffs, only tae find nae one there tae meet us.”

“An’ what does that tell ye, then?” Peter asked, his voice calm but pointed.

“It tells me the enemy’s smarter than ye give them credit for,” Folkert replied, leaning forward now, his sharp eyes locking onto Peter’s. “They’ve let us land, aye. But that’s nae kindness—it’s bait.”

The tension in the room thickened, the unspoken doubts shared by all now laid bare. Hennie straightened in his seat, his gaze steady. “If it’s bait, then what’s the trap? They’ve had time tae set cannon, tae line the cliffs wi’ muskets. Yet they’ve done naught.”

“They’re waitin’,” Reinder said quietly. “Letting us think we’re safe, letting us settle. Then they’ll strike.”

Folkert scoffed, though there was no humour in it. “An’ when they dae, they’ll ken exactly where tae find us. The ridge’s a fine place tae stand, but it’s nae a place tae stay.”

Hennie’s hand rested on the map before him, his fingers brushing the lines marking the road inland. “The ridge’s nae the end o’ the fight,” he said firmly. “It’s a foothold. An’ tomorrow, we’ll move inland.”

“To what end?” Folkert pressed. “We’ve nae siege guns, Hennie. Ostend’s a stone fortress, an’ its walls’ll nae crumble under cannon shot.”

“Ostend’s nae built tae hold against an army,” Reinder interjected. “Its garrison’s nae more than a handful o’ old men. It’s time we lack, not strength.”

“Then we’ll make the time,” Hennie said, his tone cutting through the rising argument. “If Aubervijr’s given us this ground, we’ll take more. We dinnae sit an’ wait for them tae strike first.”

Peter glanced at Hennie, his expression thoughtful but hesitant. “Ye’ve the right o’ it, Hennie, but we’ll need more than speed tae take Ostend. The men’ve fought well, but they’re nae ready for a siege.”

“An’ that’s why we’ll nae fight a siege,” Hennie replied. “Ostend’ll fall wi’out us firin’ a shot if we cut its lines. They’ll starve long before we will.”

Folkert shook his head, his smirk returning. “An’ here I thought ye liked yer fights loud. Quiet starvation? It’s a poor thing for morale.”

“Morale’s nae kept wi’ fools’ fights,” Hennie said sharply. “It’s kept wi’ victories, Folkert. An’ if this campaign’s tae survive, we’ll nae waste men we cannae replace.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Hennie’s words settling heavily over the group. The flap of the tent stirred once more, and Sietse Ouwehand stepped inside, his heavy boots leaving faint tracks as he approached the table.

“Hennie,” Sietse greeted, his tone as gruff as ever. He nodded to the others before pulling out a chair. “I see ye’ve started without me.”

“Nae much tae start wi’,” Hennie replied, his expression softening slightly. “But it’s good ye’re here, Sietse.”

Sietse sat down, his eyes scanning the faces around the table. “The men’re restless,” he said bluntly. “The quiet’s nae sitting well wi’ them. It’s nae sitting well wi’ me, either.”

Folkert leaned back in his chair, his tone dry. “We’ve heard plenty o’ that already, Ouwehand. If ye’ve a solution, I’m all ears.”

Sietse’s eyes narrowed. “The solution’s simple, Oosterhof. We move. The men’ll feel better when they’ve work tae dae.”

Hennie nodded, his fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “An’ move we will. But nae blindly. This campaign’ll succeed because we think first. An’ we’ll think here, tonight, before we take another step.”

The tent fell silent once more, the weight of the day’s decisions hanging heavily over the group. Outside, the wind howled faintly, carrying with it the murmur of voices and the distant crackle of campfires.

The murmur of the camp outside grew fainter as the officers within the tent fell into a strained silence. Hennie Dumonceau remained standing, his hands gripping the edges of the table as he studied the men before him. Peter Bijlsma, steady as ever, remained seated at his side, his calm expression masking the unease that flickered in his eyes. Reinder Wiarda sat upright, his musket resting against the table, his brow furrowed in thought. Folkert Oosterhof leaned back in his chair, his sharp gaze darting between the faces around him, while Sietse Ouwehand crossed his arms, his gruff demeanor betraying a quiet tension.

Hennie let out a slow breath, his fingers brushing over the edges of the map. “The quiet’s gotten tae all of us,” he began, his voice low but carrying the weight of command. “An’ that’s nae a thing we can afford. The men’re restless, aye, but they’ll look tae us. If they see doubt here, it’ll spread tae them.”

Reinder nodded, his fingers tapping the stock of his musket. “The men’ll march if called, Hennie. But they’ll march better if they ken where an’ why.”

“They’ll ken it soon enough,” Hennie replied. “The road tae Ostend’s nae an easy one, but it’s the road we’ve chosen. If the enemy’s nae comin’ tae us, we’ll bring the fight tae them.”

Before anyone could respond, the flap of the tent stirred once more. Gosse de Vries entered, his broad shoulders stooped slightly as he stepped inside, his coat dusted with sand from the beach. He nodded briefly to Hennie and the others, his expression as grim as ever.

“Hennie,” Gosse greeted curtly, pulling out a chair and sitting heavily. “I hear the council’s been busy talkin’ about the quiet.”

“Aye,” Folkert said with a dry smirk. “Seems tae be the theme o’ the night.”

Gosse ignored the remark, turning his attention to Hennie. “The lads’ve done their part. The cannon’s in place, the powder’s accounted for. But we’ve nae the tools for what’s ahead. Ostend’ll nae fall wi’ musket balls an’ words.”

“We’re nae planning tae batter the walls down,” Hennie said firmly. “Ostend’s nae built for a siege. It’s held by eighty men, Gosse—eighty old men. We’ll cut their lines, starve them out if we must.”

Gosse grunted, his eyes narrowing. “It’ll take more than cuttin’ lines tae break them. An’ the men’ll need supplies tae match the time it’ll take.”

“Then see tae it,” Peter said sharply. “Ye’re quartermaster, De Vries. If ye’ve concerns, solve them.”

“Easy tae say, Bijlsma,” Gosse shot back. “Harder tae do wi’ the tools we’ve got.”

The tension thickened, but Hennie raised a hand, cutting through the argument. “Enough. We’ll nae solve this wi’ bickerin’. Gosse, ye’ve done well tae get us this far. We’ll make do wi’ what we’ve got.”

Gosse gave a curt nod, though his lips tightened. Thank you for clarifying. I’ll remove any mention of IJsbrand Burmania being present and refocus on Lieven Burmania as his representative. Let me revise and continue with the council scene:

The flap stirred once more, and Lieven Burmania stepped inside. The young officer carried himself with a confidence that belied his youth, his sharp eyes scanning the room as he took his place near the far end of the table. His presence drew attention, though not all of it was welcoming.

Folkert Oosterhof’s lips curled into a faint smirk as he leaned back in his chair. “Look who’s finally decided tae grace us wi’ his presence,” he remarked, his tone dry. “Yer da’s shadow stretches long, Burmania. Hope ye’re nae just a poor imitation.”

Lieven met the comment with an even gaze, his voice calm but edged with steel. “If I’m an imitation, Oosterhof, then ye’ll ken tae tread lightly. I’ll speak when I’ve somethin’ worth sayin’.”

Sietse Ouwehand, sitting near the centre of the table, shot Lieven a hard look. His animosity toward the Burmanias was no secret, and the young man’s arrival seemed to deepen the tension already brewing in the room.

“Speak, then,” Sietse said curtly. “If ye’ve somethin’ tae add, we’ll hear it. But dinnae waste our time wi’ bravado.”

Lieven leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. “My point’s simple,” he began. “The quiet’s nae kindness. It’s calculation. The enemy’s seen us land, an’ they’ve chosen tae do nothin’. That’s nae oversight—it’s strategy.”

“An’ what strategy’s that?” Sietse pressed, his voice hard.

“To let us waste ourselves,” Lieven replied evenly. “We’ve landed, we’ve climbed, an’ now we’ve set ourselves on a ridge. Every hour we sit here, they grow stronger. Every day we march, we bleed supplies. They’ll strike when we’re tired, nae when we’re ready.”

The room fell silent, the officers exchanging uneasy glances. For all his youth, Lieven’s shrewdness was hard to dismiss. Hennie’s fingers tapped against the edge of the table as he studied the young officer.

“Then we’ll move fast,” Hennie said finally, his voice firm. “Ostend’s nae fortress worth its name, an’ its garrison’s nae an army. If we strike before they’re ready, they’ll fold.”

Sietse leaned back, his arms crossed. “An’ what if they dinnae fold? What if they’ve reinforcements waitin’?”

“Then we fight,” Hennie replied sharply. “We dinnae wait for them tae come tae us. We take the fight tae them, on our terms.”

Peter Bijlsma, seated quietly until now, leaned forward, his voice calm but deliberate. “The men’ll march if ye lead them, Hennie. But they’ll need more than orders tae keep their heads steady. They’ll need tae see unity here.”

Hennie’s gaze swept the room, lingering on each officer in turn. “Unity starts wi’ trust,” he said. “An’ if we’re tae win this campaign, we’ll need more o’ it than we’ve shown tonight.”

The murmur of agreement rippled softly through the tent after Hennie’s last words, though it was restrained, subdued. The officers shifted in their chairs, some nodding, others silently studying the table as if the answers might emerge from the map spread before them. Trust, unity—it was easy enough to say, but here, in the quiet of the ridge, the unspoken doubts between them felt heavier than ever.

Folkert Oosterhof broke the silence, his tone sharp. “Trust’s a fine thing tae preach, Hennie, but it’ll nae put food in the men’s bellies or powder in their barrels. If Ostend’s tae be our first fight, we’ll need more than words tae hold them together.”

“An’ what would ye have us dae, Folkert?” Peter Bijlsma countered, his voice calm but edged with steel. “Turn the men around, crawl back tae Faursia wi’ tales o’ how the cliffs frightened us? We’ve nae other choice but tae push forward.”

Folkert smirked, leaning back in his chair. “I’m nae sayin’ turn back, Peter. I’m sayin’ push smart. We cannae march blind an’ call it strategy.”

Hennie raised a hand, silencing the brewing argument. “We’ll nae march blind. We’ll march tae Ostend wi’ our eyes open. That’s why we’re here, tonight, settin’ the course. If ye’ve a plan tae offer, Folkert, now’s the time tae speak it.”

Folkert hesitated, his smirk fading as his eyes flicked to the map. For all his bluster, the seasoned soldier knew the weight of the moment, and for once, he seemed reluctant to push further.

“Speed,” Folkert said finally. “If we’re tae take Ostend, it’ll have tae be fast. We’ve nae time for slow advances, nae time for drawn-out fights. Hit them hard, hit them fast, an’ keep movin’.”

Reinder Wiarda nodded slowly. “Speed’s a risk, aye, but it’s one worth takin’. The men’ll follow if we lead, but they’ll need clear orders, nae confusion.”

Peter gestured to the map. “The road tae Ostend’s nae a long one, but it’s treacherous. We’ll need pickets tae scout ahead, keep watch for any sign o’ resistance.”

“The scouts’ll dae their part,” Sietse Ouwehand interjected. “But the Highlanders’ll need tae hold the flanks. They’re nae trained for long marches, but they’ll guard the column well enough.”

Lieven Burmania, silent until now, leaned forward, his sharp eyes fixed on Hennie. “An’ what happens when we reach Ostend? If we’re tae starve them out, we’ll need tae cut their lines completely. That’ll take more men than we’ve tae spare.”

“We’ll nae spare men,” Hennie replied firmly. “The garrison’s nae more than eighty. We’ll surround them, cut them off, an’ make them see reason. They’ll surrender once they’ve nae hope.”

Lieven tilted his head slightly. “An’ if they dinnae?”

“Then we’ll make them,” Hennie said, his tone brooking no argument.

The officers fell quiet again, the weight of their decisions pressing down on them. Outside, the faint crackle of campfires drifted through the air, mingling with the soft rustle of the wind.

Peter cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “The men’ll move at first light. We’ll need tae keep the cannon teams close, but they’ll slow us down.”

“Then they’ll move in the rear,” Hennie said. “The Highlanders’ll hold the flanks, as Sietse says, an’ the vanguard’ll clear the way. Folkert, I’ll trust ye tae see tae it.”

Folkert raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Aye, I’ll see tae it. But dinnae expect me tae keep the Highlanders happy while I’m at it.”

“That’s nae yer job,” Hennie replied sharply. “It’s mine. An’ I’ll see tae it.”

“An’ what o’ Marinus Coster?” Folkert asked, and every eye in the room turned to face Hennie. The council sat in tense silence, the weight of their decisions pressing down like the stillness outside. The lantern overhead swayed slightly, casting flickering light across the map and the grim faces of the gathered officers. Hennie leaned forward, his fingers brushing the edges of the map.

“I think we’ve kept our position hidden from Coster,” Hennie said, breaking the silence. “He’ll nae ken where we’ve landed, nor how many we’ve brought wi’ us. That gives us an edge—an edge we cannae waste.”

Peter nodded, his voice steady. “If so, then tha’ Commonwealth’s been caught off guard. Coster’s still in Hengelo wi’ nae clue where tae move his forces. If we reach Ostend before he does, we’ll force his hand.”

Reinder Wiarda leaned in, his musket resting across the back of his chair. “It’s more than force. If the garrison falls quick, we’ll open the door tae Aubervijr.”

“Aye,” Folkert Oosterhof interjected, his tone measured for once. “But the poor weather’s nae doing us favours. But it’ll slow him too. The roads’ll be thick wi’ mud. Cannon’ll drag behind, an’ the men’ll feel it in their boots.”

“We’re nae lookin’ for speed alone,” Hennie said firmly. “We’re lookin’ for precision. Ostend’s nae stronghold—it’ll fall. An’ once it does, the men’ll see what this campaign’s for.”

Lieven Burmania, sitting at the far end of the table, raised an eyebrow. “Ye make it sound simple. But even if Coster’s blind, it’ll nae stay that way forever. His scouts’ll find us eventually.”

“Then we’ll be gone before they dae,” Hennie replied sharply. “Ostend’s nae where we end—it’s where we begin. The longer Coster waits, the more ground we’ll take.”

Gosse de Vries let out a low grunt, his arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair. “Ostend’ll fold, aye, but only because it’s poorly defended. The garrison’s nae fit tae fight, but it’s nae the end o’ our troubles. If Coster sends even a fraction o’ his forces south, we’ll be the ones bogged down.”

“Coster’ll move when he kens where tae move,” Peter countered. “An’ until then, we’ve the advantage. Hennie’s right—Ostend’s the key tae the road ahead. If we lose time second-guessin’, we’ll hand him that road.”

Folkert leaned forward, his sharp eyes fixed on Hennie. “An’ what happens after Ostend? Ye’ve a plan tae hold it, aye? Or’re we just passin’ through?”

Hennie’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table. “We’re nae here tae hold fortresses, Folkert. We’re here tae take ground. Ostend’s a step, nae the goal. We’ll leave enough tae keep it ours, but the bulk o’ the men’ll move.”

Sietse Ouwehand, who had been silent for a while, finally spoke, his voice low but firm. “If the men’re tae keep marchin’, they’ll need supplies tae follow. We’ve done well tae conceal ourselves so far, but Coster’s nae fool. Once he realises we’ve taken Ostend, he’ll ken our path.”

“Aye,” Reinder agreed. “An’ that’s why we’ve tae strike quick. The longer we wait, the more likely Coster’s scouts’ll find us.”

Peter gestured toward the map. “The weather’s tae our advantage here. It’s slowed Coster’s forces tae the point that they’ll nae reach Ostend in time. We’ll cut through the muck if we must, but the road tae Aubervijr’s ours once we’ve the garrison’s surrender.”

“It will surrender,” Lieven added, his youthful voice carrying a sharp edge. “We ken not who’s on the other side o’ Ostend’s walls. But they’ll nae hold against us, even if they’ve the will.”

“An’ if they refuse?” Gosse asked pointedly.

“They’ll nae refuse,” Hennie said, his voice calm but resolute. “If the weather slows us, it’ll do worse for them.”

The room fell silent once more, the weight of the plan settling over them. The path ahead was clear, but the risks loomed large. Hennie straightened, his gaze sweeping the table. “When Ostend falls, we march again, to Klazienaveen, then to Bourtange. We may even see Aubervijan royalists join us there. We will see.” The room remained deathly quiet as every eye lay on Hennie, who cleared his throat. “We march at dawn,” he said firmly. “The cannon’ll follow when they can. The Highlanders’ll hold the flanks, an’ Folkert’ll lead the vanguard. Ostend’ll fall, an’ when it does, we’ll nae linger. This is the start, nae the end.”

Every man in the room gave a nod and one by one, retired from the tent, with orders to relay and preparations to carry out. Hennie was left on his own once more, listening to the rain hammering against the tent as it moved with the wind.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 12

September 5th, 1706
Outskirts of Ostend
Western Aubervijr
Mid-afternoon

The road to Ostend had been gruelling, every step sinking into mud churned up by thousands of boots and wagon wheels. Rain had dogged their march for much of the morning, leaving the men damp and weary as they pushed onward. The narrow track wound its way through overgrown fields and sparse woodlands, the land eerily quiet save for the steady tramp of their columns and the creak of wagons hauling powder and shot.

Hennie Dumonceau rode at the head of the column, his coat slick with moisture and his hat pulled low against the drizzle. Beside him rode Peter Bijlsma, his adjutant-general, who leaned forward in his saddle, scanning the horizon with a practiced eye. The landscape was flat and featureless, but Hennie’s focus lay ahead, where the fortress of Ostend waited.

The first sight of the fortress came as the road crested a low ridge. The stone walls rose out of the mist, their weathered surface pockmarked and scarred by time. A pair of squat towers flanked the gate, their slate roofs slanted and dark with rain. The land surrounding the fortress was barren, the fields long since abandoned, their weeds left to grow wild. No banners flew from the walls, no figures moved along the ramparts.

Hennie pulled his horse to a stop, lifting a hand to signal the column behind him. The men slowed, their formation shifting as captains barked orders to hold the line. The sudden stillness brought a hush over the army, broken only by the faint rustle of the wind and the distant creak of wagon wheels.

Peter dismounted beside Hennie, his boots sinking slightly into the wet ground as he approached. “It doesnae look like much,” he said, his voice low. “But looks can deceive.”

Hennie nodded, his eyes fixed on the fortress. “They ken we’re here,” he said simply. “But they’ve yet tae show themselves.”

Reinder Wiarda appeared on foot, his musket slung over one shoulder as he trudged up the ridge to join them. His face was streaked with mud, and his breathing came heavy, but his gaze was sharp as he studied the distant walls. “Nae movement,” he said. “Nae a soul on the ramparts.”

“Nae a soul we can see,” Peter said grimly.

“They’ll be watchin’,” Hennie replied. “Countin’ our numbers, weighin’ their chances.”

“An’ what are their chances?” Reinder asked, his tone sceptical.

“That’s what we’ll soon find out,” Hennie said, his voice hard. He turned in his saddle, scanning the long line of men stretching back along the road. “Reinder, spread the word. I want pickets on the ridge an’ the cannon teams ready tae move. Peter, see tae the vanguard.”

The two men nodded and moved swiftly to relay the orders. Hennie remained where he was, his gaze returning to the fortress. The silence from the walls was unnerving, a stark contrast to the chaos of the landing days ago. It was the kind of quiet that invited doubts, the kind that gnawed at the edges of resolve.

Folkert Oosterhof joined him moments later, his boots crunching against the gravel as he approached. “It’s quiet,” he said simply, his tone almost mocking. “Too quiet, aye?”

“It’s always quiet until it’s nae,” Hennie replied without looking at him.

Folkert smirked faintly, folding his arms as he studied the fortress. “They’ll have eyes on us, same as we’ve eyes on them. But they’ve nae shown their teeth yet. Either they’ve none tae show, or they’re waitin’.”

“We’ll ken soon enough,” Hennie said. “But we’ll nae move blindly.”

From behind, Gosse de Vries arrived, his broad frame silhouetted against the pale sky. “The cannon’ll be slow tae set,” he said gruffly. “The ground’s a mess, an’ the teams’re bogged down.”

“They’ll dae their part,” Hennie replied. “We dinnae need the guns tae speak first. We’ll send a messenger tae the gates.”

Gosse’s brow furrowed. “A risky thing, Hennie. If they’ve a trap set…”

“Then it’s one we’ll spring,” Hennie interrupted. “We’ll nae sit here guessin’. If they’ve a defence tae show, let them show it.”

The officers exchanged uneasy glances, but none voiced further objections. The silence from the walls weighed on them all, the absence of any response feeding the growing tension among the men. Still, the Henricist banners stood tall above the ranks, their crimson and gold a stark contrast against the grey of the sky.

Hennie stood motionless for a moment, his eyes narrowing at the fortress gates as if willing them to reveal their secrets. The quiet made the waiting harder, each passing second drawing his nerves tighter. Finally, he turned toward Reinder Wiarda, who was directing the pickets to fan out across the ridge.

“Reinder,” Hennie called. “Choose a messenger.”

Reinder glanced back, frowning. “Ye’re certain, Hennie? A lone man’s nae much use if they’re sittin’ ready tae fire.”

“We’ll nae ken what we’re facin’ by sittin’ still,” Hennie replied, his tone firm. “The messenger’s tae carry terms, nae threats. We’ll show them the numbers they face, an’ give them the chance tae yield.”

Reinder hesitated, his fingers brushing the stock of his musket. “Aye, as ye say,” he muttered, before striding down the slope toward the gathered men.

As Reinder set about his task, Hennie turned back to his officers. Peter Bijlsma was already speaking quietly to a group of cannon crews, gesturing toward the muddy road where the wagons were stuck. Gosse de Vries stood a short distance away, his arms crossed as he supervised the Highlander flanks, ensuring the perimeter was secured. Folkert Oosterhof remained at Hennie’s side, his sharp eyes fixed on the gates.

“Ye’re wagerin’ on their fear, Hennie,” Folkert said, his tone edged with scepticism. “An’ fear’s a fickle thing. It can turn tae madness just as easy as it turns tae surrender.”

“Fear’ll make them hesitate,” Hennie replied, his voice steady. “An’ hesitation’s what we need. If they’re nae ready for us, they’ll fold.”

“If they’re nae ready,” Folkert repeated, his tone dubious. “An’ if they are?”

“Then we’ll ken it,” Hennie said simply.

Peter returned, his boots slick with mud as he climbed the ridge to rejoin them. “The cannon teams’re movin’ again,” he reported. “They’ll be slow, but they’ll get there. The men’re steady, for now.”

“Good,” Hennie said. “An’ the vanguard?”

“Folkert’s Highlanders’ve secured the flanks,” Peter replied, glancing at Oosterhof. “The rest’ll form up tae reinforce the pickets. We’ll hold if it comes tae it.”

“It’ll nae come tae it,” Hennie said. “If they’ve eyes on us, they’ll see what we’ve brought.”

Before Peter could respond, Reinder returned with the chosen messenger, a young soldier whose boots were caked with mud but whose expression was resolute. He carried a white cloth tied to the end of his musket, the improvised flag of truce fluttering weakly in the damp breeze.

“This is Siepke Boonstra,” Reinder said, nodding toward the soldier. “He’ll carry the terms.”

Hennie stepped forward, his eyes meeting the young man’s. “Boonstra, ye’ll walk tae the gates wi’ this flag, slow an’ clear. Ye’ll nae rush, nae hesitate. State our terms: we’ve come wi’ 5,500 men, an’ we’ll see them nae harmed if they open the gates now.”

“Aye, sir,” Boonstra said, his voice steady despite the faint tremor in his hands.

“If they fire, ye’ll drop tae the ground an’ crawl back,” Hennie continued. “Ye’re nae tae stand yer ground. Is that clear?”

Boonstra nodded again. “Clear, sir.”

Hennie clapped him on the shoulder. “Then go.”

The young soldier turned, his grip tightening on the musket as he began the slow march down the road. The white flag fluttered faintly above him, a fragile signal of peace against the stark stone walls.

The officers and men watched in tense silence as Boonstra approached the gates, his figure growing smaller with each step. Every eye was on the fortress, searching for movement along the ramparts, a flicker of motion that might signal a response. But the walls remained still, the gates closed, the silence unbroken.

Peter shifted beside Hennie, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. “If they fire…”

“They won’t,” Hennie said quietly, though his tone carried more hope than certainty.

Minutes stretched into eternity as Boonstra reached the gates. He paused, raising the flag higher as he called out their terms. His voice was too distant to hear, but the echo of his words seemed to carry across the empty fields.

The stillness continued, the tension among the Henricists growing with each passing second. Then, at last, there was movement. A single figure appeared atop the ramparts, silhouetted against the pale sky. The man leaned over the edge, his musket slung across his back, and shouted something in response.

Boonstra turned and began walking back toward the ridge, the flag still held aloft. The officers waited, their faces tight with anticipation, as the young soldier climbed the slope and returned to the gathered commanders.

“They said… they’ll speak tae ye,” Boonstra said breathlessly, lowering the flag. “They want tae hear ye yerself.”

Hennie’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking toward the fortress. “Then they’ll hear me,” he said firmly.

Peter stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Ye’re certain, Hennie? If it’s a trap…”

“Then we’ll spring it,” Hennie replied, turning to face the gathered officers. “Prepare the men tae hold. If this goes wrong, we’ll nae be caught off guard.”

Peter nodded reluctantly and moved to relay the orders. Hennie took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the fortress gates. The weight of the moment settled heavily on his shoulders, but his resolve remained firm.

“Let’s see what they’ve tae say,” he muttered, stepping forward.

The gates creaked open slowly, the groan of old iron breaking the oppressive silence. Hennie Dumonceau approached on foot, flanked by Peter Bijlsma and Reinder Wiarda. The soldiers standing watch on the ridge tightened their grips on their muskets, their eyes fixed on the dark gap now yawning before their commander. The white flag carried by Siepke Boonstra fluttered faintly as the young soldier fell in behind them, his steps cautious but steady.

The air within the walls was damp, heavy with the mingled smells of mildew and old gunpowder. The courtyard stretched out ahead of them, its cobbled surface cracked and overgrown with moss. The walls loomed close, their surfaces darkened by years of rain and disrepair. Hennie’s eyes moved methodically, noting the signs of neglect—the uneven stacks of powder barrels, the rusted hinges of an old cannon platform, the few pale faces that peeked out cautiously from shadowed corners.

The defenders were few, their uniforms mismatched and faded, their muskets resting limply in their hands. Hennie’s attention lingered on their hollow expressions and trembling stances. These were men clinging to the remnants of discipline, but only just.

From the shadow of the gatehouse, Captain Nikolaas Deconinck emerged, his boots crunching over loose gravel as he approached. Though his back was straight, his uniform hung loosely on his gaunt frame, and his cheeks were sunken. Still, his eyes were sharp, taking in every detail of Hennie and the men at his side.

“You’ve brought an army to Ostend,” Deconinck said, his voice calm but tinged with weariness. “But you’ll find no great battle here, Dumonceau.”

Hennie inclined his head slightly. “If there’s tae be nae great battle, Captain, there’s nae need for any battle at all. I’ve brought nae harm tae Ostend that’s nae forced upon us.”

Deconinck studied him for a moment, then glanced past him toward the ridge, where the Henricist banners swayed in the breeze. The faint glint of cannon barrels could be seen among the ranks, their presence looming like silent sentinels.

“You make bold claims, Dumonceau,” Deconinck said, his tone stiff. “Yet you claim more than I believe you know. You speak of General Coster as if his movements are known to you.”

“They are,” Peter interjected smoothly, his tone clipped. “The storms’ve slowed him, bogged him down. Your relief isn’t coming, Captain. You’ll be alone until the food runs out—if the powder doesn’t first.”

Deconinck’s jaw tightened, his lips drawing into a thin line. “And what if you’re wrong? If you’ve gambled your men’s lives on an assumption, what then?”

Hennie’s voice cut in, steady but firm. “If we’re wrong, Captain, then ye’ve little tae lose in yieldin’. If we’re right… yer men’ll lose everything by holdin’ this place.”

The captain’s hand twitched at his side, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. He let out a long breath, his gaze flicking toward the cobblestones beneath his feet. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint rustle of the wind and the distant sounds of the Henricist camp outside.

Finally, Deconinck lifted his eyes, his tone soft but resolved. “Very well. I’ll not ask these men to die for walls that will not hold. The fortress is yours, Dumonceau. But I expect your word that no harm will come to them.”

“Ye have my word,” Hennie said, his voice steady. “Yer men’ll be treated wi’ respect, an’ they’ll be fed.”

Deconinck nodded reluctantly, motioning toward one of his subordinates. The soldier hesitated before moving to the winch, the creak of chains filling the air as the gates swung open fully. The remaining Henricists, led by Oosterhof and De Vries, began to file cautiously inside, their muskets raised but their fingers off the triggers. The surrendered garrison stepped back, lowering their weapons and watching silently as their conquerors advanced.

Peter approached Hennie once more as the last of their men passed through the gates. “It’s done,” he said, his voice low. “But we’d best move quick. If Deconinck learns his relief’s nae so far behind as we let on…”

“He won’t,” Hennie replied firmly. “An’ if he does, it’ll be too late. Ostend’s ours now.”

The Henricists now poured in with cautious efficiency. Muskets were held at the ready, bayonets gleaming faintly in the damp light as the men swept into the courtyard. Hennie Dumonceau stood at the threshold, his boots planted firmly in the mud as he surveyed the scene. His officers moved quickly, their orders cutting through the low murmur of the garrison, who had gathered in uneasy clusters near the crumbling walls.

Peter Bijlsma stepped up beside Hennie, gesturing toward the disarmed Aubervijans. “We’ll need tae clear them from the barracks an’ set pickets on the walls. The men’ll need a place tae sleep, but we’ll nae be stayin’ long.”

Hennie nodded, his eyes narrowing as he watched the defeated garrison shuffle awkwardly under the wary gaze of his soldiers. “See tae it,” he said. “Keep things calm. They’ve nae stomach tae fight now, but we’ll nae give them reason tae find it.”

Peter moved off, his voice carrying firm but measured orders to the Henricist sergeants. The disarmed defenders were escorted from their positions, many of them casting glances toward their captain, who stood stiffly by the gatehouse. Captain Deconinck had remained silent since the gates had opened, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched his men surrender.

“They’ll be treated fair,” Hennie said, his tone quieter now, less edged. “Ye’ve my word, Captain. Yer men’ll be fed an’ kept safe while they’re in our hands.”

Deconinck turned to face him fully, his shoulders still stiff, though his expression had softened slightly. “You’ll forgive me if trust doesn’t come easily, Dumonceau,” he said evenly. “But I’ll hold you to your word. These men are not soldiers anymore—they’re farmers, blacksmiths… relics of what this garrison once was.”

Hennie nodded, his gaze steady. “Aye, I understand. But they’ve surrendered their arms tae us, an’ that’s enough for now. Once the campaign’s done, they’ll be free tae return tae their homes.”

Deconinck’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he gave a small nod before stepping back toward his men. Hennie watched him go, his mind already moving to the next challenge. The fortress was theirs, but the weight of the campaign ahead pressed heavily on his shoulders.

Reinder Wiarda approached from the barracks, his musket slung across his back. “The lads’ve swept the rooms,” he reported. “Powder an’ shot’s nae enough tae call it useful. Nae cannon worth speakin’ of. What they’ve’s barely fit tae fire.”

“Expected as much,” Hennie replied, folding his arms. “Ostend wasnae built tae stand against an army. But it’s ours now, an’ it opens the road tae Aubervijr.”

Reinder hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the distant ridge where the rest of the Henricist forces still waited. “The men’re askin’ what comes next. They’ll follow, aye, but they’ll need tae ken the plan.”

Hennie nodded, his expression grim. “We’ll convene the council tonight. There’s nae time tae linger here. If Coster’s forces reach us, we’ll lose the ground we’ve gained.”

As the last rays of daylight faded into the overcast sky, Hennie gathered his officers in the fortress’s great hall. The room was cold and damp, its stone walls stained with moisture. A large table had been cleared of debris, and a tattered map of the surrounding region was spread across its surface, its edges weighed down with musket balls. The officers filed in one by one, their boots echoing on the stone floor.

Peter Bijlsma arrived first, carrying a sheaf of notes detailing the state of the captured supplies. He placed them on the table and took a seat to Hennie’s right. Reinder Wiarda followed, his musket resting against the wall as he settled into a chair beside Peter. Folkert Oosterhof entered with his usual air of confidence, pulling out a chair and leaning back in it, his sharp eyes scanning the room.

Sietse Ouwehand and Gosse de Vries arrived together, their expressions tense as they took their places. Lieven Burmania lingered near the door before finally stepping inside, his youthful face betraying none of the unease that flickered in his eyes.

When the last officer had taken his seat, Hennie stood at the head of the table, his hands resting on the map. The lantern light cast shadows across his face. Let’s continue with the expanded strategy council at Ostend, incorporating Hennie’s calculated bluff about Brouwer and Dierickx to secure agreement to march forward. This will set the stage for the unfolding tensions later in the campaign while keeping focus on their immediate preparations for departure.

The tension in the great hall was palpable, the voices of the Henricist officers rising and falling in heated debate. Hennie Dumonceau stood at the head of the table, his hands gripping its edges as he listened to the growing argument. The lantern light flickered over their faces, deepening the furrows of doubt and dissent.

“This campaign’s gone as far as it can,” Folkert Oosterhof said sharply, his voice cutting through the din. “We’ve nae guarantee o’ reinforcements, an’ we’re stretchin’ ourselves thinner wi’ every mile south. If we press on, we’ll risk bein’ cut off.”

“Aye,” Gosse de Vries added, his tone measured but no less firm. “Klazienaveen’s nae a prize worth dyin’ for, an’ Bourtange’ll nae fall wi’out proper support. We’ve the men tae hold Ostend an’ nae much else.”

Hennie’s jaw tightened as he straightened, his gaze sweeping the table. “Withdrawin’ now undoes everythin’ we’ve fought for. Ostend’s nae enough tae hold Aubervijr—we need tae break their hold further south. If we stop here, we’ve already lost.”

“Lost’s what we’ll be if Coster moves from Hengelo,” Sietse Ouwehand countered, his voice calm but deliberate. “An’ Romeijnders an’ Ceulemans’re nae idle in Harlingen. We’ll nae outrun them forever.”

Reinder Wiarda leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “We’ve moved wi’ speed so far, aye, but the men’ll start tae falter if they dinnae see the point o’ it. An’ if there’s nae reinforcements comin’, what’s the point?”

“There are reinforcements,” Hennie said, his voice steady but forceful. “Brouwer’s already sailin’ for Aubervijr. He’ll meet us at Denekamp, an’ his men’ll double our numbers.”

The officers exchanged uneasy glances, the doubt in their expressions slowly giving way to cautious hope. Hennie pressed on, his tone softening slightly. “We’re nae alone in this. Dierickx’s army’s marchin’ tae seize Borne as we speak. The Commonwealth’s spread too thin tae stop us all. If we keep movin’, we’ll make them see it.”

Peter Bijlsma, who had remained silent until now, leaned forward, his voice calm but firm. “If Brouwer’s tae meet us at Denekamp, then we’ve a chance. But the men’ll need tae ken it, Hennie. They’ll need tae believe it as much as we dae.”

“They’ll ken it when we reach Klazienaveen,” Hennie replied. “Every mile we take’s a mile the Commonwealth loses. An’ every step closer tae Denekamp brings us the reinforcements we need.”

Folkert’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “A bold speech, Hennie. But words dinnae hold a line.”

Hennie’s gaze locked with Folkert’s, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “This campaign’s held by action, nae retreat. If ye’ve nae stomach for it, Oosterhof, then step aside.”

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut, but before Folkert could respond, Peter stood, his hands flat on the table. “Enough. The council’s spoken, an’ the plan’s clear. We march tae Klazienaveen at dawn.”

One by one, the officers nodded their assent, though the tension in the room remained palpable. Hennie straightened, his shoulders squaring as he addressed them. “See tae yer men an’ yer supplies. We’ve nae time tae waste. The road south’s ours, an’ we’ll take it.”

The following morning, the courtyard of Ostend was alive with activity as the Henricist army prepared to march. Soldiers moved swiftly, loading wagons with powder and rations while captains barked orders to form ranks. The damp air carried the faint smell of woodsmoke and wet earth, mingling with the metallic tang of muskets freshly cleaned for the road ahead.

Hennie mounted his horse at the head of the column, his gaze sweeping over the gathered men. The crimson and gold banners caught the morning light, their colours bold against the grey sky. Peter rode up beside him, his expression calm but watchful.

“The men’re ready,” Peter said quietly. “But the road’ll be harder from here.”

“Aye,” Hennie replied, his voice low. “But they’ll march. They ken what’s at stake.”

Behind them, Folkert Oosterhof rode with the vanguard, his sharp eyes scanning the path ahead. Reinder Wiarda and Gosse de Vries moved along the column, their voices steadying the men as they took their places. The cannon teams struggled to position their heavy wagons, but the lines held firm as the first orders to move were called.

The column began its march, the sound of boots striking the muddy road blending with the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels. Hennie’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon, the weight of his promises pressing heavily on his mind. The thought of Brouwer and Dierickx lingered like a shadow. He knew Dierickx was in-fact not preparing his advance, and he had not heard from Brouwer since he landed at Marrenijl. He had lied to everyone. But for now, he pushed the thought aside.

“Klazienaveen’ll be the first step,” he muttered, more to himself than to Peter. “An’ it’ll nae be the last.”

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 13

17th of September, 1706
River Tijens
Central Aubervijr
Afternoon

The River Tijens curved slightly as a massive fleet pressed westward, its banks growing narrower and more wooded. The sound of water lapping against the hulls was steady, almost rhythmic, as the many boats cut through the gentle current. The occasional screech of a heron or the splash of a startled fish punctuated the otherwise quiet atmosphere. Though the soldiers aboard the vessels murmured quietly among themselves, the officers moved with practiced efficiency, ensuring the vast fleet remained in formation.

Ceulemans paced slowly along the deck, his boots clicking softly on the damp wood as he considered the view ahead. His movements were deliberate, measured, as if every step were part of a larger calculation. He stopped near the mast again, folding his arms as he turned to face Romeijnders.

“You’ve considered what happens if Bourtange holds against Dumonceau, I presume?” Ceulemans began, his tone light but probing. “If the Henricists cannot breach the walls and are forced to withdraw, they’ll be looking for another route. One that avoids us.”

Romeijnders did not turn, his attention fixed on the river. “Bourtange is poorly defended. Dumonceau knows it, and so do we. He won’t need to withdraw because he won’t face meaningful resistance.”

“Perhaps,” Ceulemans replied, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “But a fortress isn’t just about its walls. It’s about the people inside. If the garrison fights to delay him, even for a day, it could change everything.”

Romeijnders finally turned, his brow furrowed. “Bourtange is firmly aligned with Dumonceau, Herbert. All of them. They sided with them in the civil war, again in 1651, 1675 and 1679. Their resistance, if any at all, will come from the few men loyal to the Commonwealth there.”

“Those men can make all the difference,” Ceulemans countered, his dark eyes locking onto Romeijnders’. “Any resistance could mean Dumonceau could still be within striking distance when we reach the outskirts of Bourtange. Any falter in their campaign could mean an opportunity to end this before it drags into the winter.”

Romeijnders sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he rubbed his temple. “And if the Henricists fortify Bourtange and hold it? What then? Do we besiege them? Starve them out while the countryside turns against us? Winter comes quickly in Aubervijr, Herbert. We have no time to sit and wait.”

Ceulemans allowed a faint smile to cross his lips. “Which is why we must reach them before they entrench themselves. Perhaps, with some creative thinking, we could.”

Romeijnders raised an eyebrow. “You have a plan, then?”

“I have considerations,” Ceulemans said with a slight shrug, his smirk faint but deliberate. “The river gives us speed, but it also confines us. Scouts ahead, cavalry on the banks—there are ways to pressure Dumonceau into making a mistake. Ways to ensure that, even if Bourtange holds, we cut off any route for his retreat.”

Romeijnders folded his arms, his voice low. “And how do you propose we divide our forces without exposing ourselves? The Henricists march as one. They fight as one. If we scatter, we give them the advantage.”

“Not scatter,” Ceulemans corrected, stepping closer. “Coordinate. Use what we have. The fleet holds our core strength, but detachments along the banks give us flexibility. We can feint, confuse them, force them to overcommit.”

Romeijnders’ lips thinned as he considered the suggestion. He knew Ceulemans had a mind for strategy, though he often wielded it like a dagger rather than a sword—sharp, precise, but sometimes too narrow in focus. Still, there was merit in what he was saying.

“And what of Coster?” Romeijnders asked after a moment. “You seem confident in his movements, though he’s marching blind to what we face here.”

Ceulemans leaned against the railing, his expression thoughtful. “Coster will do what he must. His presence in the south is enough to split Dumonceau’s attention. Whether he reaches Bourtange in time or not, he draws resources and focus away from us. That alone is worth something.”

Romeijnders nodded slowly, though the doubt lingered in his expression. “It’s a gamble.”

“War is always a gamble,” Ceulemans replied smoothly. “The question is whether the stakes are worth the risk. And I believe they are.”

The tension between the two men lingered in the air like the damp mist that clung to their cloaks. The sound of the fleet’s movement filled the silence that followed, the steady creak of wood and the rhythmic splash of oars blending with the distant calls of officers managing the ranks.

Romeijnders turned back to the river, his gaze steady once more. “Then let us make no mistakes, Herbert. The Henricists will not wait for us to find our footing.”

Ceulemans inclined his head slightly, a gesture of agreement tinged with an air of satisfaction. “Of course, General. Let us hope Dumonceau is as reckless as we believe.”

The sound of the river against the hull filled the silence between the two commanders. Romeijnders stood at the bow once more, his eyes scanning the narrowing waters ahead. The riverbanks had grown closer, lined with clusters of bare trees and low shrubs, their reflections wavering in the dark currents. Overhead, the sky remained a sullen grey, heavy with the threat of more rain.

Ceulemans lingered by the mast, his mind visibly working through their earlier exchange. He drummed his gloved fingers against the railing, his sharp features betraying none of the irritation he felt at Romeijnders’ cautious approach. For all his frustrations, he knew better than to push too hard—Romeijnders’ temper was slow to ignite, but once lit, it was unyielding.

The tension between them was palpable, but it remained unspoken as an officer approached from one of the nearby boats. The young man, his uniform damp and streaked with mud from earlier embarkations, climbed aboard and saluted smartly.

“General Romeijnders, Lieutenant-General Ceulemans,” the officer began, his voice steady despite the clear discomfort of his wet cloak. “A message from the rear of the fleet, sir. The supply vessels report difficulty keeping pace. The current is carrying the lead boats faster than anticipated.”

Romeijnders nodded, his face remaining impassive. “Tell them to adjust their rigging and keep to formation. We cannot afford to split the fleet.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer replied, bowing slightly before returning to his boat.

As the officer departed, Ceulemans moved closer, his steps deliberate. “And so the river shows its limits,” he remarked quietly, his voice low enough that only Romeijnders could hear.

Romeijnders turned slightly, his gaze meeting Ceulemans’ with a flicker of annoyance. “The river is a tool, Herbert. Like any tool, it requires skill to wield. This is a logistical issue, not a strategic failure.”

“Logistics and strategy are rarely far apart,” Ceulemans replied smoothly. “The rear vessels hold the majority of our provisions. If they fall behind, the men will feel it before the day is out.”

Romeijnders exhaled sharply, his hands tightening on the railing. “And what would you suggest, Herbert? Abandon the slower boats and leave half the army without supplies?”

“Not abandon,” Ceulemans said, his tone softening. “But perhaps we could stagger the fleet. Keep the faster vessels ahead to scout and secure positions, while the rear moves at its own pace. We don’t need the entire army to reach Bourtange simultaneously—just enough to hold position until the rest arrive.”

Romeijnders frowned, his eyes narrowing. “You’re proposing we split the fleet.”

“I’m proposing we adapt,” Ceulemans corrected. “The river gives us speed, but it also gives us flexibility. If we’re clever about it, we can use that to our advantage.”

Romeijnders didn’t respond immediately. His gaze returned to the river ahead, his mind weighing the risks. Finally, he spoke, his voice measured. “We’ll maintain formation for now. If the rear continues to struggle, we’ll revisit the idea. But until then, we move as one.”

Ceulemans nodded, though his expression remained unreadable. “As you wish, General. But let us hope the river agrees with your plan.”

The day wore on, the fleet pressing steadily westward. The soldiers aboard the boats settled into a rhythm, their earlier chatter fading into a quiet hum of activity. Some sat huddled against the cold, their cloaks pulled tight as they watched the passing banks. Others sharpened weapons or repaired gear, their movements precise and methodical.

At the bow of one of the central boats, an older sergeant addressed a group of younger soldiers, his voice carrying over the soft murmur of the river. “Keep yer eyes sharp,” he warned, pointing to the tree-lined banks. “The Henricists might be far ahead, but that don’t mean we’re alone out here. Plenty of folk in these parts who’d take a shot at an Aubervijan uniform, given the chance.”

The soldiers nodded, their expressions a mix of determination and unease. The sergeant’s words were a reminder of the dangers they faced—not just from the Henricists, but from the land itself.

Back on the lead boat, Ceulemans had taken to pacing the deck, his boots clicking faintly against the damp planks. The air between him and Romeijnders remained taut, the earlier exchange simmering unspoken as they continued their journey westward. The river seemed to narrow further as the fleet progressed, the dense trees on either side creating a claustrophobic corridor of shifting shadows and faint rustling sounds.

“Do you think the Henricists truly expect us to follow this route?” Ceulemans finally asked, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, almost conversational, but the undercurrent of challenge was unmistakable. “Dumonceau may be reckless, but he’s not foolish. He’ll know we’re pursuing him.”

Romeijnders didn’t glance away from the horizon. “Dumonceau knows we’re coming, yes. But the river changes the game. He expects us to slog through the plains, struggling to match his speed. This route allows us to cut that distance without exhausting the men.”

Ceulemans stopped pacing and leaned against the railing once more, his sharp gaze fixed on Romeijnders. “And if he’s waiting for us at Bourtange? If he’s already begun fortifying the city?”

Romeijnders’ jaw tightened, his voice steady but firm. “Then we force his hand. Bourtange’s defences are weak, its garrison smaller than even Klazienaveen’s. If Dumonceau fortifies it, he commits himself. He cannot retreat with his back to the city, not with our forces closing in.”

“And Coster?” Ceulemans pressed, tilting his head slightly. “Are we truly placing all our faith in him to move south in time? It’s no secret his army has its own problems. If he doesn’t reach Bourtange, we’ll be fighting an entrenched enemy with only half the numbers we need.”

Romeijnders turned to face him fully now, his expression hard. “Coster will do his part. He knows what’s at stake. And I will not split this army based on doubts and assumptions. We move as one, Herbert. Strength lies in unity.”

Ceulemans smirked faintly, though his tone remained neutral. “Unity is a fine sentiment, General. But sentiment alone won’t win us this campaign.”

Romeijnders stepped closer, his voice dropping slightly. “This campaign will be won by discipline, strategy, and resolve. You’d do well to remember that.”

The tension between them hung heavy in the air, unbroken even as an officer approached from the lower deck, saluting sharply. “General Romeijnders, Lieutenant-General Ceulemans,” he began, his voice carrying the crispness of a soldier accustomed to authority. “The forward scouts report no sign of the Henricists along the banks. The river ahead is clear for at least another ten miles.”

Romeijnders nodded curtly. “Good. Maintain the scouts’ position. Any sign of movement, no matter how small, is to be reported immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer replied, saluting once more before returning to his duties.

As the officer departed, Ceulemans watched him go, his expression thoughtful. “No sign of the Henricists,” he mused aloud. “Perhaps Dumonceau’s overconfidence works in our favour after all. He must believe the river is too slow for us to catch him.”

“Overconfidence has been his flaw before,” Romeijnders agreed. “And if he continues to underestimate us, it will be his downfall.”

Ceulemans’ smirk returned, though it was faint. “Let’s hope you’re right, Jasper. I’d hate for us to arrive in Bourtange only to find it’s already a tomb.”

Romeijnders didn’t respond, his attention shifting back to the river ahead. The current grew swifter as the fleet rounded another bend, the trees along the banks thickening into a dense canopy that cast long shadows over the water. The boats creaked and groaned as they moved in unison, their sails catching the faintest breeze as the army pressed forward.

The day wore on, the rhythmic sounds of the fleet breaking the monotony of the endless grey river. The soldiers on board settled into quiet routines: some cleaned their weapons, others mended torn cloaks or polished armour dulled by the damp. The officers moved among them, exchanging low words of encouragement or brief orders, their presence a reminder that discipline must hold, even in moments of stillness.

As the river straightened, the thick canopy overhead gave way to a wide-open expanse, where the banks were lined with tall reeds that rustled faintly in the breeze. The occasional silhouette of a heron or crane broke the horizon, their sharp calls echoing over the water. Romeijnders remained at the bow of the lead vessel, his sharp eyes scanning every detail of the banks, as if expecting movement where none yet existed.

Ceulemans, meanwhile, stood a short distance away, his focus more internal. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the hilt of his sword, the slight smirk on his face betraying thoughts he did not voice. Finally, he broke the silence once more, his tone sharper than before.

“Tell me, Jasper, have you truly accounted for every possibility? Every variable? Because while I admire your confidence in our unity, it doesn’t escape me that we’re operating on a dangerous assumption.”

Romeijnders turned his head slightly, his tone cool but not dismissive. “And what assumption is that, Herbert?”

“That Dumonceau will remain predictable,” Ceulemans said, stepping closer. “He’s proven reckless, yes, but not without cunning. He knows this land far better than we do, and I find it unlikely he’ll march blindly into Bourtange without securing his escape routes.”

Romeijnders raised an eyebrow. “If he knows the land so well, then he also knows he has no escape. Bourtange may be a temporary refuge, but he’s pinned between our forces and Coster’s. It’s only a matter of time before we close the noose.”

“Assuming Coster arrives,” Ceulemans countered smoothly. “And assuming Dumonceau hasn’t prepared for that. You’ve seen what his forces did at Zeidendijs—striking fast, using the terrain to their advantage. What’s to stop him from doing the same here? Perhaps even laying a trap for us.”

Romeijnders’ expression hardened. “You’re suggesting we halt the fleet? Wait for Coster to confirm his position while the Henricists continue to consolidate?”

“No,” Ceulemans replied, his voice softening slightly. “But I am suggesting we consider contingencies. Have you thought about what we’ll do if Bourtange is more fortified than we expect? If Dumonceau’s men dig in, and we lack the artillery to root them out?”

Romeijnders’ jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer immediately. He looked back out at the river, the faint ripple of the current drawing his gaze as he weighed Ceulemans’ words. Finally, he spoke, his tone measured.

“If Bourtange holds, we adapt. Siege tactics may be slower, but they’re effective. And Dumonceau doesn’t have the numbers to outlast us—not with Coster at his back.”

Ceulemans’ smirk deepened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And what happens if Coster’s forces are delayed? Or if the Henricists manage to break through before we even arrive?”

“Then we hold them ourselves,” Romeijnders said firmly. “This campaign isn’t about Bourtange—it’s about breaking Dumonceau’s army. If he retreats, he leaves behind the momentum that’s kept him alive so far. We’ll take it from him, piece by piece.”

Ceulemans studied him for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he gave a small nod, his voice almost amused. “A bold strategy, General. Let’s hope it plays out as cleanly as you envision.”

Romeijnders met his gaze evenly. “I don’t expect clean, Herbert. I expect victory.”

As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the fleet made its first stop for the night. The boats were drawn to the riverbanks in tight formation, and soldiers moved quickly to establish a temporary camp. Fires were lit sparingly to avoid drawing attention, their faint glow barely cutting through the growing shadows.

Romeijnders stood at the centre of the encampment, issuing orders to the officers who gathered around him. His voice was low but commanding, each directive precise and clear.

“We move at dawn,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men. “I want double the scouts on the banks tonight. If there’s any sign of movement—any at all—I want to know immediately. The Henricists may be ahead of us, but we won’t give them the chance to surprise us.”

The officers nodded, saluting before dispersing to relay his orders. Ceulemans lingered at the edge of the group, watching silently as Romeijnders finished. When the last officer had gone, he approached, his expression lighter but no less calculating.

“You manage them well,” Ceulemans said, almost conversationally. “They trust you. That’s not something every commander can claim.”

Romeijnders gave a faint nod. “Trust is earned, not given. And it’s fragile, Herbert. Lose it once, and you may never regain it.”

“A wise sentiment,” Ceulemans said with a faint smile. “Though I wonder—how far does their trust extend when the stakes grow higher?”

Romeijnders glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “That depends on the stakes. And on the commander.”

Ceulemans chuckled softly, though there was no warmth in the sound. “Indeed, General. Indeed.”

The soft crackle of a few fires punctuated the evening stillness. Soldiers huddled close to the flickering light, their cloaks drawn tightly around them to ward off the chill of the riverbank. The camp, though temporary, was orderly; rows of tents were neatly pitched, and sentries moved silently along the edges of the encampment, their shadows long in the dim glow.

Romeijnders stood at the edge of the camp, his gaze fixed on the river. Behind him, a junior officer approached hesitantly, his boots crunching softly on the damp ground.

“General,” the officer said, saluting sharply. “The sentries have been posted, and the scouts have reported no signs of movement along the banks.”

Romeijnders nodded curtly, his hands clasped behind his back. “Good. Keep the men alert but let them rest when they can. We’ll need them sharp tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer replied, glancing briefly toward Ceulemans, who stood a short distance away, before hurrying off to relay the orders.

Ceulemans, having overheard the exchange, stepped forward, his boots making no sound on the soft earth. “A quiet night,” he said, his tone neutral. “One would almost think the Henricists were unaware of our approach.”

Romeijnders glanced at him but said nothing, his attention returning to the river. Ceulemans continued, his voice taking on a more deliberate tone. “Do you believe they’ve reached Bourtange already? Or do you think they’re still on the move?”

“They’re moving,” Romeijnders replied after a moment, his voice steady. “Dumonceau won’t stop until he’s reached the city. He knows the longer he stays in the open, the more vulnerable he becomes.”

Ceulemans smirked faintly. “And yet, he moves with confidence. It’s almost admirable, in a way—reckless, but bold.”

“Boldness isn’t a strategy,” Romeijnders said sharply. “It’s a gamble. And it only works if your opponent doesn’t know how to exploit it.”

Ceulemans chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You sound as though you envy him, Jasper. But I suppose that’s to be expected—he fights with the freedom we cannot afford.”

Romeijnders’ jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he turned back toward the camp, his voice carrying a note of finality. “We’ll discuss strategy tomorrow. For now, see to the men. Make sure they’re ready for what’s ahead.”

Ceulemans inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “As you wish, General.”

As the night deepened, the camp settled into a quiet rhythm. The soldiers, grateful for the reprieve, ate their meagre rations in silence before retreating to their tents. The sentries, vigilant and alert, moved with precision along their designated routes, their eyes scanning the darkened banks for any sign of movement.

Romeijnders remained near the centre of the camp, speaking quietly with his senior officers. They stood in a tight circle, their faces lit by the faint glow of a nearby fire. Maps were spread across a makeshift table, their edges curling slightly in the damp air.

“Our position here is secure,” one officer said, tracing a finger along the river on the map. “But if we push too hard tomorrow, we risk overextending the fleet.”

Romeijnders nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll maintain a steady pace. Speed is important, but so is cohesion. I want scouts ahead of the fleet at all times. If there’s even a whisper of the Henricists, I want to know about it.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer replied, his tone firm.

Ceulemans, standing slightly apart from the group, observed the exchange with interest. When the officers dispersed, he stepped forward, his dark eyes gleaming faintly in the firelight.

“You handle them well,” Ceulemans said, his voice low. “They respect you.”

Romeijnders didn’t look up from the map. “Respect isn’t enough, Herbert. It must be earned every day, with every decision.”

“And yet,” Ceulemans said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, “it’s fleeting. A single misstep, and it’s gone.”

Romeijnders finally met his gaze, his expression hard. “Which is why we don’t misstep.”

Ceulemans held his gaze for a moment before nodding slightly. “A noble sentiment. Let’s hope the Henricists give us the chance to prove it.”

As the fires burned low and the camp grew quiet, Romeijnders took a final walk along the perimeter. The sentries saluted as he passed, their movements crisp despite the late hour. He stopped briefly to speak with a group of soldiers huddled near a small fire, offering a few quiet words of encouragement before continuing on.

Ceulemans, meanwhile, had retreated to the riverbank, where he stood alone, his sharp features illuminated by the pale light of the moon. His thoughts were his own, but the faint smile on his face suggested he was already planning the next move.

The night passed without incident, the river flowing steadily beneath the watchful eyes of the sentries. By dawn, the camp would be alive again, the soldiers readying themselves for the next stage of the journey. But for now, there was only the quiet hum of the river and the unspoken tension that hung heavy in the air.

Suddenly, the sound of hooves on the muddy ground broke the stillness. A courier, cloaked against the cold, rode into the encampment, his horse steaming from the exertion. He dismounted swiftly, his boots sinking into the damp soil, and approached the central fire where Romeijnders and Ceulemans still lingered.

“General Romeijnders,” the courier called, saluting sharply. “A message from General Coster.”

Romeijnders stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he took the sealed parchment. The firelight flickered over his weathered face as he broke the seal and unrolled the message, his gaze scanning the words quickly.

Ceulemans watched him closely, his sharp features illuminated by the glow of the flames. “What news?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

Romeijnders lowered the message, his expression grim. “The Henricists have reached Klazienaveen. Dumonceau is already inside the city.”

A heavy silence fell over the camp as the words sank in. Ceulemans, ever the strategist, was the first to speak. “Then we’ve lost the initiative. They’ll fortify the city before we arrive.”

Romeijnders folded the message tightly, his voice firm. “Klazienaveen is not their final goal. Dumonceau will use it as a staging ground, nothing more. He’s marching for Bourtange.”

Ceulemans tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “And he’ll reach it before we do. Unless, of course, we take a risk.”

Romeijnders’ gaze sharpened, but he said nothing, waiting for Ceulemans to continue.

The younger officer stepped closer, his voice low and deliberate. “We cannot reach Bourtange before Dumonceau. But we can make sure he doesn’t hold it for long. If we press hard tomorrow and send word ahead to Coster, we can trap him between our forces before he consolidates his position.”

Romeijnders regarded him silently for a long moment. The fire crackled faintly between them, the only sound in the otherwise still night. Finally, he spoke, his voice heavy with the weight of command. “Coster knows his orders. We focus on reaching Bourtange. If Dumonceau chooses to stand and fight, we’ll meet him there.”

Ceulemans nodded slowly, though the faint tension in his posture betrayed his dissatisfaction. “As you say, General. But let us hope Dumonceau underestimates us again.”

Romeijnders turned to the courier, his tone sharp. “Return to General Coster. Inform him that we will continue along the Tijens at dawn. He is to maintain his approach and prepare to intercept them if possible, we will not be far behind.“

The courier saluted, mounting his horse swiftly and disappearing into the darkness as the camp returned to its uneasy quiet.

As the first hints of dawn touched the horizon, the camp stirred once more. Soldiers moved quickly to dismantle tents and load supplies back onto the boats, their movements brisk despite the lingering chill. Romeijnders and Ceulemans stood near the lead vessel, their words few as the preparations continued.

The fleet was underway again before the sun had fully risen, the boats cutting steadily through the cold waters of the River Tijens. The tension aboard was palpable, every soldier acutely aware of the race against time that now defined their campaign.

Romeijnders stood at the bow, his gaze fixed westward, his thoughts already on Bourtange. Beside him, Ceulemans watched in silence, his sharp mind turning over possibilities, contingencies, and risks.

The fleet moved as one, a great shadow on the river, carrying with it the hopes and fears of thousands. Ahead lay Bourtange, and with it, the next clash that would determine the fate of the Henricists, or of Aubervijr itself.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 14

17th of September, 1706
Outskirts of Klazienaveen
Western Aubervijr
Late afternoon

The wind carried the faint scent of damp earth and woodsmoke as the Henricist army approached the outskirts of Klazienaveen. The city lay low on the horizon, its clustered rooftops and slender church spires just visible through the morning haze. The soldiers marched in steady columns, their boots crunching on the gravel road as they drew closer. The banners of the Dumonceau standard fluttered above the ranks, their colours muted under the overcast sky.

Hennie rode at the head of the column, his expression guarded as his eyes scanned the horizon. The fields surrounding Klazienaveen were eerily quiet, their fences and windmills standing like forgotten sentinels. No movement stirred beyond the army’s ranks, and the silence pressed heavily on the men, broken only by the rhythmic sound of their march and the occasional murmur from the officers.

Peter, riding alongside Hennie, leaned forward slightly in his saddle. “The city looks peaceful enough,” he said, his tone cautious. “Almost too peaceful.”

“Aye,” Hennie replied, his voice low but firm. “But peace can be a mask. We dinnae ken what lies beyond those walls.”

Peter nodded, his sharp gaze sweeping the landscape. “The men are weary, but they’ll fight if need be. What’s the plan if we face resistance?”

Hennie’s jaw tightened as he considered the question. “If they resist, we’ll show strength but nae recklessness. Klazienaveen’s nae a fortress; it’s a foothold. We’ll secure it an’ make ready for the march tae Bourtange.”

As the army reached the city’s outskirts, Hennie signalled for the column to halt. The soldiers came to a disciplined stop, their breaths visible in the cold air as they waited for orders. A small group of officers and scouts rode forward, their eyes scanning the city gates and the narrow streets that lay beyond.

The gates were open, the road leading into the city flanked by rows of tall, timber-framed houses. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys, and the faint sound of voices drifted on the wind. It was a far cry from the fortified resistance the Henricists had expected, but the sense of unease remained.

Gosse, his cloak pulled tight against the wind, rode up to Hennie’s side. “The gates are open, but I don’t trust it,” he said bluntly. “It’s too easy.”

“Easy is rare in war,” Hennie agreed. “But we’ll nae turn back. Gosse, take a company an’ scout ahead. Peter, keep the column steady. If there’s a trap, I want it found before it finds us.”

The officers nodded, spurring their horses forward to carry out their orders. Hennie remained where he was, his gaze fixed on the city. He could feel the weight of the men behind him, their hopes and fears hanging on his every decision.

Gosse and his company entered the city cautiously, their boots echoing on the cobblestone streets as they moved in tight formation. The residents of Klazienaveen watched silently from windows and doorways, their faces pale and guarded. The streets were clean, the houses orderly, but the stillness was unsettling.

One of the scouts, a wiry Faursian with sharp eyes, approached Gosse. “No sign of Commonwealth forces, sir,” he said quietly. “The streets are clear.”

Gosse frowned, his gaze sweeping the square ahead. “Stay vigilant. If there’s nae a force here, they’ll be close.”

The company moved deeper into the city, reaching the central square dominated by a tall, weathered church. The bells were silent, and only a handful of residents lingered near the edges of the square, their faces marked with uncertainty.

Back on the outskirts, a runner approached Hennie and Peter, his chest heaving from exertion. “Sir,” the young man said, saluting sharply. “Colonel Gosse reports the city appears quiet, but he recommends caution. He’s taken the square and awaits further orders.”

Hennie nodded, his jaw tightening as he turned to Peter. “We’ll move the column in slowly. Keep the men in formation until we’ve secured the city proper.”

Peter’s expression was grim as he nodded. “If this is a trap, they’ve hidden it well.”

“They always dae,” Hennie replied. “But we’ll nae let our guard down.”

The Henricist army advanced cautiously into Klazienaveen, the sound of their march echoing off the narrow streets. Hennie rode at the forefront, his eyes scanning every corner and shadow. The city seemed to hold its breath as the army moved through it, the residents watching in uneasy silence.

When the last of the soldiers filed into the square, Hennie dismounted, his boots striking the cobblestones with purpose. He approached Gosse, who stood near the base of the church steps, his expression as guarded as ever.

“No sign of resistance?” Hennie asked.

“None,” Gosse replied. “But the people are terrified. They’re nae sure whether to see us as liberators or conquerors.”

Hennie nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping the square. “We’ll nae give them cause tae fear us. Station men tae watch the gates an’ send out scouts tae survey the surrounding area. We’ll rest here tonight an’ plan the march tae Bourtange.”

Peter joined them, his expression tense. “If the Commonwealth is nearby, they’ll ken we’re here by now.”

“Aye,” Hennie said quietly. “Then we’ll be ready for them.”

The central square of Klazienaveen was alive with the measured activity of an occupying army. Soldiers moved in disciplined groups, taking up positions at key points—guarding the gates, setting up watchposts, and ensuring that no corner of the city went unobserved. The residents, wary but not openly hostile, watched from doorways and windows as the Henricists began to settle.

Hennie walked slowly through the square, his boots crunching against the damp cobblestones. He paused near the church steps, where a small group of officers had gathered. Gosse stood among them, issuing instructions in his characteristic, no-nonsense tone.

“We’ll station men at the north and east gates,” Gosse said, pointing to a rough map spread out on a nearby barrel. “Two companies will remain here in the square to hold the centre. Scouts are already out surveying the approaches.”

Hennie stepped closer, his voice cutting through the conversation. “Good work, Gosse. But keep the men visible tae the townsfolk. They need tae see us as disciplined, nae a mob.”

Gosse nodded, his sharp eyes flicking to the surrounding buildings. “They’re scared of us. But they’re more scared of the Commonwealth. If we treat them fair, they might warm tae us.”

Hennie gave a faint smile, though his expression remained guarded. “That’s the idea. We’re here tae win hearts as much as ground.”

Peter had taken charge of organising the camp within the city. He moved among the soldiers, offering quiet words of encouragement as they set up their positions. The men respected Peter’s calm demeanour and trusted his judgment, and their movements reflected that trust—precise, orderly, and efficient.

Nearby, Folkert Oosterhof stood with a group of Highland officers, his sharp features marked by a faint frown as he observed the activity. When Peter approached, Folkert gestured toward the square with a gloved hand.

“The men are settling in well,” Folkert said, his tone measured. “But the town’s folk are skittish. Can’t say I blame them. Armed men marching into their square doesn’t exactly inspire comfort.”

“They’ll come around,” Peter replied. “If we show them discipline, they’ll see we’re nae here tae take what’s theirs. That’s nae how Hennie wants this done.”

Folkert’s frown deepened slightly, but he nodded. “Let’s hope so. But we’d better keep a close eye on the supplies. Fear can turn to desperation quickly.”

By mid-afternoon, the square had transformed into a makeshift command centre. Maps and documents were spread across tables, and officers moved between groups discussing logistics and strategy. Hennie stood near the largest table, flanked by Peter and Gosse, as they reviewed the situation.

“Our scouts report no sign of Commonwealth forces within a day’s march,” Gosse said, tapping a point on the map near Klazienaveen. “But that doesn’t mean they’re far off. Coster’s army will ken we’re here by now.”

Hennie nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. “That gives us some time tae rest, but nae much. We’ll need tae move soon, or we risk bein’ pinned here.”

Peter leaned over the map, his expression serious. “Bourtange is two days’ march, maybe less if we push hard. But if the Commonwealth closes in before we get there, we could be trapped between them an’ Dumonceau’s men.”

“We’ll nae be trapped,” Hennie said firmly. “We hold the advantage for now, an’ we’ll keep it if we move smart. Gosse, how are the men?”

“They’re tired but steady,” Gosse replied. “They’ll be ready when the order comes.”

As the evening settled over Klazienaveen, the officers gathered for a more formal discussion of their next steps. The room, a small chamber within the town hall, was lit by a single lantern that cast long shadows across the worn wooden table. Hennie sat at the head, his hands resting lightly on the map before him.

“We march tae Bourtange at dawn, provided we keep this pace, we will reach the city in two days,” Hennie began, his voice steady. “The city’s nae well-defended, but it’s a key point. If we take it, we gain more than a foothold—we gain momentum.”

Folkert leaned forward, his tone sceptical. “An’ what if the Commonwealth beats us there? We’ve no artillery for a siege, an’ Dumonceau willnae sit idle while we starve them out.”

“That’s a risk,” Hennie admitted. “But it’s a calculated one. Bourtange’s defences are weak, an’ its garrison is nae strong enough tae hold us back. We’ll strike fast an’ hard.”

Gosse nodded in agreement. “Speed’s our best weapon here. If we move quick enough, we can take the city before the Commonwealth even reaches us.”

Peter added, “An’ we’ve nae seen any sign of reinforcements from the Commonwealth. If Coster’s slowed, that gives us a window tae act.”

The officers leaned in closer as the discussion deepened, their voices low but firm. Hennie ran a finger along the map, tracing the road from Klazienaveen to Bourtange. “The roads are nae in great shape after the rains, but they’ll hold the men an’ the carts. We’ll split the wagons tae two paths tae move faster, but nae so far they’re beyond support.”

Peter nodded, his tone thoughtful. “The men’ll manage the march, but we’ll need tae guard the supplies closely. Bourtange’s nae the only place hungry eyes might be watchin’.”

Gosse added, “If the scouts see so much as a shadow movin’ out there, I want tae ken about it. Even a small ambush could throw us off-balance.”

“An ambush isnae our greatest worry,” Folkert interjected, his voice clipped. “It’s Coster’s army. They’ll nae let us take Bourtange without a fight if they’re anywhere close. An’ let’s nae forget we’ve no word from the Highlanders further south. If reinforcements are tae meet us, they’re movin’ in silence.”

The room fell into a brief silence at that. Hennie’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. “Reinforcements or nae, we’ll face what’s in front of us. If the Commonwealth reaches Bourtange first, we’ll force them tae meet us in the open. But that’s a battle for another day.”

Ceulemans, who had been leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, finally spoke. His tone was smooth, as though his words were calculated before leaving his lips. “Dumonceau’s greatest weapon is his unpredictability. He knows this land, and he knows the people. If we can predict him, we can beat him.”

“And how dae ye suggest we predict a man like Dumonceau?” Gosse asked, his voice tinged with scepticism.

“By taking away his options,” Ceulemans replied, stepping closer to the table. “Bourtange is the only move that makes sense for him, which means he’s relying on it as much as we are. If we take it, we not only gain ground—we deny him his next step. And that forces him tae react.”

Hennie studied Ceulemans for a moment before giving a curt nod. “We’ll take Bourtange. An’ when we do, Dumonceau’ll ken there’s nae retreat left for him.”

As the officers departed the town hall to relay the plans, Hennie remained seated, his hands resting on the edges of the map. The faint hum of activity in the square below filtered through the open window. Peter lingered by the doorway, his brow furrowed as he watched Hennie.

“Ye’re quiet, Hennie,” Peter said after a moment. “What’s on yer mind?”

Hennie leaned back slightly, his gaze distant. “Just thinkin’. This city’s quiet, Peter. Too quiet. The people havenae moved against us, but they havenae embraced us either.”

“They’re waitin’ tae see who wins,” Peter said simply. “It’s nae different from any other place we’ve passed through.”

“Aye,” Hennie replied, his voice low. “But it still sits heavy. Every step we take feels like we’re climbin’ a ladder that might break under us.”

Peter stepped forward, resting a hand on Hennie’s shoulder. “The men believe in ye, Hennie. An’ they’ll follow ye tae the gates of hell if ye ask it. That’s nae a burden tae carry alone.”

Hennie gave a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Aye, Peter. But it’s mine all the same.”

The night in Klazienaveen was still, save for the quiet murmurs of soldiers and the occasional bark of an officer ensuring the watches were kept. Hennie stood near the edge of the square, looking out over the rooftops of the town. The pale moonlight cast long shadows over the cobblestones, and the air carried the faint scent of woodsmoke.

Peter joined him a few moments later, his arms crossed as he leaned against a post. “We’ll move at first light?”

“Aye,” Hennie replied, his tone firm. “The men’ll need the rest, but nae longer than they can spare. We reach Bourtange in two days, an’ when we do, it’ll be ours.”

Peter gave a small nod. “It’ll be a fight, but it’s a winnable one. I can feel it.”

“So can I,” Hennie said quietly. “But feelin’s dinnae win battles. Plans do.”

The town of Klazienaveen seemed to exhale a weary sigh as the night deepened. The last embers of daylight vanished behind the rooftops, leaving the streets bathed in the silvery glow of moonlight. Hennie lingered in the central square, his eyes scanning the shadows that stretched across the cobblestones. The town was quiet, save for the soft rustling of the wind and the faint murmur of soldiers speaking in hushed tones near the watchposts.

He walked slowly, his boots striking a steady rhythm against the stones as he moved toward the edge of the square. The faint glow of lanterns lit the windows of the surrounding buildings, but the faces behind the glass were hidden. The townsfolk had retreated into their homes hours ago, their unease palpable even as they stayed out of sight.

Hennie stopped near the church steps, his gaze drawn upward to the tall spire that loomed against the dark sky. He could hear the faint creak of the weather vane turning in the breeze. A moment later, Peter joined him, his steps soft but purposeful.

“Still nae sleep, Hennie?” Peter asked, his voice low.

Hennie shook his head, his arms crossed as he leaned against the stone railing. “Sleep’s a luxury we cannae afford, Peter. Not now.”

Peter studied him for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Ye’ll need it, though. Bourtange’ll be a fight, an’ ye cannae lead if ye’re too tired tae think.”

“I ken,” Hennie replied, his voice quieter now. “But my mind’s too loud tae rest. Every move we make feels like a gamble, an’ I cannae stop thinkin’ of all the ways it could go wrong.

Peter stepped closer, resting a hand on Hennie’s shoulder. “Ye’re carryin’ more than ye should, Hennie. The men trust ye because they ken ye’ll lead them well. Let that be enough.”

Hennie gave a faint smile, though it was tinged with weariness. “Aye, Peter. But that trust weighs heavy, nae light.”

Elsewhere in the square, Gosse and Folkert stood near the edge of the camp, speaking in low tones as they watched the sentries patrol the gates. Gosse’s posture was rigid, his arms crossed tightly as he frowned at the darkened streets beyond.

“I dinnae like it,” Gosse said bluntly. “This place is too quiet. It’s like they’re waitin’ for somethin’.”

Folkert nodded, his sharp features lit faintly by the glow of a nearby lantern. “They are waitin’. They’re waitin’ tae see who wins. They dinnae want tae back the wrong side.”

“That makes them dangerous,” Gosse muttered. “Desperate folk’ll do desperate things. We need tae watch the supplies—keep a tighter guard on the wagons.”

“I’ve already posted extra men,” Folkert replied. “But it’s nae just the townsfolk ye need tae watch. There’s rumours of Commonwealth scouts in the area. They’ll nae strike here, but they’ll be watchin’ every move we make.”

Gosse’s frown deepened. “Then we need tae move quick. If they ken we’re marchin’ tae Bourtange, they’ll be waitin’ for us.”

The hours dragged on, the stillness of the night broken only by the occasional clink of armour or the muffled sound of soldiers shifting in their sleep. Hennie eventually returned to his tent, though he did not lie down. He sat at the small table, a lantern casting a dim circle of light over the maps and papers spread before him.

Peter entered a short while later, carrying a steaming cup of tea. He placed it on the table without a word, then sat across from Hennie, his expression calm but concerned.

“Ye’ll nae find the answers in those maps,” Peter said gently. “But ye’ll find them in the men who trust ye tae make the right choice.”

Hennie looked up, his eyes tired but focused. “An’ what if I dinnae make the right choice, Peter? What if this march is a mistake?”

“Then we’ll face it together,” Peter replied firmly. “Same as we’ve faced everythin’ else. Ye’re nae alone in this, Hennie. Remember that.”

Hennie nodded slowly, his hand closing around the cup of tea. He took a long sip, letting the warmth spread through him as he allowed himself a brief moment of stillness.

The first light of dawn began to creep over the rooftops of Klazienaveen, casting the city in a pale, golden glow. The soldiers stirred from their rest, moving with quiet efficiency as they packed their supplies and prepared for the day’s march. The tension in the air was palpable, but it was tempered by a sense of purpose.

Hennie stepped out of his tent, dark bags firmly set below his eyes, giving him an exhausted, almost gaunt appearance. His cloak draped over his shoulders, tucked over his neck and wrapped tightly as he shivered from the morning cold, surveying the square. The men moved in steady lines, their faces set with determination. Peter joined him a moment later, his expression steady.

“They’re ready,” Peter said simply.

Hennie nodded, his gaze lingering on the Dumonceau standard as it fluttered above the ranks. “Aye. Then let’s nae keep them waitin’.”

Hennie felt a wave of doubt sweep over him. They marched under the impression that Harmen Brouwer was soon to arrive with supplies and reinforcement. But he had not heard or seen from Brouwer since before his landing at Marrenijl. His deceit would soon unravel in Bourtange—where Brouwer was supposed to meet them. He could feel a mix of anxiety and restlessness forming in the pit of his stomach. It did not feel right.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 15

19th of September, 1706
Nearing Bourtange
Western Aubervijr
Daybreak

The pale light of dawn began to creep over the plains, casting long shadows across the Henricist encampment. The air was damp and cold, clinging to everything it touched, and the faint hum of soldiers stirring in their tents slowly grew into a murmur that filled the stillness. Fires had been reduced to glowing embers, their faint warmth the only comfort against the biting chill.

Hennie sat just outside his tent, staring at the horizon where the first glimmers of sunlight threatened to break the night’s grip. He had not slept—again. His mind, a battlefield of its own, refused him the luxury of rest. Instead, he had spent the hours pouring over the details of the march and the looming question of what awaited them at Bourtange. His cloak, lined with Highland wool, offered little solace against the restless thoughts gnawing at him.

The crunch of boots over gravel broke his reverie. Peter approached, carrying a steaming tin mug in one hand. He wore a faint look of disapproval, though his voice was measured when he spoke. “Ye’ll freeze tae death before we reach Bourtange if ye keep sittin’ like this.”

Hennie reached for the mug without a word, cradling it in his hands as if it might ward off the cold within him. “Sleep feels like a distant memory, Peter. There’s nae time for it now. We march at first light.”

Peter crouched beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. “Aye, but ye’ll need yer wits about ye when we reach the city. This army cannae afford tae lose its head—not when we’re this close.”

Hennie gave a faint smile, though his eyes remained fixed on the horizon. “I’m nae losin’ my head, Peter. Just thinkin’. This march… it feels like the calm before the storm.”

Peter studied him for a moment before clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Then we’ll weather the storm, like we always have. But ye need tae keep yer strength up. The men look tae ye—ye ken that.”

Hennie nodded slowly, taking a long sip from the mug. The warmth spread through him, offering a brief reprieve. “Aye. They look tae me. An’ I’ll nae let them down.”

The camp was alive with movement as the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon. Soldiers moved briskly, their breaths visible in the cold air as they dismantled tents and packed supplies. The clang of metal on metal rang out as weapons were inspected, and the low voices of officers barking orders carried through the organised chaos.

Folkert Oosterhof strode through the camp, his sharp eyes scanning the activity with a critical gaze. His presence was commanding, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure as he paused near a group of soldiers adjusting their kit.

“Keep it tight,” he barked, his tone clipped. “We’re nae marchin’ tae a picnic. If ye cannae keep yer pace, ye’ll hold back the whole column.”

The soldiers straightened immediately, their movements quicker under his watchful eye. Folkert moved on, his expression hard as stone. He made his way toward Gosse, who was overseeing the wagons being loaded with supplies near the rear of the camp.

“These wagons are draggin’ us down,” Folkert said without preamble. “We’ll nae reach Bourtange in time if we keep this pace.”

Gosse didn’t look up from the inventory list in his hand. “The men need food an’ powder as much as they need breath in their lungs. We leave these wagons behind, an’ we may as well surrender the moment we reach the city.”

Folkert’s jaw tightened. “Ye’re too cautious, Gosse. We’re nae fightin’ a siege—we’re fightin’ time. An’ time’s against us.”

“Caution’s kept us alive so far,” Gosse replied, finally meeting Folkert’s gaze. “We’ll move as fast as we can, but we’ll nae sacrifice what we need tae survive the fight ahead.”

The tension between the two men was palpable, but Folkert said nothing more. He turned sharply and strode away, his cloak billowing behind him.

Hennie mounted his horse as the camp fell into formation, the soldiers assembling into disciplined ranks that stretched along the gravel road. The Dumonceau standard was raised high, its bright colours catching the morning light as it was carried to the head of the column.

Peter rode alongside him, his expression calm but thoughtful. “The men are ready,” he said. “But Folkert’s nae happy. He thinks we’re movin’ too slow.”

“Folkert’s nae happy unless he’s in control,” Hennie replied, his tone dry. “But he’ll dae as he’s told. This army’s nae a democracy.”

Peter chuckled faintly. “Aye, but ye ken him. He’ll push until he’s heard.”

“An’ I’ll push back harder,” Hennie said firmly. “We’ve nae time for his games.”

The march began with the rhythmic sound of boots striking the dirt road, a steady cadence that carried the army forward. The landscape was vast and flat, the endless expanse of plains broken only by the occasional cluster of trees or the outline of distant farmhouses. The open sky stretched endlessly above them, a pale grey canvas that seemed to mirror the weight of the campaign.

Folkert, now riding near the front of the column, glanced back at Hennie, his sharp features set in a look of barely concealed frustration. When Peter caught his eye, he gave a faint smirk, as though daring him to speak.

Hennie noticed the exchange but said nothing, his focus remaining on the road ahead. The tension in the air was almost tangible, but he refused to let it distract him.

The soldiers marched in disciplined ranks, the gravel crunching beneath their boots and the wind carrying the faint murmur of their movement across the endless plains. The Henricist army moved with purpose, but the tension among its officers simmered just below the surface.

Folkert Oosterhof rode near the front, his sharp gaze flicking between the horizon and the long column of soldiers. His jaw was set, and his knuckles whitened against the reins of his horse. Gosse de Vries, riding a few paces behind him, was equally focused, his eyes scanning the wagons and men behind them for any sign of disorder.

Folkert slowed his pace until he was beside Hennie, his tone clipped as he spoke. “We’re nae movin’ fast enough. If the Commonwealth catches wind of us before we reach Bourtange, they’ll box us in.”

Hennie didn’t turn his head, his voice steady as he replied. “An’ if we push the men too hard, they’ll collapse before we get there. We’re marchin’ an army, nae a pack of horses.”

Folkert’s lips thinned, but he pressed on. “These plains offer nae protection. If Coster’s men are anywhere near, we’ll be sittin’ ducks out here.”

“An’ that’s why we’re keepin’ the column tight an’ the scouts watchin’,” Hennie replied firmly. “We’ve made it this far without a fight, an’ I’ll nae have ye stirrin’ up panic wi’ yer doom-talk.”

Peter, riding on Hennie’s other side, glanced at Folkert, his tone calm but pointed. “If ye’ve concerns, Folkert, voice them tae the men yer commandin’, nae the ones marchin’ ahead o’ ye. They’re lookin’ tae ye for confidence, nae fear.”

Folkert turned sharply to Peter, his eyes narrowing. “Confidence without caution is foolishness. I’ve seen what happens when leaders underestimate their enemy. I’ll nae let it happen again.”

“An’ I’ve seen what happens when leaders tear their own ranks apart wi’ bickerin’,” Peter shot back, his voice still level but firm. “We’ve a common goal, Folkert. Let’s keep it that way.”

Further back in the column, Gosse de Vries rode among the wagons, his sharp eyes scanning every soldier and load. He spotted Reinder Wiarda riding beside one of the supply carts, his usual calm demeanour offset by a faint scowl.

“Trouble, Reinder?” Gosse asked as he pulled alongside him.

Reinder shook his head, though his tone betrayed his unease. “Nae trouble yet. But if Folkert keeps pressin’ Hennie tae push harder, there will be.”

Gosse snorted quietly. “Folkert’s barkin’ like he always does. But Hennie’ll handle him. He’s nae got time for Folkert’s games.”

“Maybe,” Reinder replied. “But Folkert’s nae a fool. He’ll keep pushin’ until he gets what he wants, or until someone stops him.”

Gosse frowned, his gaze turning toward the front of the column. “Aye. An’ if he pushes too hard, he might find himself stopped in a way he won’t like.”

As the morning wore on, the officers reconvened near the head of the column, their horses forming a loose circle as they discussed the plan ahead. The tension was palpable, the wind carrying their clipped tones across the open plains.

“We need tae keep the men movin’ steady,” Hennie said, his tone decisive. “We’ll take a short rest at midday, then press on tae Bourtange before nightfall.”

“A rest?” Folkert interrupted sharply, his tone cutting through Hennie’s words like a blade. “At this distance, we shouldnae be stoppin’ at all. If we push forward, we could reach Bourtange by midday an’ catch the garrison unprepared.”

Peter’s gaze turned cold as he replied, “An’ if we push forward wi’out rest, the men’ll collapse before they even reach the gates. It’s nae just the garrison we’re thinkin’ of, Folkert. There’s a battle tae fight after we get there.”

“We’ve marched armies before, Peter,” Folkert retorted, his voice clipped. “Men can endure far more than ye give them credit for. If we stop now, we risk losin’ the initiative entirely.”

“An’ if we drive them tae exhaustion, we’ll lose more than the initiative,” Peter shot back. “We’ll lose the battle itself.”

Hennie raised a hand, his sharp voice silencing both men. “Enough. We’ll rest, but nae for long. The men’ll need their strength if there’s resistance waitin’ at Bourtange. This march is a means tae an end, nae the end itself.”

Folkert’s jaw tightened, but he nodded curtly. “As ye say, General. But ye’d best hope the Commonwealth isnae already sittin’ behind those walls.”

“They’re nae there,” Reinder interjected, his tone calm but firm. “If they were, the scouts would’ve brought word by now. The city’s ours for the takin’, but only if we’re smart about it.”

Hennie gave Reinder a brief nod. “Exactly. We’ve nae use for haste if it costs us the fight. Bourtange’ll be ours by nightfall, but only if we reach it ready tae fight.”

The column pressed on, the tension thick enough to weigh on the air around the officers. The landscape around them remained stark and unyielding, the flat plains offering little distraction from the growing unease among the command. The soldiers marched steadily, their boots kicking up thin clouds of dust that hung in the still air.

Peter pulled his horse closer to Hennie, lowering his voice so only he could hear. “Folkert’s nae goin’ tae stop pressin’. He’s too used tae bein’ the one givin’ orders.”

Hennie glanced briefly at Peter, his expression unreadable. “I ken. But he’ll dae as he’s told. If he doesnae, he’ll find himself marchin’ at the rear instead o’ the front.”

“An’ what if he pushes the men too far?” Peter asked.

“Then he’ll answer tae me,” Hennie replied flatly.

Near midday, the column came to a halt at Hennie’s signal. The soldiers sat down where they stood, grateful for even the briefest reprieve from the relentless march. Water bottles were passed around, and the faint murmur of conversation rose as the men took a moment to catch their breath.

The officers gathered once more, their circle tight and voices low. The rest of the march would take them to the gates of Bourtange, and every detail of the approach needed to be considered.

“We’ll split the vanguard,” Gosse suggested, pointing to a rough map spread across the table they had propped on barrels. “One column tae each side o’ the city. The main force’ll advance on the gates. If there’s resistance, we’ll box them in.”

“An’ if they’ve more men than we expect?” Reinder asked, his arms crossed.

“Then we adapt,” Hennie said simply. “But we’ll nae approach blind. Scouts’ll go ahead as we get closer. If there’s any sign o’ movement, I want tae ken about it before the men are in range.”

Folkert crossed his arms, his scepticism evident. “If they’ve scouts watchin’ us, we’ll nae catch them by surprise. This approach could still be a trap.”

“Every approach could be a trap, Folkert,” Peter said sharply. “That’s the nature o’ war. But we dinnae win by standin’ still an’ second-guessin’ every step.”

Hennie’s voice cut through the tension, calm but commanding. “We’ll move steady an’ prepared. If there’s resistance, we’ll face it. If there’s nae, then we’ll have the city before nightfall. Either way, we win by marchin’ forward, nae by stoppin’ tae argue.”

The march resumed, the soldiers falling back into formation with practised ease. The closer they came to Bourtange, the more palpable the tension grew. The officers rode in silence, their gazes fixed on the horizon where the faint outline of the city’s walls began to take shape.

The gravel road began to harden underfoot, its pale surface interspersed with patches of flattened grass and dirt. The soldiers pressed forward, their boots beating a steady rhythm that resonated in the cool afternoon air. The closer they drew to Bourtange, the more focused their movements became—no chatter, no unnecessary pauses. It was as if the looming presence of the city demanded silence.

The officers rode ahead of the column, their formation tighter now as the city’s outline grew clearer. The faint shape of the walls, dark against the horizon, sent a ripple of energy through the ranks. For weeks, their march had been defined by uncertainty, but now there was something tangible ahead—an objective, a prize to seize.

Hennie turned to Peter, who was scanning the distant walls with a furrowed brow. “What dae ye see?”

“Walls nae near as high as Harlingen’s,” Peter said, his tone thoughtful. “But well-built, all the same. If there’s men inside, they’ll make us work for it.”

Folkert rode up on Hennie’s other side, his expression sharp. “If there’s men inside, we’d best ken it before we reach the gates. Have the scouts nae reported back yet?”

“They’ll return soon enough,” Hennie replied calmly, though his eyes flicked toward the horizon. “An’ when they dae, we’ll ken what’s waitin’ for us.”

Folkert’s impatience was evident, but he held his tongue. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder at the long line of soldiers stretching behind them. “The men’ll need tae be ready for a fight. If the Commonwealth’s had time tae fortify, we’ll nae walk in unopposed.”

“An’ if they havenae?” Gosse asked, his tone dry. “Will ye be disappointed, Folkert?”

Peter chuckled softly, but Folkert’s glare silenced him. “I’ll nae be disappointed if we take the city. But I’ll be damned if we lose it through complacency.”

“Enough,” Hennie said firmly, his voice cutting through the tension. “We’ll ken the truth soon enough. Until then, we keep marchin’.”

The road curved slightly, leading the column over a gentle rise that offered a clear view of Bourtange. The city’s walls, though weathered, stood strong against the flat expanse of the plains. Beyond the gates, the faint outlines of rooftops were visible, their chimneys sending thin plumes of smoke into the sky.

The sight brought a murmur through the ranks, the soldiers glancing at one another with a mix of anticipation and unease. The officers reined in their horses at the crest of the rise, their gazes fixed on the city ahead.

Reinder broke the silence. “If there’s men inside, they’re keepin’ quiet. I see nae movement on the walls.”

“Could be a bluff,” Folkert muttered. “Or they could be waitin’ tae see our numbers before showin’ themselves.”

“Or the city’s empty,” Gosse added. “Wouldnae be the first time word o’ our march cleared a place out.”

Peter glanced at Hennie, his tone cautious. “What’s the call? Dae we send a parley, or dae we move straight tae the gates?”

Hennie’s jaw tightened as he considered the options. “We move tae the gates. If there’s resistance, we’ll meet it there. If there’s nae, then we’ll take the city without firin’ a shot.”

Folkert nodded reluctantly. “Aye. But the men’ll need tae be ready tae fight the moment we’re seen.”

“They’re always ready,” Hennie replied. “Let’s hope they dinnae need tae prove it.”

As the column descended the rise, the soldiers adjusted their formations, their weapons glinting faintly in the afternoon light. The closer they drew to the gates, the more evident it became that the city was eerily quiet. There were no banners flying from the walls, no figures standing guard on the ramparts.

Hennie raised a hand, signalling the column to halt just short of the outer gates. The officers gathered around him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and caution.

“Gosse,” Hennie said, gesturing toward the walls. “Take a few men an’ approach. Let’s see if there’s anyone inside willin’ tae talk.”

Gosse nodded, dismounting from his horse with practised ease. He selected two soldiers from the vanguard and led them forward, their steps measured as they approached the gates. The sound of their boots echoed faintly, emphasising the unnerving stillness.

The rest of the army waited, the tension palpable. Peter kept his gaze fixed on Gosse, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. “If there’s an ambush, they’ll spring it now,” he muttered.

“There’s nae ambush,” Hennie said quietly, though his posture remained tense. “If there was, we’d have seen it by now.”

Gosse reached the gates and knocked firmly, the sound reverberating through the air. For a long moment, there was no response. Then, a slow creak sounded across the column.

As the gates of Bourtange slowly opened, a low murmur rippled through the Henricist ranks. The soldiers shifted uneasily, their weapons ready, as all eyes fixed on the darkened passage beyond. Gosse and his men stood at the threshold, their postures tense but unwavering. For a moment, nothing stirred. The city beyond was still, its streets shrouded in the faint haze of chimney smoke and the muted light of the late afternoon.

Hennie motioned for the officers to advance with him, his voice calm but commanding. “Let’s move. If there’s anyone waitin’ tae greet us, they’ll ken we’re nae tae be played wi’.”

Peter rode at his side, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “It’s quiet,” he muttered. “If there’s resistance, they’re hidin’ it well.”

“Nae banners, nae sentries,” Reinder observed, his tone low but thoughtful. “If the Commonwealth left men here, they’ve abandoned their posts, or worse.”

Folkert, riding just behind them, scoffed. “Or they’re inside, ready tae lock the gates behind us once we’re in.”

“Then we’ll nae give them the chance,” Hennie replied, his voice firm. “Gosse, take the vanguard through. The rest’ll follow once the streets are clear.”

Gosse nodded sharply, signalling the first ranks of soldiers forward. They moved with caution, their boots echoing on the cobbled streets as they passed through the gates and into the city proper. The officers followed closely, their eyes scanning every window, every alleyway, every shadow for signs of movement.

Inside, Bourtange was eerily deserted. The streets were narrow and winding, lined with brick buildings that loomed overhead. Many of the windows were shuttered, though the faint flicker of candlelight behind some gave away the presence of those hiding within. The air was heavy with a damp chill, the kind that clung to the skin and seeped into the bones.

Hennie dismounted, his boots striking the cobblestones as he took in the city around him. “Spread out,” he ordered, his voice cutting through the silence. “I want every street secured, every building searched. If there’s anyone left in this city, we’ll find them.”

Peter moved quickly to relay the orders, his sharp tone galvanising the soldiers into action. Groups of men fanned out, their weapons at the ready as they began to sweep the narrow alleys and darkened courtyards.

Folkert dismounted as well, his expression grim as he approached Hennie. “If there’s nae garrison, then the city’s ours for the takin’. But it’s nae like the Commonwealth tae abandon a place like this without reason.”

“They’ll have their reasons,” Hennie replied, his tone measured. “But it doesnae matter now. What matters is holdin’ it.”

The process of securing Bourtange was methodical but tense. The soldiers moved through the city in pairs and small groups, their voices low as they called out for any sign of life. Occasionally, a door would creak open, and a frightened face would peer out, only to disappear again when the soldiers approached.

Peter oversaw the searches, his calm demeanour steadying the men under his command. “If the people’re hidin’, leave them be,” he told one group. “We’re nae here tae fight civilians.”

Reinder joined him, his brow furrowed as he scanned the rooftops. “If there’s anyone watchin’, they’re doin’ it from above. The streets are too quiet.”

“Aye,” Peter agreed. “But quiet’s better than chaos. Let’s keep it that way.”

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the officers regrouped in the city square. Hennie stood at the centre, the Dumonceau standard planted firmly in the cobblestones beside him. Around him, the officers reported in turn, their voices echoing slightly in the open space.

“The city’s clear,” Gosse said. “Nae sign of the Commonwealth, an’ the people’ve kept tae their homes. They’re scared, but they’re nae fightin’ us.”

Folkert crossed his arms, his expression sceptical. “It’s too easy. If Coster’s nae sendin’ reinforcements here, it’s because he kens somethin’ we don’t.”

“Or because he’s been slowed,” Reinder pointed out. “The rain in the north bogged his men down. He’ll nae reach us before tomorrow, at the earliest.”

Hennie’s gaze swept the gathered officers, his voice steady but firm. “Whatever Coster’s plan is, it doesnae matter. We’ve taken Bourtange, an’ we’ll hold it. The men’ll rest tonight, but I want every entrance guarded. If the Commonwealth’s comin’, they’ll nae catch us unprepared.”

As the soldiers settled into their positions, the city began to exhale its long-held tension. Fires flickered in the streets as the Henricists lit their camp, their shadows dancing against the brick walls. The sound of marching boots and whispered orders faded into the background, replaced by the low hum of quiet conversation and the occasional crackle of flame.

Hennie remained in the square long after the officers had dispersed, his eyes fixed on the Dumonceau standard. Peter approached him quietly, his footsteps soft against the cobblestones.

“Ye should rest,” Peter said simply.

Hennie shook his head. “Nae yet. There’s too much tae think about. Tomorrow’s another fight, an’ we’ve nae the luxury o’ peace.”

Peter clapped a hand on his shoulder, his expression calm but firm. “The men’ll fight because they believe in ye, Hennie. But they’ll need ye tae be sharp. Get some rest. I’ll watch over things tonight.”

Hennie hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Aye. But wake me if there’s any sign o’ trouble.”

“Ye ken I will,” Peter said quietly with a faint smile, his voice calm yet firm as he watched Hennie. The two stood under the glow of the Dumonceau standard, the soft flicker of torchlight painting their faces with shadows. The square had quietened for the night, but it was a fragile stillness, one punctuated by the occasional sound of soldiers moving in the distance or the hushed chatter of recruits trying to settle.

Hennie’s gaze lingered on the flag above them, its vibrant colours dimmed by the evening. He looked exhausted, the lines on his face deeper than ever. “I dinnae trust this city tae keep quiet,” he murmured. “Even wi’ our men patrollin’, it feels… uneasy. Like it’s watchin’ us back.”

Peter gave a faint nod, folding his arms as he leaned against a nearby post. “The townsfolk’ll be watchin’, aye. They’ve nae reason tae love us, Hennie. But they’ve nae reason tae rise up, either. They’ll stay in their homes an’ let us pass through. They’ll want nae part o’ this fight.”

Hennie gave a short, humourless laugh. “Aye, they’ll sit an’ wait tae see who wins. That’s what folk always dae, isnae it?”

Before Peter could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps broke the quiet. A young officer, his uniform still stiff from recent wear—came rushing into the square. His breathing was laboured, and his expression was one of both excitement and apprehension.

“Prince, Lieutenant-General Bijlsma, sir,” the officer stammered, pausing to catch his breath. “The men from Bourtange—they’ve arrived. Three hundred of them, ready to join the army.”

Peter’s brow arched in surprise, and Hennie’s shoulders straightened, though his exhaustion was still evident. “Three hundred?” Hennie asked, his voice measured. “Where are they now?”

“They’ve gathered in the south square, sir,” the officer replied. “They’re waitin’ tae be addressed.”

Hennie exchanged a glance with Peter, whose expression was unreadable. “Three hundred’s nae small number,” Peter said quietly. “But they’re nae soldiers. This’ll be interestin’, tae say the least.”

The south square was alive with murmurs as the recruits stood in loose clusters, their figures dimly illuminated by torches. Most of them wore mismatched clothing—labourers’ shirts, patched trousers, and boots worn down by years of hard use—very distinct from the Faursians, who dressed in ragged plaid-covered clothing and wrap-around knee-length skirts. A few had weapons slung awkwardly over their shoulders, likely the only blades they’d ever held. Their faces, illuminated by the flickering light, were a mixture of determination, fear, and weariness.

Hennie approached with Peter at his side, the officers trailing behind him. As the recruits noticed his presence, the murmurs quietened, and all eyes turned toward the Dumonceau standard carried behind him. Hennie stopped a few paces from the front line, his gaze sweeping over the ragged group.

One of the recruits stepped forward, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard and a blacksmith’s build. His accent was unmistakable, the cadence of Bourtange colouring his words. “My Prince,” he said, his voice deep and steady. “We are here because we believe in your cause. The Commonwealth has had its boot on our necks long enough. Tell us where you need us, and we will fight.”

Peter tilted his head slightly, glancing at Hennie, but said nothing. Hennie stepped forward, his exhaustion momentarily masked by the weight of command. “Ye’ve done a bold thing, leavin’ yer homes tae stand wi’ us,” he began, his voice carrying over the square. “But fightin’ for freedom’s nae a bold thing. It’s the only thing. The Commonwealth’s taken too much from all of us—our lands, our people, our futures. If we dinnae fight for them, nae one will.”

The recruits stood silent, the weight of his words sinking in. Hennie continued, his tone hardening. “But this fight’s nae just about believin’. It’s about sacrificin’. It’s about marchin’ through mud an’ blood tae stand against an enemy that’ll stop at nothin’. If any o’ ye think this’ll be easy, ye’re welcome tae leave now. There’s nae shame in it. But if ye stay, ye’ll fight wi’ men who’d die for this cause. That’s what I expect from every one o’ ye.”

The bearded man, standing at the front, nodded slowly. “We will fight,” he said simply. His voice was steady, but the determination in his eyes was unmistakable.

As the recruits dispersed to find places among the campfires, Peter and Reinder remained behind with Hennie, their expressions heavy with thought. “Three hundred’s a good number,” Reinder said, his voice low. “But they’ll nae hold against trained troops.”

“They’ll learn,” Hennie replied shortly. “We’ve nae other choice.”

Peter frowned, his tone cautious. “The men’ll fight better knowin’ these townsfolk’re behind them. But they’ll also fight better if they’ve had rest. Ye’ve nae stopped since Klazienaveen, Hennie. It’s showin’.”

“I’ll rest when we’ve won,” Hennie replied, his voice sharp. “Until then, we move forward.”

The officers convened later that night in a cottage looking over Bourtange’s main square. The room was dimly lit by a handful of lanterns, the tension in the air thick as they gathered around the table, their expressions grim. Gosse opened the discussion, his voice cutting through the quiet.

“We’ve reached Bourtange, but this is as far as we should go,” he said bluntly. “The Commonwealth’ll nae sit idle. If we press deeper intae Aubervijr, we risk gettin’ cut off entirely.”

“I agree,” Reinder said, his arms crossed. “We’ve nae reinforcements, nae proper supply lines. An’ these new recruits—bold as they are—willnae hold a line if Coster’s men reach us first.”

Folkert, leaning against the wall, smirked faintly. “Glad tae hear I’m nae the only one thinkin’ clearly for once. If we hold here, we’ve a chance. Pushin’ forward’s a gamble, an’ I dinnae ken if it’s one worth takin’.”

Hennie’s gaze hardened, his voice cutting across the room. “Ye’ve all made yer thoughts clear. But this army’ll nae stop here. We’ve come this far because we’ve pressed forward, nae because we’ve hesitated.”

“And where are we tae go?” Peter asked carefully, his voice softer but no less firm. “The men’ve marched hard, Hennie. They’ll need more than bold words tae keep movin’.”

Hennie’s jaw tightened, his exhaustion evident in the sharpness of his tone. “We march tae Amerongen. Brouwer’ll meet us there wi’ his fleet, an’ together we’ll push through the heart o’ Aubervijr.”

Folkert’s eyes narrowed. “Ye’re sure Brouwer’s comin’? Or is this another gamble?”

“He’s comin’,” Hennie said flatly, though the words carried a weight he couldn’t quite mask. “An’ we’ll be ready tae meet him.”

The meeting was interrupted by the sudden arrival of a scout, his face pale and his breathing ragged. “Prince, sires,” he said urgently, doing his best to show his respect to the men in the room, who were of a much higher stature than he; “Romeijnders an’ Ceulemans’ army’s been sighted on the River Tijens. They’re headin’ this way.”

The room fell deathly silent, the weight of the news settling over the officers like a heavy cloak. Every face turned a white shade of pale as every eye seemed to linger on the table below them, then to Hennie, as straightened, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

“How many men?” Folkert asked finally, his eyes looking up at the scout intently. His expression was stone cold and unreadable, but there was a look in his eye that Hennie had seen very rarely; it was as if Folkert was, or was close to being, afraid.

“Fourteen thousand.”

The two words struck each man in the room like a cannonball. That was close to two and half times the size of the Henricist army.

“Maybe more. I dinnae ken.”

“Jesus Christ…” Folkert murmured to himself, however every man at the table heard him. A heavy silence set over them once more.

“Then we’ve nae choice,” Hennie said quietly, breaking the silence. “We march tae Amerongen at first light.”

“Have ye gone mad?” Folkert snapped, his hands smashing against the table as he stood up, his chair crashing down beneath him. “Ye want to march further into Aubervijr?”

The silence hung over them once more, as Folkert lingered over the table, the eyes of each man darting between him and Hennie, who stared each other down, almost dangerously.

“That will be the death of us.” Folkert concluded, taking a deep breath lifting his chair and sitting back down.

“It is decided.” Hennie said quietly, as if all energy had been drained from him. His mind raced, and yet he could not think. He felt anxious, perhaps terrified—his eyelids heavy; nearly two days without proper sleep, he was not the Hennie he usually was. The normal Hennie was confident, with a straight-back; he was neither. Suddenly, he scrambled to his feet, murmuring “adjourned…”, as he quickly left the room; leaving each man still sitting at the table, gazing at each other in silent disbelief.

The scout filed out of the room next, having stood in awkward silence until Hennie left, and the door shut firmly behind him.

“We are doomed.” Folkert murmured. “He has lost himself and damned the rest o’ us.”

Gosse frowned slightly. “Trust him. Trust Hennie.”

“Trust him?” Folkert snapped, his eyes landing on Gosse, almost judgemental. “There’s an army near thrice our size moving on us as we speak… Coster too. And we are to move further inland? We are at risk of being cut-off as is.”

“We have gotten this far. Brouwer will come. Hennie has said Brouwer has 10,000 men.” Gosse reaffirmed, despite the fact he was sceptical himself. “Then we can meet the Commonwalth and fight a fair fight.”

“And ye believe him?” Folkert asked, his eyebrows narrowing. “Ye are just as senseless as the Prince.” Folkert snapped, standing and retiring from the room in a hurry. The rest of the council filed out silently behind him, the candlelight still flickering across the walls in the room.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 17

24th of September, 1706
Outskirts of Ameromgen
Central Aubervijr - 242 miles from the Maresdoep
Late afternoon

The Henricist column moved slowly through the open plains of western Aubervijr, the soldiers’ boots crunching against the dirt road. A biting wind swept across the expanse, carrying with it the faint, sharp smell of distant smoke. The horizon stretched endlessly in all directions, the flat, barren land offering neither comfort nor cover.

Hennie Dumonceau rode at the head of the column, his expression cold and unreadable. He had barely slept since leaving Bourtange, his thoughts consumed by the weight of their march and the growing unease in his command. His dark cloak whipped around him in the wind, and his hand rested firmly on the pommel of his sword.

Peter rode beside him, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The silence between the two was heavy, laden with unspoken concerns. Finally, Peter broke it.

“Still nae sign o’ the city,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the wind. “Amerongen feels farther away wi’ every step.”

“It’s nae farther than it was yesterday,” Hennie replied curtly, his gaze fixed ahead. “The men’ll keep marchin’. They’ve nae other choice.”

Peter frowned, his tone measured. “The men’ll march because they trust ye, Hennie. But that trust’ll only hold so long. If there’s nae sign o’ Brouwer soon…”

“Brouwer’ll be there,” Hennie interrupted sharply, though his voice carried a note of uncertainty. “He kens what’s at stake. He’ll nae leave us tae face this alone.”

Further back in the column, Folkert Oosterhof rode among the officers, his sharp gaze flicking between the weary soldiers and the endless road ahead. The recruits from Bourtange, huddled together near the rear, were struggling to keep pace. Their steps faltered more with every mile, their breath visible in the cold air.

“These men’re nae fit for this,” Folkert muttered, his voice low but bitter. “They’re draggin’ the rest o’ us down.”

Reinder Wiarda, riding nearby, cast him a sidelong glance. “Better tae have them than nae one at all. Every man’s another body tae hold the line, aye?”

“Another body tae slow the march,” Folkert snapped. “If it comes tae a fight, these recruits’ll break before the first shot’s fired. They’re nae soldiers—they’re farmers wi’ sticks.”

Reinder shrugged, his tone dry. “An’ we’re marchin’ through farmland, Folkert. Ye’d best get used tae it.”

Folkert’s expression darkened, but he held his tongue, his frustration evident in the tightness of his jaw.

As the hours dragged on, the atmosphere in the column grew heavier. The men trudged forward in grim silence, their shoulders hunched against the cold. Whispers of discontent floated through the ranks, faint but persistent.

“D’ye reckon we’ll even make it tae Amerongen?” one soldier muttered to another, his voice low.

“If we dae, what then?” his companion replied bitterly. “The Commonwealth’s waitin’ for us there, or they’ll be followin’ close behind. Either way, we’re done.”

Peter overheard the exchange and reined his horse closer to the group. His voice was sharp, cutting through their murmurs. “Keep yer eyes forward an’ yer mouths shut. Ye’ll nae make it tae Amerongen wi’ talk like that.”

The soldiers straightened, their faces pale as they hastened their pace.

As the sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the plains, Hennie called for a brief halt. The men collapsed where they stood, their breaths heavy and laboured. Officers moved among them, issuing quiet orders and ensuring no one strayed too far from the column.

Hennie dismounted and walked through the ranks, his boots crunching against the ground. His presence drew cautious glances from the men, though few dared to meet his gaze.

“Rest while ye can,” he said quietly to a group of Highlanders sitting near the edge of the road. “We’ll nae stop again for some time.”

One of the men nodded, his voice steady despite his exhaustion. “Aye, Prince. We’ll be ready.”

Hennie gave a curt nod and continued on, his steps heavy with the weight of his thoughts.

The officers gathered near the edge of the halted column, their expressions grim as they exchanged hushed words.

“We’re pushin’ them too hard,” Gosse de Vries said, his tone sharp. “The men’re at their limit, Hennie. If we keep this pace, we’ll start losin’ them.”

“We’ll lose them faster if we slow,” Folkert countered, his voice biting. “The Commonwealth’s nae far behind, an’ every second we waste is another second they gain on us.”

Peter frowned, his tone calm but firm. “An’ every second we push the men, they’ll lose faith in why we’re marchin’. They need tae ken what’s ahead—tae believe there’s a reason tae keep goin’.”

Reinder crossed his arms, his expression sceptical. “An’ what if Brouwer’s nae there, Hennie? What then? We’ll’ve marched ourselves straight intae a trap.”

Hennie’s gaze swept over the officers, his voice cold and commanding. “Amerongen’s nae the end o’ this march—it’s just the next step. Brouwer’ll be there. He has tae be. Until then, we march. If any man’s too tired tae follow, he’s free tae stay behind.”

The officers exchanged uneasy glances, the tension between them palpable. Finally, Peter spoke, his voice steady. “Aye. But if we’re tae make it, the men’ll need more than orders tae keep marchin’. They’ll need somethin’ tae hold on tae.”

As the column resumed its march, the horizon remained stubbornly empty, the faint outline of Amerongen still hidden beyond the endless expanse of plains. The men moved with a grim determination, their silence punctuated only by the steady crunch of boots against the road.

Hennie rode at the front, his thoughts heavy as the weight of their journey pressed down on him. Behind him, the officers maintained their positions, their voices low as they continued to debate their next move.

The Henricist column pressed onward, the barren landscape offering no reprieve from the biting wind or the unyielding monotony. The gravel road, rutted and uneven, stretched endlessly ahead, framed by the occasional bare tree or distant, abandoned farmstead. The soldiers moved in silence, their weariness palpable in every step, their breaths misting in the frigid air.

Hennie continued, his gaze fixed on the horizon as though willing the city of Amerongen to appear. His cloak billowed faintly in the wind, but his posture was rigid, his exhaustion hidden behind a mask of resolve.

Peter rode beside him, his sharp eyes scanning the land around them. “The men’re falterin’,” he said quietly, breaking the silence. “Even the recruits from Bourtange’re keepin’ quiet now.”

“They’ll march,” Hennie replied tersely. “They’ve nae other choice.”

“Aye,” Peter said, his voice measured. “But marchin’ without hope’s a dangerous thing, Hennie. Ye ken as well as I do that they’ll need somethin’ tae believe in if we’re tae see this through.”

“Hope’s a luxury we cannae afford,” Hennie said sharply. “They’ll march because I tell them tae, an’ that’s all there is tae it.”

Peter frowned but held his tongue, his concern evident in the tightness of his jaw.

Further back in the column, Folkert Oosterhof rode among the officers, his sharp gaze lingering on the recruits from Bourtange. Their faces were pale, their steps faltering more with every mile.

“These men’re nae soldiers,” Folkert muttered to Reinder Wiarda, who rode beside him. “They’re nae even farmers. They’re children playin’ at war.”

Reinder raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. “They’re what we’ve got, Folkert. Better them than nothin’.”

“They’ll break at the first sign o’ trouble,” Folkert said darkly. “An’ when they dae, they’ll take the rest o’ the army with them.”

Reinder shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe they’ll surprise ye.”

Folkert snorted, his tone bitter. “If we’re countin’ on surprises, we’ve already lost.”

Hours passed, the road stretching endlessly ahead as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The column slowed as exhaustion took its toll, the once-steady rhythm of boots on gravel becoming uneven. The tension among the officers was palpable, their voices low but sharp as they argued over the best course of action.

“We need tae rest the men,” Gosse de Vries said firmly. “Another day o’ this pace, an’ we’ll start losin’ them.”

“We’ll lose them faster if we stop,” Folkert countered. “Every second we waste’s another second the Commonwealth’s closin’ the gap.”

“We cannae keep pushin’ them like this,” Peter said, his tone calm but forceful. “The men’re at their limit. If we dinnae give them a reason tae keep goin’, they’ll break before we even see Amerongen.”

Hennie, listening in silence, finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “We’ll nae stop until we reach the city. If the men break, they’ll break there. Until then, they march. That’s the end o’ it.”

The officers exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing more.

As the sun began to set, casting the plains in hues of orange and grey, the faint outline of Amerongen finally appeared on the horizon. The sight of the city, though distant, stirred a flicker of energy among the soldiers. Their steps quickened slightly, their heads lifting as they whispered to one another.

“There it is,” Peter said softly, his tone a mixture of relief and caution. “Amerongen.”

Hennie didn’t reply, his gaze fixed on the distant spire of the church rising above the clustered rooftops.

Behind them, the officers began issuing quiet orders, ensuring the column maintained its discipline as they approached the city. The soldiers, though weary, moved with a renewed sense of purpose, their earlier despair replaced by a cautious hope.

The road to Amerongen grew narrower as the Henricist column approached the city. The outline of the modest stone walls came into clearer view, their edges worn and weathered by years of neglect. Hennie’s sharp eyes swept across the scene as they advanced, his grip on the reins tightening.

Peter rode alongside him, his tone measured but uneasy. “There’s movement by the gates, Hennie. It’s nae much, but it’s somethin’.”

Hennie’s gaze shifted to the faint flicker of activity near the entrance to the city. A small group of soldiers, no more than a handful, could be seen moving along the wall, their figures outlined against the dimming light.

“A garrison,” Hennie said curtly. “Small enough tae be crushed, but large enough tae make trouble if we hesitate.”

Folkert approached from the middle of the column, his expression grim. “They’ve nae the numbers tae hold us back. But if they put up a fight, it’ll slow us down. The men’re ready, but they’ll nae last long wi’ any more delays.”

Hennie dismounted, handing his reins to a nearby soldier. His voice was sharp as he addressed the officers gathered around him. “Peter, take twenty men an’ secure the gate. Reinder, Gosse—flank the walls an’ cut off any escape. Folkert, ye’ll lead the main charge when the gate’s breached. I want it done quick an’ clean. Nae room for errors.”

Peter nodded, his tone steady. “Aye, Prince. We’ll make short work o’ them.”

As the Henricists approached the gates, the small garrison scrambled into position. The defenders were regular soldiers, well-armed but clearly outnumbered. Their movements were rushed, their shouts carrying a note of panic as they prepared for the oncoming assault.

“Hold the line!” one of the garrison commanders barked, his voice firm despite the visible fear in his eyes. “They’re nae as strong as they look!”

The Henricists moved with precision, their advance methodical and unwavering. Peter led the initial charge, his men fanning out as they reached the gate. The clash was swift and brutal—the garrison, though trained, was no match for the Henricists’ disciplined assault.

Blades clashed, shouts echoed through the narrow streets, and the metallic tang of blood filled the air. The defenders, overwhelmed and outmanoeuvred, fell quickly under the Henricists’ relentless advance.

Folkert’s voice rang out above the chaos, his orders cutting through the din. “Push forward! Leave nae one standin’!”

The garrison commander, realising the hopelessness of their position, attempted to rally his men for a last stand. His sword swung with desperate precision, but he was swiftly cut down by Reinder, who struck with calculated brutality.

Within minutes, the skirmish was over. The bodies of the garrison lay scattered across the cobblestones, their blood pooling in the cracks of the road. The Henricists stood victorious, their breaths heavy but their morale bolstered by the decisive win.

Hennie strode through the gates, his boots echoing against the bloodied stone. He surveyed the scene with a critical eye, his expression hard as he addressed the officers gathered around him.

“It’s done,” he said coldly. “The city’s ours.”

Peter stepped forward, his tone calm but firm. “Aye. But nae without a price. The men’re spent, Hennie. They’ll need rest before we move again.”

“They’ll rest when it’s safe,” Hennie replied sharply. “For now, secure the city. Reinder, take men tae the square an’ establish control. Folkert, sweep the outskirts—make sure there’s nae one left tae report back tae the Commonwealth.”

The officers nodded, their fatigue evident but their resolve unshaken.

The Henricists moved quickly to secure Amerongen, their presence spreading through the city like a storm. Townsfolk watched from behind shuttered windows and bolted doors, their fear palpable as the soldiers marched through the narrow streets.

Hennie and his officers reached the central square, where a group of local leaders had gathered under duress. The mayor, his face pale and his hands trembling, stepped forward.

“Please,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’re simple folk. We mean nae harm.”

Hennie’s voice was cold and commanding. “Shelter. Food. Supplies. Ye’ll provide what we need, an’ ye’ll do it without trouble. We’ve nae interest in harmin’ ye, but if ye resist, we’ll take what we need by force.”

The mayor nodded hastily, his fear overriding any thoughts of resistance. “O-of course, Eusebius. Whatever you require.”

The soldiers moved quickly, their heavy boots thudding against the cobblestones as they spread out through Amerongen’s narrow streets. Fires were lit sparingly, the faint glow casting flickering shadows against the walls of buildings as the Henricists methodically secured their new hold. Officers barked orders to their men, ensuring that discipline was maintained even in the tense aftermath of the skirmish.

Hennie stood in the central square, his arms folded tightly as he watched the city come under his control. Around him, officers huddled in quiet conversation, their voices low but urgent. Reinder Wiarda returned from the perimeter, his face drawn but his tone measured.

“The outskirts’re clear,” he said. “Nae sign o’ any reinforcements or riders headin’ for help. We’ve got time tae fortify, but nae much.”

Hennie nodded curtly, his expression hard. “Good. Make sure every road in an’ out o’ this city’s secured. Folkert, take a dozen men an’ sweep the warehouses for supplies. Peter, have the men set up pickets tae keep watch through the night.”

Peter hesitated before speaking, his voice cautious. “An’ the townsfolk, Hennie? They’ll nae sit idle if we take too much.”

“They’ll dae what they’re told,” Hennie replied sharply. “An’ if they’ve sense, they’ll dae it quietly.”

In the central square, the mayor and a group of city leaders stood awkwardly under the watchful eyes of Henricist guards. Their faces were pale, their postures stiff with fear. The mayor stepped forward hesitantly, wringing his hands.

“Eusebius,” he began, his voice trembling, “we’ve complied with your requests, as best we can. But the stores… they’re limited. If we empty them now, our people—”

“Your people’ll survive,” Hennie interrupted coldly. “That’s more than can be said for mine if we fail here. Ye’ll provide what’s needed, nae questions asked. Is that clear?”

The mayor nodded quickly, though his face betrayed his unease. “Yes, Eusebius. Of course.”

Nearby, Peter exchanged a glance with Gosse de Vries, his expression grim. “The people’ll resent us, Hennie,” Peter said quietly. “An’ resentment breeds trouble. We’ve nae time for unrest.”

“Then make sure there’s nae time for it,” Hennie replied bluntly. “We’re nae here tae win hearts—we’re here tae win a war.”

As the night deepened, the officers gathered at Rhenenhuis, an imposing 17th-century brick mansion on the city’s edge. The building’s high windows and sturdy walls reflected the faded wealth of Amerongen, now repurposed as a command centre for the Henricists. Torches cast flickering light across the grand wooden table at the centre of the room, where a map of the region was spread out, its markings faint but clear.

Hennie entered last, his cloak trailing behind him as the officers fell silent. The air in the room grew thicker and thicker, every passing second winding the tension tighter, as though the very walls of Rhenenhuis strained to hold back the coming storm. Shadows danced jaggedly on the walls from the torches mounted above, their flickering flames casting an unsteady light over the officers. No one spoke at first. The men’s faces were pale, their postures tense. Every officer seated around the long wooden table had heard the whispers—about Brouwer, about the lies, about how Hennie Dumonceau, the man who had led them across the Maresdoep and into Aubervijr, was losing his grip.

Among the council, were the usual faces, Peter Bijlsma, Folkert Oosterhof, Gosse de Vries, Reinder Wiarda, Jorien Nelissen, Lieven Burmania and Sietse Ouwehand, amongst other high-ranking officers who sat silently at the sidelines.

Hennie now stood at the head of the table, gripping its edge tightly as if to anchor himself. He was pale and haggard, his unshaven face drawn with exhaustion, his eyes burning with determination that belied the doubt lingering in their depths. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but cold. “Amerongen is ours. At last, we are here.”

Folkert spoke next, his voice sharp. “Amerongen’s ours, aye. But nae without a cost. The men’re exhausted, Hennie. We’ve pushed them tae their limit, an’ we’ve nae sign o’ Brouwer. What’s the plan now?”

“The plan’s tae hold,” he began, his words slicing through the oppressive silence. “We’ll rest, resupply, an’ prepare for what’s next. Brouwer’ll—“

“Brouwer’ll what?” Folkert Oosterhof’s voice roared over Hennie’s, slamming into the air like the crash of thunder. He shot to his feet, the chair behind him clattering to the floor. “Appear? Out o’ thin air? Rain down from the heavens wi’ ten thousand men tae save us?”

The words echoed in the chamber, charged with venom, and every officer turned their gaze toward Folkert. He was a towering figure, his weathered face twisted in fury, and his dark eyes burned with a righteous anger that couldn’t be ignored.

Peter leaned forward, his tone calm but firm, a stark contrast from Folkert’s rage. “Brouwer’s nae here, Hennie. We’re alone—two hundred and forty miles inside a country that wants us dead, wi’ nae guarantee we’ll make it back alive. That’s two hundred and forty miles, then the Maresdoep. The men’ll nae hold if there’s nae reinforcements, an’ ye ken that as well as we dae.”

“We’re nae alone,” Hennie retorted sharply, his voice rising, though a faint tremor betrayed the unease simmering beneath. “Brouwer’s on his way.”

The room fell silent, the officers exchanging uneasy glances. Folkert then burst into laughter and guffawed bitterly, the sound hollow and jagged. “On his way? Ye’ve been sayin’ that for months, Hennie! Months! An’ yet here we are, still marchin’ further into hell, wi’ nae word from yer saviour. Ye’ve nae a scrap o’ proof tae back yer claim—only yer word, an’ I’m done takin’ it!”

“We’re nae alone,” Hennie repeated, his voice sharper now, desperate. “He’ll come. He has tae.”

“If we’re nae alone,” Folkert snapped, leaning forward over the table, “then why the hell dinnae we see anyone else? There’s nae banners flyin’ in our name, nae fleets sailin’ tae meet us. It’s just us, outnumbered, outmatched, an’ draggin’ our men tae their deaths because ye refuse tae see reason.”

The room erupted into murmurs, the officers speaking in hushed, frantic tones, their unease palpable. Reinder Wiarda raised a hand, his voice cautious but insistent. “We’ve nae room for mistakes, Hennie. If Brouwer’s nae here, we’ve nae choice but tae turn back. The men’ll nae survive another push forward without reinforcements.”

The officers nodded in agreement, their stares pressing on Hennie like the weight of Rhenenhuis collapsing on him.

Finally, Reinder spoke, his tone cautious. “We’ve nae room for mistakes, Hennie. If Brouwer’s nae here, we’ve nae choice but tae retreat. The men’ll nae survive another push forward without reinforcements.”

“Brouwer’ll come,” Hennie said firmly, though his voice faltered. His grip on the table tightened, knuckles whitening. “He’ll nae abandon us.”

“Abandon us?” Folkert barked, his voice breaking into a roar. And suddenly, a realisation hit him. He faltered a moment, his mouth hanging open as his mind quickly joined the dots that had been so hard to draw before. “He’s nae comin’, is he? He’s nae even in the damned country!”

Hennie froze, his lips parting as though to respond, but the words refused to come. His jaw tightened his gaze sweeping the room. He noticed every last detail on their faces collectively change; their eyes narrowed, their eyebrows furrowed, their lips curving into a frown of distrust and discomfort. “Brouwer’ll…” he began firmly, though faltered in his words and fell quiet.

Folkert had already pieced together what some in the room had not.

“Brouwer’ll what?” Folkert demanded, slamming his fist against the table, demanding the truth, but already knew it. He just wanted to hear it from Hennie’s lips.

Peter’s voice was low but piercing. “Hennie... when was the last time ye’ve heard from Brouwer?”

The silence in the room was deafening, every pair of eyes locked onto Hennie.
Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders slumping. “I haven’t,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Since…?” Gosse asked quickly, leaning further in over the table.

“Since before Marrenijl.” Hennie reluctantly whispered, almost painfully.

The revelation hit the officers like a cannonball. It was as if they did not understand what he had said for a moment, but then, the murmurs stopped, replaced by an icy stillness as the weight of his words sank in.

“Before Marrenijl?” Gosse repeated, his voice trembling with disbelief. “Ye mean tae say ye’ve been leadin’ us on a lie this entire time? Tellin’ us no less than moments ago that Brouwer’s just behind us, when ye ken full well he’s nae comin’?”

Hennie opened his mouth, but before he could reply, Folkert exploded.

“Ye goddamned LIAR!” Folkert roared, overturning the table in a single, furious motion. Maps, pens, quills and ink scattered across the floor, and the heavy wood slammed into Lieven Burmania and Jorien Nelissen, knocking them to the ground.

“Ye liar! Ye goddamned liar! Ye’ve only gone and signed our death warrants!” The next instant, Folkert was on Hennie, his fist connecting with the prince’s jaw in a brutal, resounding crack. Hennie staggered back, falling against the wall as Folkert’s fist swung again, smashing into his nose with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across the floor, bright against the dim torchlight.

“You’ve damned us all!” Folkert bellowed, his voice hoarse with fury. He grabbed Hennie by the collar, dragging him forward before slamming him back against the wall.

Reinder and Gosse leapt at Folkert, each grabbing an arm, but the furious officer thrashed against them like a wild animal. He shoved Reinder back with a vicious elbow, sending him sprawling into a chair, then swung his leg, kicking Gosse square in the chest.

“Get OFF me!” Folkert snarled, lunging at Hennie again.

Hennie tried to block the blow, but he was too slow. Folkert’s fist slammed into his ribs, driving the air from his lungs. Hennie collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath, as Folkert loomed over him.

“Stop this madness!” Peter shouted, stepping between them, but Folkert shoved him aside, his eyes blazing.

The room descended into chaos, officers shouting and grappling as they tried to pull Folkert back. Reinder tackled him from behind, locking his arms around Folkert’s torso, but the man was too strong, too enraged. He threw Reinder off with a furious roar, his fist raised for another blow.

“Enough!” Peter bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise like a whip.

Folkert froze, his chest heaving, his face red and twisted with rage. The officers surrounded him now, their hands hovering near their weapons, ready to put an end to it if he lashed out again.

Hennie, bloodied and barely able to stand, leaned against the wall, his dark eyes burning with defiance even as his body betrayed his weakness.

“This isn’t over,” Folkert growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Ye’ll nae lead me, nae any o’ us, tae our graves.”

The room was steeped in the suffocating aftermath of violence. Shadows from the flickering torchlight danced over the chaos—the shattered remains of chairs, the upturned table, and the blood that streaked across the wooden floorboards. The weight of what had just unfolded pressed down on every officer present, and the silence was deafening. It was the kind of silence that carried the sharp edge of betrayal, the deep sting of broken trust.

Folkert stood at the centre of it all, his chest heaving as his rage slowly subsided. His knuckles were bloody, trembling at his sides, though whether from the impact of his blows or the aftermath of his anger, none could tell. His eyes burned with a mix of hatred and regret, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed as if his teeth might shatter.

Hennie, battered and bloodied, leaned heavily against the wall. His face was streaked with blood that dripped steadily from his broken nose, pooling onto the collar of his shirt. He clutched at his ribs, each breath a struggle, but his eyes remained locked on Folkert, who stood amidst the wreckage like a storm waiting to strike again. Folkert’s chest heaved with every laboured breath, his fists still clenched and bloodied, his eyes still aflame with rage.

Peter Bijlsma broke the silence first, kneeling beside Jorien Nelissen, who was groaning softly on the floor. “Ye’ll live,” Peter muttered, brushing debris off Jorien’s tunic and inspecting his bruised arm. “Though l’d nae be swingin’ a sword any time soon.”

Jorien winced, his face tight with pain.
“What in God’s name was that?” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

“The end o’ what little peace we had left,” Peter replied grimly, helping him sit upright.

Across the room, Lieven was attempting to stand, one hand clutching his ribs where the heavy table had slammed into him. His other hand was braced against the wall, his expression a mix of disbelief and anger. “Is this what we’ve come tae? This?” he hissed, his voice trembling. “Council meetin’s turned brawls? Madness an’ bloodshed? What do the men have left tae follow if this is what leads them?”

Folkert, still breathing heavily, turned his head sharply toward Lieven, his face twisting into a sneer. “Better madness than followin’ a liar intae the abyss. Ye’ve nae been here long enough tae ken the depths o’ what this man’s done.”

Peter’s voice was sharp as he interjected, “Enough. We’ve nae room for more arguments. Lieven, sit down. Folkert, if ye’ve got anythin’ left tae say, ye’d better measure it carefully.”

Lieven ignored Peter, his anger now fixed entirely on Folkert. “Measure it? Ye’ve nae the slightest measure o’ discipline, Oosterhof. Ye’ve done nothin’ tonight but weaken us all further.”

Folkert stepped forward, his fists tightening again. “Weaken us? Ye ken nothin’ o’ what l’ve sacrificed tae get here. I fought in ‘75, and ‘79. I’ve seen two generations o’ Dumonceau try and fail, time and time again… if ye’d been marchin’ wi’ us from the start, maybe ye’d’ve seen the lies for what they are. But instead, ye sit here spewin’ nonsense while the prince sits there rightly bleedin’, havin’ led us tae ruin!”

“Enough!” Reinder Wiarda shouted, slamming a hand on the remnants of the table. His deep voice boomed over the rising tensions, silencing the room momentarily. “The lot o’ ye are actin’ like fools. D’ye think the Commonwealth cares if we’re fallin’ apart? They’ll carve us up all the same. Ye’re playin’ right intae their hands wi’ this bickering.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, his expression torn between loyalty and frustration. “Hennie, this—this cannae go on. If we’re tae survive, there needs tae be trust. An’ after this…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Reinder Wiarda stood nearby, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he glared at Folkert. “Trust? How the hell can there be trust now? Look at this!” He gestured to the wreckage of the room. “Months of simmerin’ tension, an’ now this is where we’ve ended up. An army led by men who cannae even keep from killin’ each other!”

“Led by liars,” Folkert snarled, his voice venomous. He stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Hennie. “Nae one will follow him now. Not after this. He’s a liar an’ a coward, an’ he’s taken us tae the brink o’ ruin.”

“Ye’re nae much better,” Reinder snapped, his voice rising. “Do ye think this display o’ rage helps? Do ye think it fixes what’s broken?”

Folkert sneered, his fists clenching again. “It fixes nothin’, but it shows the truth. A man who lies tae his army, tae his officers, is nae man fit tae lead.”

Sietse Ouwehand, who had remained silent for most of the chaos, now stepped forward. His imposing figure cast a long shadow across the room as his sharp eyes swept over the scene. “I think we should all shut our mouths,” Sietse said coolly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Though I’ll say this: if ye think this is the worst we’ve faced, ye’re sorely mistaken. We’ve lost battles, men, even sibbes, an’ we’re still here. This? This is nothin’ but a child’s tantrum in comparison.”

Lieven turned his anger toward Sietse, stepping closer. “An’ what exactly’ve ye done tae fix it, Ouwehand? Stood by, with a bucket of water as he watches the flames rise? Yer as useful as a sealed musket.”

Sietse’s lips curled into a faint smirk, his voice dripping with disdain. “Aye, because jumpin’ intae the fire only gets ye burned. I’ll act when there’s somethin’ worth actin’ on. This was nothin’ but a fool’s fight over pride.”

“Pride?” Folkert growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “This is nae about pride—it’s about trust. An’ there’s none left in this room tae give.”

Hennie, who had remained silent until now, finally straightened, pushing himself off the wall with a wince. His voice, though hoarse and bloodied, carried an undeniable authority.

“Enough,” he said, his tone quiet but commanding. The room stilled as all eyes turned to him. “Ye’ve made yer point, Folkert. And yer right. Trust’s broken. Aye, I lied. I lied tae keep ye marchin’, tae keep this campaign alive. But ye think this fight fixes anythin’? Ye think punchin me tae the floor changes what’s ahead?”

Folkert’s expression darkened, his voice low and venomous. “It doesnae change what’s ahead, but it does make clear what we’re facin’. Nae reinforcements. Nae saviour. Just the end.”

Hennie took a step forward, his bloodied face pale but resolute. “Then leave. If ye’ve nae faith in me, then ye’ve nae place at this table. But I’ll tell ye this—if ye think ye can save this army by dividin’ it further, ye’re more of a fool than I ever thought.”

The room fell into a stunned silence, the officers exchanging uneasy glances. Reinder finally broke it, his voice steady but strained. “This cannae go on. If we’re tae survive, we need tae come tae terms. Nae more fights. Nae more lies.”

Peter stepped forward, his voice quieter but no less firm. “The night’s done. Get tae yer posts, all o’ ye. Rest while ye can. We’ll deal wi’ this in the mornin’.”

The officers began to file out, their faces pale and their movements hesitant. Folkert lingered for a moment, his gaze locked on Hennie. Finally, he spat on the floor and turned away, his shoulders rigid with unspoken fury.

As the door closed behind them, Peter stayed beside Hennie, his expression grave. “This army’s hangin’ by a thread, Hennie. If ye’ve got anythin’ left tae give, now’s the time.”

Hennie nodded faintly, leaning against the wall. “Aye,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I ken.”

“Brouwer…?” Peter then asked, and Hennie gazed up resignedly at him.

“Brouwer landed in Faursia… he has two hundred men. Maybe less.”

“Nae ten thousand?”

“Nay.”

“Jesus Christ.”

The silence that followed was heavy, save for the faint crackle of the torches on the walls. Hennie sat slumped in a chair, his head resting against the back, his face pale and streaked with dried blood. Peter stood nearby, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Ye’re thinkin’, Peter,” Hennie murmured, his voice hoarse but calm. “I ken that look. Out wi’ it.”

Peter hesitated before speaking, his voice low. “They’ll nae follow ye much longer, Hennie. Ye’ve lost them—or most o’ them, at least.”

Hennie closed his eyes briefly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I ken that too. But what’s tae be done? Ye think Folkert’s the answer? Or Reinder? Or anyone else in that room?”

Peter shook his head. “Nae. But I’m nae sure ye’re the answer either, not anymore.”

The words hit Hennie like a blow, though he didn’t flinch. Instead, he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Maybe I’m nae. But I’ll tell ye this, Peter: I’m all they’ve got. Whether they like it or nae.”

Peter sighed deeply, pulling up a chair and sitting across from Hennie. “Aye. For now. But if ye’ve got anythin’ left tae prove tae them, ye’d best do it soon. Because once this army breaks, there’s nae puttin’ it back together.”

Hennie finally turned his gaze to Peter, his dark eyes filled with a quiet intensity. “It’s nae over, Peter. Not yet.”

Peter studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Nae. But it’s damn close.”

Meanwhile, the officers were beginning to filter out of the house in silence, their movements cautious and uneasy. The chaos of the confrontation still hung in the air, heavy and oppressive. Folkert Oosterhof lingered near the front door, his shoulders heaving as he tried to steady his breath. His knuckles were raw and bloodied, and his face was twisted with a storm of emotions—anger, betrayal, and something deeper, harder to name.

Reinder Wiarda glanced over his shoulder, his brows knitting together as he saw Folkert standing motionless. “Folkert,” he called, his voice low but firm. “Come on. There’s nae sense in lingerin’.”

Folkert didn’t move at first. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed as if he might crack a tooth. Finally, he exhaled sharply and turned, his movements jerky and abrupt as though his body hadn’t yet caught up with his mind.

Reinder waited for him, falling into step beside him as they moved out from the front door and into the courtyard, where the brisk night air began to fill their lungs; the sky clear, the entire galaxy sprawled above them. “What were ye thinkin’?” Reinder asked, his tone a mix of frustration and concern. “Ye could’ve killed him.”

Folkert scoffed, shaking his head. “Maybe I should’ve. God knows he’s taken us far enough down this damned path already.”

“An’ what would that’ve solved?” Reinder pressed, his voice rising slightly. “Ye think takin’ his place would make things better? Ye think the men would follow ye after a stunt like that?”

Folkert stopped abruptly, turning to face Reinder. His eyes burned with raw intensity, and his voice was a low, dangerous growl. “I dinnae care if they follow me. I care that they’re nae followin’ a liar intae the abyss.”

Reinder held his gaze for a long moment before shaking his head. “We’re all followin’ the same path, Folkert. An’ if ye’ve got a better one, I’d love tae hear it.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, leaving Folkert alone in the courtyard.

Back inside the house, near the corridor by the front door, Lieven Burmania and Jorien Nelissen paused near a window, the cool night air filtering through the cracks in the stone. Both men were still shaken, their faces pale as they tended to their injuries.

“Christ,” Lieven muttered, rubbing his bruised ribs, watching the man as he stood alone in the courtyard. “That man’s a bloody madman.”

Jorien nodded, wincing as he adjusted his injured arm. “Aye. But he’s nae wrong, is he? About Hennie?”

Lieven frowned, his gaze distant. “He’s wrong about this, though,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the chaos behind them. “What’s the point o’ fightin’ each other when the Commonwealth’s waitin’ tae crush us all?”

They paused briefly, as their eyes returned to the window overlooking the courtyard, where Folkert no longer was. Before Jorien could reply, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the corridor, and botj men turned to see Folkert approaching, his expression grim and his hands clenched into fists.

“What d’ye want, Burmania?” Folkert snapped as he stared at them from the opposite side of the hallway.

Lieven’s jaw tightened, and he stepped forward. “Could ask ye the same question, but while yer here, I want tae ken why ye thought throwin’ a table an’ near killin’ the Prince was a fine idea.”

Folkert’s eyes narrowed as he looked Lieven up and down. “Ye think I did this on a whim?” he hissed. “Ye’ve nae been here long enough tae ken what we’ve endured. The lies, the marches, the losses… Ye’d do well tae hold yer tongue.”

“An’ ye’d do well tae remember we’re fightin’ the Commonwealth, nae each other,” Lieven shot back, his voice rising.

Folkert remained motionless, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the hallway. “Careful, Burmania. Ye’re treadin’ on thin ice.”

Before the tension could escalate further, Sietse Ouwehand’s voice cut through the corridor. “Enough, the both o’ ye,” he said, stepping into view. His expression was calm, but his sharp gaze carried an undeniable authority. “We’ve nae time for this nonsense. If ye’re so desperate tae fight, save it for the battlefield.”

Folkert glared at Sietse but said nothing. After a long, tense pause, he turned on his heel and stalked out the door once more, his boots echoing against the gravel of the courtyard.

Lieven watched him go, his expression dark. “He’s nae fit tae lead,” he muttered.

“Neither are you,” Sietse said bluntly, his tone cutting. “An’ neither am I. So keep yer head down, Burmania, an’ let’s try tae survive the night.”

Back in the council room, Peter and Hennie remained. The shattered remnants of the table and the blood-streaked floor were a stark reminder of how close everything had come to falling apart. Hennie sat slumped in a chair, his face pale and his breathing shallow. Peter stood nearby, his arms crossed as he watched the prince with a mixture of concern and exasperation.

“Hennie,” Peter began, his voice low. “Ye ken this cannae go on.”

Hennie gave a weak chuckle, though it turned into a wince. “Aye, I ken. Ye think I dinnae see it? The looks in their eyes, the whispers… It’s all fallin’ apart, Peter.”

“Then fix it,” Peter said sharply. “Before it’s too late.”

Hennie sighed, leaning back in his chair. “An’ how do I do that? Folkert’s right, Peter. I lied. I’ve been lyin’ tae them all along.”

Peter knelt beside him, his voice softening. “Aye, but ye did it tae keep them movin’. They ken that, even if they’ll nae admit it. But if ye want tae hold this army together, ye’ll need tae tell them the truth from now on. Every word.”

Hennie nodded slowly, his eyes dark with resolve. “Aye. The truth… nae matter how bitter it is.”

After a moment’s pause, Peter finally asked the question that had been on his mind for months; “What now?”

“The council will meet in the mornin’… but… well, this is pretty much done. We must turn back.”

“Aye, Prince.” Peter murmured, standing up and walking away from Hennie.

The silence returned once more. Hennie watched, half in a daze, as Peter picked up some documents from the floor and stacked them somewhat neatly on a nearby bookshelf. Hennie felt his eyelids growing heavy once again, an immense weight from days of little sleep now crashing down on him and forcing them shut. And when he opened them, he was alone, the sun risen; the room somewhat cleaner than it had been. He sat up from his bed—the wooden floor—and immediately noticed the stiffness and pain throughout his body. His head especially, was already pounding; the sunlight did not make it any better. Still covered in dry blood, he looked less like a Prince, more like a man who should have been long dead.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 17

24th of September, 1706
Outskirts of Ameromgen
Central Aubervijr - 242 miles from the Maresdoep
Late afternoon

The Henricist column moved slowly through the open plains of western Aubervijr, the soldiers’ boots crunching against the dirt road. A biting wind swept across the expanse, carrying with it the faint, sharp smell of distant smoke. The horizon stretched endlessly in all directions, the flat, barren land offering neither comfort nor cover.

Hennie Dumonceau rode at the head of the column, his expression cold and unreadable. He had barely slept since leaving Bourtange, his thoughts consumed by the weight of their march and the growing unease in his command. His dark cloak whipped around him in the wind, and his hand rested firmly on the pommel of his sword.

Peter rode beside him, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The silence between the two was heavy, laden with unspoken concerns. Finally, Peter broke it.

“Still nae sign o’ the city,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the wind. “Amerongen feels farther away wi’ every step.”

“It’s nae farther than it was yesterday,” Hennie replied curtly, his gaze fixed ahead. “The men’ll keep marchin’. They’ve nae other choice.”

Peter frowned, his tone measured. “The men’ll march because they trust ye, Hennie. But that trust’ll only hold so long. If there’s nae sign o’ Brouwer soon…”

“Brouwer’ll be there,” Hennie interrupted sharply, though his voice carried a note of uncertainty. “He kens what’s at stake. He’ll nae leave us tae face this alone.”

Further back in the column, Folkert Oosterhof rode among the officers, his sharp gaze flicking between the weary soldiers and the endless road ahead. The recruits from Bourtange, huddled together near the rear, were struggling to keep pace. Their steps faltered more with every mile, their breath visible in the cold air.

“These men’re nae fit for this,” Folkert muttered, his voice low but bitter. “They’re draggin’ the rest o’ us down.”

Reinder Wiarda, riding nearby, cast him a sidelong glance. “Better tae have them than nae one at all. Every man’s another body tae hold the line, aye?”

“Another body tae slow the march,” Folkert snapped. “If it comes tae a fight, these recruits’ll break before the first shot’s fired. They’re nae soldiers—they’re farmers wi’ sticks.”

Reinder shrugged, his tone dry. “An’ we’re marchin’ through farmland, Folkert. Ye’d best get used tae it.”

Folkert’s expression darkened, but he held his tongue, his frustration evident in the tightness of his jaw.

As the hours dragged on, the atmosphere in the column grew heavier. The men trudged forward in grim silence, their shoulders hunched against the cold. Whispers of discontent floated through the ranks, faint but persistent.

“D’ye reckon we’ll even make it tae Amerongen?” one soldier muttered to another, his voice low.

“If we dae, what then?” his companion replied bitterly. “The Commonwealth’s waitin’ for us there, or they’ll be followin’ close behind. Either way, we’re done.”

Peter overheard the exchange and reined his horse closer to the group. His voice was sharp, cutting through their murmurs. “Keep yer eyes forward an’ yer mouths shut. Ye’ll nae make it tae Amerongen wi’ talk like that.”

The soldiers straightened, their faces pale as they hastened their pace.

As the sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the plains, Hennie called for a brief halt. The men collapsed where they stood, their breaths heavy and laboured. Officers moved among them, issuing quiet orders and ensuring no one strayed too far from the column.

Hennie dismounted and walked through the ranks, his boots crunching against the ground. His presence drew cautious glances from the men, though few dared to meet his gaze.

“Rest while ye can,” he said quietly to a group of Highlanders sitting near the edge of the road. “We’ll nae stop again for some time.”

One of the men nodded, his voice steady despite his exhaustion. “Aye, Prince. We’ll be ready.”

Hennie gave a curt nod and continued on, his steps heavy with the weight of his thoughts.

The officers gathered near the edge of the halted column, their expressions grim as they exchanged hushed words.

“We’re pushin’ them too hard,” Gosse de Vries said, his tone sharp. “The men’re at their limit, Hennie. If we keep this pace, we’ll start losin’ them.”

“We’ll lose them faster if we slow,” Folkert countered, his voice biting. “The Commonwealth’s nae far behind, an’ every second we waste is another second they gain on us.”

Peter frowned, his tone calm but firm. “An’ every second we push the men, they’ll lose faith in why we’re marchin’. They need tae ken what’s ahead—tae believe there’s a reason tae keep goin’.”

Reinder crossed his arms, his expression sceptical. “An’ what if Brouwer’s nae there, Hennie? What then? We’ll’ve marched ourselves straight intae a trap.”

Hennie’s gaze swept over the officers, his voice cold and commanding. “Amerongen’s nae the end o’ this march—it’s just the next step. Brouwer’ll be there. He has tae be. Until then, we march. If any man’s too tired tae follow, he’s free tae stay behind.”

The officers exchanged uneasy glances, the tension between them palpable. Finally, Peter spoke, his voice steady. “Aye. But if we’re tae make it, the men’ll need more than orders tae keep marchin’. They’ll need somethin’ tae hold on tae.”

As the column resumed its march, the horizon remained stubbornly empty, the faint outline of Amerongen still hidden beyond the endless expanse of plains. The men moved with a grim determination, their silence punctuated only by the steady crunch of boots against the road.

Hennie rode at the front, his thoughts heavy as the weight of their journey pressed down on him. Behind him, the officers maintained their positions, their voices low as they continued to debate their next move.

The Henricist column pressed onward, the barren landscape offering no reprieve from the biting wind or the unyielding monotony. The gravel road, rutted and uneven, stretched endlessly ahead, framed by the occasional bare tree or distant, abandoned farmstead. The soldiers moved in silence, their weariness palpable in every step, their breaths misting in the frigid air.

Hennie continued, his gaze fixed on the horizon as though willing the city of Amerongen to appear. His cloak billowed faintly in the wind, but his posture was rigid, his exhaustion hidden behind a mask of resolve.

Peter rode beside him, his sharp eyes scanning the land around them. “The men’re falterin’,” he said quietly, breaking the silence. “Even the recruits from Bourtange’re keepin’ quiet now.”

“They’ll march,” Hennie replied tersely. “They’ve nae other choice.”

“Aye,” Peter said, his voice measured. “But marchin’ without hope’s a dangerous thing, Hennie. Ye ken as well as I do that they’ll need somethin’ tae believe in if we’re tae see this through.”

“Hope’s a luxury we cannae afford,” Hennie said sharply. “They’ll march because I tell them tae, an’ that’s all there is tae it.”

Peter frowned but held his tongue, his concern evident in the tightness of his jaw.

Further back in the column, Folkert Oosterhof rode among the officers, his sharp gaze lingering on the recruits from Bourtange. Their faces were pale, their steps faltering more with every mile.

“These men’re nae soldiers,” Folkert muttered to Reinder Wiarda, who rode beside him. “They’re nae even farmers. They’re children playin’ at war.”

Reinder raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. “They’re what we’ve got, Folkert. Better them than nothin’.”

“They’ll break at the first sign o’ trouble,” Folkert said darkly. “An’ when they dae, they’ll take the rest o’ the army with them.”

Reinder shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe they’ll surprise ye.”

Folkert snorted, his tone bitter. “If we’re countin’ on surprises, we’ve already lost.”

Hours passed, the road stretching endlessly ahead as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The column slowed as exhaustion took its toll, the once-steady rhythm of boots on gravel becoming uneven. The tension among the officers was palpable, their voices low but sharp as they argued over the best course of action.

“We need tae rest the men,” Gosse de Vries said firmly. “Another day o’ this pace, an’ we’ll start losin’ them.”

“We’ll lose them faster if we stop,” Folkert countered. “Every second we waste’s another second the Commonwealth’s closin’ the gap.”

“We cannae keep pushin’ them like this,” Peter said, his tone calm but forceful. “The men’re at their limit. If we dinnae give them a reason tae keep goin’, they’ll break before we even see Amerongen.”

Hennie, listening in silence, finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “We’ll nae stop until we reach the city. If the men break, they’ll break there. Until then, they march. That’s the end o’ it.”

The officers exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing more.

As the sun began to set, casting the plains in hues of orange and grey, the faint outline of Amerongen finally appeared on the horizon. The sight of the city, though distant, stirred a flicker of energy among the soldiers. Their steps quickened slightly, their heads lifting as they whispered to one another.

“There it is,” Peter said softly, his tone a mixture of relief and caution. “Amerongen.”

Hennie didn’t reply, his gaze fixed on the distant spire of the church rising above the clustered rooftops.

Behind them, the officers began issuing quiet orders, ensuring the column maintained its discipline as they approached the city. The soldiers, though weary, moved with a renewed sense of purpose, their earlier despair replaced by a cautious hope.

The road to Amerongen grew narrower as the Henricist column approached the city. The outline of the modest stone walls came into clearer view, their edges worn and weathered by years of neglect. Hennie’s sharp eyes swept across the scene as they advanced, his grip on the reins tightening.

Peter rode alongside him, his tone measured but uneasy. “There’s movement by the gates, Hennie. It’s nae much, but it’s somethin’.”

Hennie’s gaze shifted to the faint flicker of activity near the entrance to the city. A small group of soldiers, no more than a handful, could be seen moving along the wall, their figures outlined against the dimming light.

“A garrison,” Hennie said curtly. “Small enough tae be crushed, but large enough tae make trouble if we hesitate.”

Folkert approached from the middle of the column, his expression grim. “They’ve nae the numbers tae hold us back. But if they put up a fight, it’ll slow us down. The men’re ready, but they’ll nae last long wi’ any more delays.”

Hennie dismounted, handing his reins to a nearby soldier. His voice was sharp as he addressed the officers gathered around him. “Peter, take twenty men an’ secure the gate. Reinder, Gosse—flank the walls an’ cut off any escape. Folkert, ye’ll lead the main charge when the gate’s breached. I want it done quick an’ clean. Nae room for errors.”

Peter nodded, his tone steady. “Aye, Prince. We’ll make short work o’ them.”

As the Henricists approached the gates, the small garrison scrambled into position. The defenders were regular soldiers, well-armed but clearly outnumbered. Their movements were rushed, their shouts carrying a note of panic as they prepared for the oncoming assault.

“Hold the line!” one of the garrison commanders barked, his voice firm despite the visible fear in his eyes. “They’re nae as strong as they look!”

The Henricists moved with precision, their advance methodical and unwavering. Peter led the initial charge, his men fanning out as they reached the gate. The clash was swift and brutal—the garrison, though trained, was no match for the Henricists’ disciplined assault.

Blades clashed, shouts echoed through the narrow streets, and the metallic tang of blood filled the air. The defenders, overwhelmed and outmanoeuvred, fell quickly under the Henricists’ relentless advance.

Folkert’s voice rang out above the chaos, his orders cutting through the din. “Push forward! Leave nae one standin’!”

The garrison commander, realising the hopelessness of their position, attempted to rally his men for a last stand. His sword swung with desperate precision, but he was swiftly cut down by Reinder, who struck with calculated brutality.

Within minutes, the skirmish was over. The bodies of the garrison lay scattered across the cobblestones, their blood pooling in the cracks of the road. The Henricists stood victorious, their breaths heavy but their morale bolstered by the decisive win.

Hennie strode through the gates, his boots echoing against the bloodied stone. He surveyed the scene with a critical eye, his expression hard as he addressed the officers gathered around him.

“It’s done,” he said coldly. “The city’s ours.”

Peter stepped forward, his tone calm but firm. “Aye. But nae without a price. The men’re spent, Hennie. They’ll need rest before we move again.”

“They’ll rest when it’s safe,” Hennie replied sharply. “For now, secure the city. Reinder, take men tae the square an’ establish control. Folkert, sweep the outskirts—make sure there’s nae one left tae report back tae the Commonwealth.”

The officers nodded, their fatigue evident but their resolve unshaken.

The Henricists moved quickly to secure Amerongen, their presence spreading through the city like a storm. Townsfolk watched from behind shuttered windows and bolted doors, their fear palpable as the soldiers marched through the narrow streets.

Hennie and his officers reached the central square, where a group of local leaders had gathered under duress. The mayor, his face pale and his hands trembling, stepped forward.

“Please,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’re simple folk. We mean nae harm.”

Hennie’s voice was cold and commanding. “Shelter. Food. Supplies. Ye’ll provide what we need, an’ ye’ll do it without trouble. We’ve nae interest in harmin’ ye, but if ye resist, we’ll take what we need by force.”

The mayor nodded hastily, his fear overriding any thoughts of resistance. “O-of course, Eusebius. Whatever you require.”

The soldiers moved quickly, their heavy boots thudding against the cobblestones as they spread out through Amerongen’s narrow streets. Fires were lit sparingly, the faint glow casting flickering shadows against the walls of buildings as the Henricists methodically secured their new hold. Officers barked orders to their men, ensuring that discipline was maintained even in the tense aftermath of the skirmish.

Hennie stood in the central square, his arms folded tightly as he watched the city come under his control. Around him, officers huddled in quiet conversation, their voices low but urgent. Reinder Wiarda returned from the perimeter, his face drawn but his tone measured.

“The outskirts’re clear,” he said. “Nae sign o’ any reinforcements or riders headin’ for help. We’ve got time tae fortify, but nae much.”

Hennie nodded curtly, his expression hard. “Good. Make sure every road in an’ out o’ this city’s secured. Folkert, take a dozen men an’ sweep the warehouses for supplies. Peter, have the men set up pickets tae keep watch through the night.”

Peter hesitated before speaking, his voice cautious. “An’ the townsfolk, Hennie? They’ll nae sit idle if we take too much.”

“They’ll dae what they’re told,” Hennie replied sharply. “An’ if they’ve sense, they’ll dae it quietly.”

In the central square, the mayor and a group of city leaders stood awkwardly under the watchful eyes of Henricist guards. Their faces were pale, their postures stiff with fear. The mayor stepped forward hesitantly, wringing his hands.

“Eusebius,” he began, his voice trembling, “we’ve complied with your requests, as best we can. But the stores… they’re limited. If we empty them now, our people—”

“Your people’ll survive,” Hennie interrupted coldly. “That’s more than can be said for mine if we fail here. Ye’ll provide what’s needed, nae questions asked. Is that clear?”

The mayor nodded quickly, though his face betrayed his unease. “Yes, Eusebius. Of course.”

Nearby, Peter exchanged a glance with Gosse de Vries, his expression grim. “The people’ll resent us, Hennie,” Peter said quietly. “An’ resentment breeds trouble. We’ve nae time for unrest.”

“Then make sure there’s nae time for it,” Hennie replied bluntly. “We’re nae here tae win hearts—we’re here tae win a war.”

As the night deepened, the officers gathered at Rhenenhuis, an imposing 17th-century brick mansion on the city’s edge. The building’s high windows and sturdy walls reflected the faded wealth of Amerongen, now repurposed as a command centre for the Henricists. Torches cast flickering light across the grand wooden table at the centre of the room, where a map of the region was spread out, its markings faint but clear.

Hennie entered last, his cloak trailing behind him as the officers fell silent. The air in the room grew thicker and thicker, every passing second winding the tension tighter, as though the very walls of Rhenenhuis strained to hold back the coming storm. Shadows danced jaggedly on the walls from the torches mounted above, their flickering flames casting an unsteady light over the officers. No one spoke at first. The men’s faces were pale, their postures tense. Every officer seated around the long wooden table had heard the whispers—about Brouwer, about the lies, about how Hennie Dumonceau, the man who had led them across the Maresdoep and into Aubervijr, was losing his grip.

Among the council, were the usual faces, Peter Bijlsma, Folkert Oosterhof, Gosse de Vries, Reinder Wiarda, Jorien Nelissen, Lieven Burmania and Sietse Ouwehand, amongst other high-ranking officers who sat silently at the sidelines.

Hennie now stood at the head of the table, gripping its edge tightly as if to anchor himself. He was pale and haggard, his unshaven face drawn with exhaustion, his eyes burning with determination that belied the doubt lingering in their depths. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but cold. “Amerongen is ours. At last, we are here.”

Folkert spoke next, his voice sharp. “Amerongen’s ours, aye. But nae without a cost. The men’re exhausted, Hennie. We’ve pushed them tae their limit, an’ we’ve nae sign o’ Brouwer. What’s the plan now?”

“The plan’s tae hold,” he began, his words slicing through the oppressive silence. “We’ll rest, resupply, an’ prepare for what’s next. Brouwer’ll—“

“Brouwer’ll what?” Folkert Oosterhof’s voice roared over Hennie’s, slamming into the air like the crash of thunder. He shot to his feet, the chair behind him clattering to the floor. “Appear? Out o’ thin air? Rain down from the heavens wi’ ten thousand men tae save us?”

The words echoed in the chamber, charged with venom, and every officer turned their gaze toward Folkert. He was a towering figure, his weathered face twisted in fury, and his dark eyes burned with a righteous anger that couldn’t be ignored.

Peter leaned forward, his tone calm but firm, a stark contrast from Folkert’s rage. “Brouwer’s nae here, Hennie. We’re alone—two hundred and forty miles inside a country that wants us dead, wi’ nae guarantee we’ll make it back alive. That’s two hundred and forty miles, then the Maresdoep. The men’ll nae hold if there’s nae reinforcements, an’ ye ken that as well as we dae.”

“We’re nae alone,” Hennie retorted sharply, his voice rising, though a faint tremor betrayed the unease simmering beneath. “Brouwer’s on his way.”

The room fell silent, the officers exchanging uneasy glances. Folkert then burst into laughter and guffawed bitterly, the sound hollow and jagged. “On his way? Ye’ve been sayin’ that for months, Hennie! Months! An’ yet here we are, still marchin’ further into hell, wi’ nae word from yer saviour. Ye’ve nae a scrap o’ proof tae back yer claim—only yer word, an’ I’m done takin’ it!”

“We’re nae alone,” Hennie repeated, his voice sharper now, desperate. “He’ll come. He has tae.”

“If we’re nae alone,” Folkert snapped, leaning forward over the table, “then why the hell dinnae we see anyone else? There’s nae banners flyin’ in our name, nae fleets sailin’ tae meet us. It’s just us, outnumbered, outmatched, an’ draggin’ our men tae their deaths because ye refuse tae see reason.”

The room erupted into murmurs, the officers speaking in hushed, frantic tones, their unease palpable. Reinder Wiarda raised a hand, his voice cautious but insistent. “We’ve nae room for mistakes, Hennie. If Brouwer’s nae here, we’ve nae choice but tae turn back. The men’ll nae survive another push forward without reinforcements.”

The officers nodded in agreement, their stares pressing on Hennie like the weight of Rhenenhuis collapsing on him.

Finally, Reinder spoke, his tone cautious. “We’ve nae room for mistakes, Hennie. If Brouwer’s nae here, we’ve nae choice but tae retreat. The men’ll nae survive another push forward without reinforcements.”

“Brouwer’ll come,” Hennie said firmly, though his voice faltered. His grip on the table tightened, knuckles whitening. “He’ll nae abandon us.”

“Abandon us?” Folkert barked, his voice breaking into a roar. And suddenly, a realisation hit him. He faltered a moment, his mouth hanging open as his mind quickly joined the dots that had been so hard to draw before. “He’s nae comin’, is he? He’s nae even in the damned country!”

Hennie froze, his lips parting as though to respond, but the words refused to come. His jaw tightened his gaze sweeping the room. He noticed every last detail on their faces collectively change; their eyes narrowed, their eyebrows furrowed, their lips curving into a frown of distrust and discomfort. “Brouwer’ll…” he began firmly, though faltered in his words and fell quiet.

Folkert had already pieced together what some in the room had not.

“Brouwer’ll what?” Folkert demanded, slamming his fist against the table, demanding the truth, but already knew it. He just wanted to hear it from Hennie’s lips.

Peter’s voice was low but piercing. “Hennie... when was the last time ye’ve heard from Brouwer?”

The silence in the room was deafening, every pair of eyes locked onto Hennie. Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders slumping. “I haven’t,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Since…?” Gosse asked quickly, leaning further in over the table.

“Since before Marrenijl.” Hennie reluctantly whispered, almost painfully.

The revelation hit the officers like a cannonball. It was as if they did not understand what he had said for a moment, but then, the murmurs stopped, replaced by an icy stillness as the weight of his words sank in.

“Before Marrenijl?” Gosse repeated, his voice trembling with disbelief. “Ye mean tae say ye’ve been leadin’ us on a lie this entire time? Tellin’ us no less than moments ago that Brouwer’s just behind us, when ye ken full well he’s nae comin’?”

Hennie opened his mouth, but before he could reply, Folkert exploded.

“Ye goddamned LIAR!” Folkert roared, overturning the table in a single, furious motion. Maps, pens, quills and ink scattered across the floor, and the heavy wood slammed into Lieven Burmania and Jorien Nelissen, knocking them to the ground.

“Ye liar! Ye goddamned liar! Ye’ve only gone and signed our death warrants!” The next instant, Folkert was on Hennie, his fist connecting with the prince’s jaw in a brutal, resounding crack. Hennie staggered back, falling against the wall as Folkert’s fist swung again, smashing into his nose with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across the floor, bright against the dim torchlight.

“You’ve damned us all!” Folkert bellowed, his voice hoarse with fury. He grabbed Hennie by the collar, dragging him forward before slamming him back against the wall.

Reinder and Gosse leapt at Folkert, each grabbing an arm, but the furious officer thrashed against them like a wild animal. He shoved Reinder back with a vicious elbow, sending him sprawling into a chair, then swung his leg, kicking Gosse square in the chest.

“Get OFF me!” Folkert snarled, lunging at Hennie again.

Hennie tried to block the blow, but he was too slow. Folkert’s fist slammed into his ribs, driving the air from his lungs. Hennie collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath, as Folkert loomed over him.

“Stop this madness!” Peter shouted, stepping between them, but Folkert shoved him aside, his eyes blazing.

The room descended into chaos, officers shouting and grappling as they tried to pull Folkert back. Reinder tackled him from behind, locking his arms around Folkert’s torso, but the man was too strong, too enraged. He threw Reinder off with a furious roar, his fist raised for another blow.

“Enough!” Peter bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise like a whip.

Folkert froze, his chest heaving, his face red and twisted with rage. The officers surrounded him now, their hands hovering near their weapons, ready to put an end to it if he lashed out again.

Hennie, bloodied and barely able to stand, leaned against the wall, his dark eyes burning with defiance even as his body betrayed his weakness.

“This isn’t over,” Folkert growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Ye’ll nae lead me, nae any o’ us, tae our graves.”

The room was steeped in the suffocating aftermath of violence. Shadows from the flickering torchlight danced over the chaos—the shattered remains of chairs, the upturned table, and the blood that streaked across the wooden floorboards. The weight of what had just unfolded pressed down on every officer present, and the silence was deafening. It was the kind of silence that carried the sharp edge of betrayal, the deep sting of broken trust.

Folkert stood at the centre of it all, his chest heaving as his rage slowly subsided. His knuckles were bloody, trembling at his sides, though whether from the impact of his blows or the aftermath of his anger, none could tell. His eyes burned with a mix of hatred and regret, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed as if his teeth might shatter.

Hennie, battered and bloodied, leaned heavily against the wall. His face was streaked with blood that dripped steadily from his broken nose, pooling onto the collar of his shirt. He clutched at his ribs, each breath a struggle, but his eyes remained locked on Folkert, who stood amidst the wreckage like a storm waiting to strike again. Folkert’s chest heaved with every laboured breath, his fists still clenched and bloodied, his eyes still aflame with rage.

Peter Bijlsma broke the silence first, kneeling beside Jorien Nelissen, who was groaning softly on the floor. “Ye’ll live,” Peter muttered, brushing debris off Jorien’s tunic and inspecting his bruised arm. “Though l’d nae be swingin’ a sword any time soon.”

Jorien winced, his face tight with pain. “What in God’s name was that?” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

“The end o’ what little peace we had left,” Peter replied grimly, helping him sit upright.

Across the room, Lieven was attempting to stand, one hand clutching his ribs where the heavy table had slammed into him. His other hand was braced against the wall, his expression a mix of disbelief and anger. “Is this what we’ve come tae? This?” he hissed, his voice trembling. “Council meetin’s turned brawls? Madness an’ bloodshed? What do the men have left tae follow if this is what leads them?”

Folkert, still breathing heavily, turned his head sharply toward Lieven, his face twisting into a sneer. “Better madness than followin’ a liar intae the abyss. Ye’ve nae been here long enough tae ken the depths o’ what this man’s done.”

Peter’s voice was sharp as he interjected, “Enough. We’ve nae room for more arguments. Lieven, sit down. Folkert, if ye’ve got anythin’ left tae say, ye’d better measure it carefully.”

Lieven ignored Peter, his anger now fixed entirely on Folkert. “Measure it? Ye’ve nae the slightest measure o’ discipline, Oosterhof. Ye’ve done nothin’ tonight but weaken us all further.”

Folkert stepped forward, his fists tightening again. “Weaken us? Ye ken nothin’ o’ what l’ve sacrificed tae get here. I fought in ‘75, and ‘79. I’ve seen two generations o’ Dumonceau try and fail, time and time again… if ye’d been marchin’ wi’ us from the start, maybe ye’d’ve seen the lies for what they are. But instead, ye sit here spewin’ nonsense while the prince sits there rightly bleedin’, havin’ led us tae ruin!”

“Enough!” Reinder Wiarda shouted, slamming a hand on the remnants of the table. His deep voice boomed over the rising tensions, silencing the room momentarily. “The lot o’ ye are actin’ like fools. D’ye think the Commonwealth cares if we’re fallin’ apart? They’ll carve us up all the same. Ye’re playin’ right intae their hands wi’ this bickering.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, his expression torn between loyalty and frustration. “Hennie, this—this cannae go on. If we’re tae survive, there needs tae be trust. An’ after this…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Reinder Wiarda stood nearby, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he glared at Folkert. “Trust? How the hell can there be trust now? Look at this!” He gestured to the wreckage of the room. “Months of simmerin’ tension, an’ now this is where we’ve ended up. An army led by men who cannae even keep from killin’ each other!”

“Led by liars,” Folkert snarled, his voice venomous. He stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Hennie. “Nae one will follow him now. Not after this. He’s a liar an’ a coward, an’ he’s taken us tae the brink o’ ruin.”

“Ye’re nae much better,” Reinder snapped, his voice rising. “Do ye think this display o’ rage helps? Do ye think it fixes what’s broken?”

Folkert sneered, his fists clenching again. “It fixes nothin’, but it shows the truth. A man who lies tae his army, tae his officers, is nae man fit tae lead.”

Sietse Ouwehand, who had remained silent for most of the chaos, now stepped forward. His imposing figure cast a long shadow across the room as his sharp eyes swept over the scene. “I think we should all shut our mouths,” Sietse said coolly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Though I’ll say this: if ye think this is the worst we’ve faced, ye’re sorely mistaken. We’ve lost battles, men, even sibbes, an’ we’re still here. This? This is nothin’ but a child’s tantrum in comparison.”

Lieven turned his anger toward Sietse, stepping closer. “An’ what exactly’ve ye done tae fix it, Ouwehand? Stood by, with a bucket of water as he watches the flames rise? Yer as useful as a sealed musket.”

Sietse’s lips curled into a faint smirk, his voice dripping with disdain. “Aye, because jumpin’ intae the fire only gets ye burned. I’ll act when there’s somethin’ worth actin’ on. This was nothin’ but a fool’s fight over pride.”

“Pride?” Folkert growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “This is nae about pride—it’s about trust. An’ there’s none left in this room tae give.”

Hennie, who had remained silent until now, finally straightened, pushing himself off the wall with a wince. His voice, though hoarse and bloodied, carried an undeniable authority.

“Enough,” he said, his tone quiet but commanding. The room stilled as all eyes turned to him. “Ye’ve made yer point, Folkert. And yer right. Trust’s broken. Aye, I lied. I lied tae keep ye marchin’, tae keep this campaign alive. But ye think this fight fixes anythin’? Ye think punchin me tae the floor changes what’s ahead?”

Folkert’s expression darkened, his voice low and venomous. “It doesnae change what’s ahead, but it does make clear what we’re facin’. Nae reinforcements. Nae saviour. Just the end.”

Hennie took a step forward, his bloodied face pale but resolute. “Then leave. If ye’ve nae faith in me, then ye’ve nae place at this table. But I’ll tell ye this—if ye think ye can save this army by dividin’ it further, ye’re more of a fool than I ever thought.”

The room fell into a stunned silence, the officers exchanging uneasy glances. Reinder finally broke it, his voice steady but strained. “This cannae go on. If we’re tae survive, we need tae come tae terms. Nae more fights. Nae more lies.”

Peter stepped forward, his voice quieter but no less firm. “The night’s done. Get tae yer posts, all o’ ye. Rest while ye can. We’ll deal wi’ this in the mornin’.”

The officers began to file out, their faces pale and their movements hesitant. Folkert lingered for a moment, his gaze locked on Hennie. Finally, he spat on the floor and turned away, his shoulders rigid with unspoken fury.

As the door closed behind them, Peter stayed beside Hennie, his expression grave. “This army’s hangin’ by a thread, Hennie. If ye’ve got anythin’ left tae give, now’s the time.”

Hennie nodded faintly, leaning against the wall. “Aye,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I ken.”

“Brouwer…?” Peter then asked, and Hennie gazed up resignedly at him.

“Brouwer landed in Faursia… he has two hundred men. Maybe less.”

“Nae ten thousand?”

“Nay.”

“Jesus Christ.”

The silence that followed was heavy, save for the faint crackle of the torches on the walls. Hennie sat slumped in a chair, his head resting against the back, his face pale and streaked with dried blood. Peter stood nearby, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Ye’re thinkin’, Peter,” Hennie murmured, his voice hoarse but calm. “I ken that look. Out wi’ it.”

Peter hesitated before speaking, his voice low. “They’ll nae follow ye much longer, Hennie. Ye’ve lost them—or most o’ them, at least.”

Hennie closed his eyes briefly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I ken that too. But what’s tae be done? Ye think Folkert’s the answer? Or Reinder? Or anyone else in that room?”

Peter shook his head. “Nae. But I’m nae sure ye’re the answer either, not anymore.”

The words hit Hennie like a blow, though he didn’t flinch. Instead, he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Maybe I’m nae. But I’ll tell ye this, Peter: I’m all they’ve got. Whether they like it or nae.”

Peter sighed deeply, pulling up a chair and sitting across from Hennie. “Aye. For now. But if ye’ve got anythin’ left tae prove tae them, ye’d best do it soon. Because once this army breaks, there’s nae puttin’ it back together.”

Hennie finally turned his gaze to Peter, his dark eyes filled with a quiet intensity. “It’s nae over, Peter. Not yet.”

Peter studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Nae. But it’s damn close.”

Meanwhile, the officers were beginning to filter out of the house in silence, their movements cautious and uneasy. The chaos of the confrontation still hung in the air, heavy and oppressive. Folkert Oosterhof lingered near the front door, his shoulders heaving as he tried to steady his breath. His knuckles were raw and bloodied, and his face was twisted with a storm of emotions—anger, betrayal, and something deeper, harder to name.

Reinder Wiarda glanced over his shoulder, his brows knitting together as he saw Folkert standing motionless. “Folkert,” he called, his voice low but firm. “Come on. There’s nae sense in lingerin’.”

Folkert didn’t move at first. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed as if he might crack a tooth. Finally, he exhaled sharply and turned, his movements jerky and abrupt as though his body hadn’t yet caught up with his mind.

Reinder waited for him, falling into step beside him as they moved out from the front door and into the courtyard, where the brisk night air began to fill their lungs; the sky clear, the entire galaxy sprawled above them. “What were ye thinkin’?” Reinder asked, his tone a mix of frustration and concern. “Ye could’ve killed him.”

Folkert scoffed, shaking his head. “Maybe I should’ve. God knows he’s taken us far enough down this damned path already.”

“An’ what would that’ve solved?” Reinder pressed, his voice rising slightly. “Ye think takin’ his place would make things better? Ye think the men would follow ye after a stunt like that?”

Folkert stopped abruptly, turning to face Reinder. His eyes burned with raw intensity, and his voice was a low, dangerous growl. “I dinnae care if they follow me. I care that they’re nae followin’ a liar intae the abyss.”

Reinder held his gaze for a long moment before shaking his head. “We’re all followin’ the same path, Folkert. An’ if ye’ve got a better one, I’d love tae hear it.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, leaving Folkert alone in the courtyard.

Back inside the house, near the corridor by the front door, Lieven Burmania and Jorien Nelissen paused near a window, the cool night air filtering through the cracks in the stone. Both men were still shaken, their faces pale as they tended to their injuries.

“Christ,” Lieven muttered, rubbing his bruised ribs, watching the man as he stood alone in the courtyard. “That man’s a bloody madman.”

Jorien nodded, wincing as he adjusted his injured arm. “Aye. But he’s nae wrong, is he? About Hennie?”

Lieven frowned, his gaze distant. “He’s wrong about this, though,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the chaos behind them. “What’s the point o’ fightin’ each other when the Commonwealth’s waitin’ tae crush us all?”

They paused briefly, as their eyes returned to the window overlooking the courtyard, where Folkert no longer was. Before Jorien could reply, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the corridor, and botj men turned to see Folkert approaching, his expression grim and his hands clenched into fists.

“What d’ye want, Burmania?” Folkert snapped as he stared at them from the opposite side of the hallway.

Lieven’s jaw tightened, and he stepped forward. “Could ask ye the same question, but while yer here, I want tae ken why ye thought throwin’ a table an’ near killin’ the Prince was a fine idea.”

Folkert’s eyes narrowed as he looked Lieven up and down. “Ye think I did this on a whim?” he hissed. “Ye’ve nae been here long enough tae ken what we’ve endured. The lies, the marches, the losses… Ye’d do well tae hold yer tongue.”

“An’ ye’d do well tae remember we’re fightin’ the Commonwealth, nae each other,” Lieven shot back, his voice rising.

Folkert remained motionless, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the hallway. “Careful, Burmania. Ye’re treadin’ on thin ice.”

Before the tension could escalate further, Sietse Ouwehand’s voice cut through the corridor. “Enough, the both o’ ye,” he said, stepping into view. His expression was calm, but his sharp gaze carried an undeniable authority. “We’ve nae time for this nonsense. If ye’re so desperate tae fight, save it for the battlefield.”

Folkert glared at Sietse but said nothing. After a long, tense pause, he turned on his heel and stalked out the door once more, his boots echoing against the gravel of the courtyard.

Lieven watched him go, his expression dark. “He’s nae fit tae lead,” he muttered.

“Neither are you,” Sietse said bluntly, his tone cutting. “An’ neither am I. So keep yer head down, Burmania, an’ let’s try tae survive the night.”

Back in the council room, Peter and Hennie remained. The shattered remnants of the table and the blood-streaked floor were a stark reminder of how close everything had come to falling apart. Hennie sat slumped in a chair, his face pale and his breathing shallow. Peter stood nearby, his arms crossed as he watched the prince with a mixture of concern and exasperation.

“Hennie,” Peter began, his voice low. “Ye ken this cannae go on.”

Hennie gave a weak chuckle, though it turned into a wince. “Aye, I ken. Ye think I dinnae see it? The looks in their eyes, the whispers… It’s all fallin’ apart, Peter.”

“Then fix it,” Peter said sharply. “Before it’s too late.”

Hennie sighed, leaning back in his chair. “An’ how do I do that? Folkert’s right, Peter. I lied. I’ve been lyin’ tae them all along.”

Peter knelt beside him, his voice softening. “Aye, but ye did it tae keep them movin’. They ken that, even if they’ll nae admit it. But if ye want tae hold this army together, ye’ll need tae tell them the truth from now on. Every word.”

Hennie nodded slowly, his eyes dark with resolve. “Aye. The truth… nae matter how bitter it is.”

After a moment’s pause, Peter finally asked the question that had been on his mind for months; “What now?”

“The council will meet in the mornin’… but… well, this is pretty much done. We must turn back.”

“Aye, Prince.” Peter murmured, standing up and walking away from Hennie.

The silence returned once more. Hennie watched, half in a daze, as Peter picked up some documents from the floor and stacked them somewhat neatly on a nearby bookshelf. Hennie felt his eyelids growing heavy once again, an immense weight from days of little sleep now crashing down on him and forcing them shut. And when he opened them, he was alone, the sun risen; the room somewhat cleaner than it had been. He sat up from his bed—the wooden floor—and immediately noticed the stiffness and pain throughout his body. His head especially, was already pounding; the sunlight did not make it any better. Still covered in dry blood, he looked less like a Prince, more like a man who should have been long dead.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 18

25th of September, 1706
Rhenenhuis
Ameromgen, Aubervijr
Sunrise

The sunlight spilled mercilessly through the tall windows of Rhenenhuis, piercing Hennie’s pounding head like a blade. He groaned softly, shifting on the cold wooden floor where he’d spent the night. His limbs felt heavy and stiff, every movement accompanied by a dull ache. The events of the previous evening washed over him like a wave—Folkert’s furious attack, the chaos that followed, the looks of distrust etched into the faces of his command.

Still clad in his torn and bloodstained coat, he pushed himself upright, leaning against the wall for support. His head throbbed as he touched his face, his fingers brushing over the dried blood crusting his nose and jaw. He didn’t dare look at his reflection in the cracked mirror across the room—he knew what he would see. A broken man, a prince in name only, worn down by sleepless nights and the weight of failure.

The room was eerily quiet, save for the distant murmurs of soldiers outside. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to tidy up; the shattered remnants of the table were gone, replaced with an old, scuffed replacement. Chairs were set upright, though several still bore the marks of last night’s chaos. A faint smell of blood lingered in the air, mingling with the stale scent of damp wood.

Hennie forced himself to his feet, swaying slightly as his vision blurred. He stumbled to the basin in the corner of the room, the icy water sending a shock through his system as he splashed it onto his face. The sting of the cold water against his battered skin brought him fully awake, though the relief was short-lived. The bruises around his eyes and nose were dark and angry, a stark reminder of the blows he’d endured.

He leaned heavily on the edge of the basin, staring down at the rippling water. The reflection that stared back at him was unrecognisable—a pale, bloodied face with hollow eyes that seemed far too old for his years. He clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening on the basin’s edge until his knuckles turned white. The weight of his failure bore down on him, crushing and unrelenting.

A sharp knock at the door broke through his thoughts. He straightened slowly, wincing as his ribs protested the movement.

“Come in,” he called, his voice hoarse.

The door creaked open, and Peter Bijlsma stepped inside. He paused in the doorway, his sharp eyes scanning Hennie from head to toe. “Christ above, Hennie,” Peter said bluntly. “Ye look like ye’ve crawled out o’ a grave.”

Hennie let out a dry, humourless laugh. “I feel nae better,” he muttered, turning back to the basin and dabbing at his face with a cloth.

Peter stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him. He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “The council’s meetin’ in the main hall,” he said. “They’re nae happy, if ye were hopin’ for miracles.”

Hennie sighed, dropping the cloth onto the edge of the basin. “What’s new?” he said bitterly, running a hand through his damp hair. “Who’s nae happy this time? Folkert? Reinder? All of them?”

“Take a guess,” Peter replied dryly. “But ye’ll need tae face them sooner or later. Better tae get it over wi’ now, while they’re still in one piece.”

Hennie snorted, though the sound was hollow. “I dinnae think Folkert’s ever in one piece,” he said. “But aye, I’ll be down in a minute.”

Peter nodded, pushing off the wall. “Clean yerself up, at least. Ye’re still covered in blood. It’s nae a good look for a prince.”

As Peter left the room, Hennie turned back to the basin, staring down at his reflection. His jaw tightened, and he splashed more water onto his face, scrubbing at the dried blood with renewed determination. If he was going to face the council, he would do it as a prince—even if he didn’t feel like one.

Hennie stared down at the basin, watching the water darken as the dried blood loosened and swirled away. The cold stung his face, but he scrubbed harder, trying to erase the physical evidence of the previous night’s chaos. His jaw tightened as he thought of Folkert’s accusations, his fist slamming into Hennie’s face, the look of betrayal that filled the room like smoke. He rinsed the cloth and pressed it to his bruised nose, hissing through clenched teeth as pain flared.

What had he expected? That they’d believe in Brouwer’s arrival forever? That his lies would hold the fragile threads of their campaign together indefinitely? His men weren’t fools. They’d marched too far, sacrificed too much, and endured the weight of unfulfilled promises for far too long. Their doubts had grown, and last night’s eruption was inevitable.

The chair behind him creaked as he lowered himself into it, the movement slow and deliberate. He was still stiff and sore, his ribs aching with every breath, but the pain was a welcome distraction from the turmoil in his head. His eyes flicked to the cracked mirror across the room. The blood was gone, but the bruises remained—a pale prince marked by his own mistakes.

There was no time to dwell, though he desperately wanted to. He rose again, this time steadier, and tugged at the hem of his coat, smoothing out the wrinkles. The fabric was still stained, the blood refusing to be wiped away entirely. He buttoned it up anyway, adjusted the cuffs, and ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

Another sharp knock at the door. Peter’s voice followed before Hennie could answer. “Ye’re nae still sittin’ there, are ye?”

The door opened, and Peter stepped in, his sharp eyes immediately scanning Hennie. “Better,” he admitted, though his tone was grudging. “Still look like hell, but at least ye’re nae leakin’ blood all over the floor.”

Hennie snorted, his lips curling into a faint, humourless smile. “What’s the point o’ a prince if he’s nae got an image tae maintain?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “The council’s waitin’, Hennie. An’ they’re nae in a generous mood.”

Hennie exhaled sharply, brushing past Peter and heading for the door. “What else is new?” he muttered, his voice laced with bitterness.

The council chamber was colder than Hennie remembered. The broken chairs from the previous night had been replaced with uneven spares, and the table bore fresh scratches, a mute testament to the chaos it had endured. The officers sat around it, their faces grim and their postures tense. Folkert sat at the far end, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, his jaw clenched like a vice. Reinder and Gosse exchanged quiet murmurs, their expressions unreadable. Lieven and Jorien were seated off to the side, both nursing bruises from the previous night, their gazes flickering nervously between the others. Sietse lingered near the window, his arms crossed, his face a mask of neutrality.

Hennie entered, his boots scuffing the wooden floor. The low murmur of conversation ceased, and all eyes turned to him. He felt their judgment like a weight pressing down on him, but he kept his head high and his steps steady. He took his place at the head of the table, the bruises on his face a stark reminder of their fractured trust.

“Let’s get on wi’ it,” Hennie said, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. “What’s tae be done?”

It was Folkert who spoke first, his voice cold and cutting. “We retreat. There’s nae debate tae be had.”

Hennie’s gaze snapped to him. “Retreat? After all we’ve done? After how far we’ve come?”

“Aye,” Folkert shot back. “Because we’ve nae other choice. Ye’ve led us tae this point wi’ lies, Hennie. We’re in enemy territory wi’ nae reinforcements, nae supplies, an’ nae hope o’ pushin’ forward.”

Peter cleared his throat, his tone calm but firm. “He’s nae wrong, Hennie. The men’re exhausted, an’ we’ve nae resources tae hold Amerongen. If we press on, we’ll be wiped out.”

Reinder leaned forward, his expression cautious. “The Commonwealth’ll nae sit idle for long. They’ll close in soon, an’ we’ll be trapped. The only way tae save the army is tae retreat.”

Hennie’s jaw tightened, his gaze sweeping the room. He saw no allies in their faces, only doubt and frustration. “So ye’d have us abandon everythin’? Turn tail an’ run like cowards?”

“Cowards?” Gosse snapped, his calm demeanour breaking. “This is survival, Hennie. There’s nae glory in marchin’ tae certain death.”

“Enough,” Peter interjected, his voice cutting through the rising tension. “We take a vote. It’s the only way.”

The officers exchanged glances, nodding reluctantly. One by one, they cast their votes. Each one was the same: retreat. Even Peter, Hennie’s most loyal supporter, voted in favour. By the time the final vote was cast, the decision was clear.

The silence in the chamber was as heavy as the cold air outside. Hennie sat back in his chair, his face impassive but his mind racing. The decision to retreat—unanimous and unrelenting—hung in the room like a death sentence.

Peter broke the silence first, his voice low but resolute. “We’ll leave at noon. That gives us time tae prepare the men an’ pack what supplies we’ve left. We dinnae need tae look more desperate than we already are.”

Folkert scoffed, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. “Desperate’s the word, is it? That’s kind, Peter. I’d call it somethin’ worse.”

Hennie shot him a sharp glare, his fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “That’s enough.”

“Is it, though?” Folkert snapped, leaning forward again. “Because I’m nae sure it is. Ye’ve led us here on lies, Hennie. Ye’ve cost us time, men, an’ faith. If ye think leavin’ Amerongen’ll fix any o’ that, ye’re wrong.”

“Folkert,” Reinder interjected, his tone firm but wary, “this isnae the time.”

Folkert rounded on him. “An’ when would be the time, Reinder? After we’ve crawled back tae Faursia wi’ what’s left o’ this army? Or after the Commonwealth cuts us down tae the last man?”

“That’s enough!” Peter barked, slamming his hand on the table. The sharp crack echoed through the room, silencing everyone. His steely gaze fixed on Folkert. “We’ve made the decision. The vote’s done. If ye’ve nae intention o’ helpin’ us see it through, ye’re welcome tae leave.”

Folkert opened his mouth as if to retort but stopped himself. He sank back into his chair, his jaw tightening.

Hennie rose slowly, every movement deliberate. He steadied himself against the edge of the table, his bruised face taut with controlled anger. “We’ll leave at noon,” he said, his voice cold and commanding. “Get the men ready. Pack only what’s essential. An’ if any o’ ye have somethin’ else tae say, save it. We’ve a long march ahead.”

The officers exchanged tense glances before rising from their seats. One by one, they filed out of the room, their expressions a mixture of resignation and frustration. Only Peter lingered, his gaze fixed on Hennie.

“Ye ken this retreat’s the only way, aye?” Peter said quietly.

Hennie didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the table, his fingers tracing the deep scratches left behind from the night before. Finally, he nodded. “Aye. I ken it.”

Peter’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “Then dinnae waste time broodin’ over it. We’ve got an army tae get out alive.”

With that, he turned and left, leaving Hennie alone once more. The silence returned, pressing down on him like a weight. He sank back into his chair, his hand moving to his bruised jaw. The ache was a dull, constant reminder of everything that had crumbled around him.

By late morning, the streets of Amerongen were alive with hurried activity. Soldiers trudged back and forth, their boots kicking up small clouds of dust from the dry cobbled roads. Wagons rattled under the weight of supplies—what little remained—and the occasional shouted order cut through the air. The once-proud banners of the Henricist army hung limp in the light breeze, their faded colours a reflection of the men themselves.

The sky was a dull grey, the kind that promised rain but never delivered. The air carried a faint chill, the sort that seeped into bones already weary from months of marching and fighting. The landscape beyond the city was flat and featureless, stretching endlessly into the horizon. The fields were mostly barren now, harvested long before the army’s arrival, leaving behind a patchwork of churned soil and sparse vegetation.

Hennie stood near the western edge of the city, his coat buttoned tightly against the wind that swept in from the plains. His hands rested on the pommel of his sword, more for balance than defence. His gaze swept over the men as they prepared to march, their faces hollow with exhaustion, their movements mechanical. The pride that had once defined the Henricist army had been stripped away, leaving only survival in its place.

Peter approached, his face as grim as ever. “The last o’ the wagons’ll be ready tae move shortly,” he said. “The men’re as ready as they’ll ever be, but I cannae say the same for their spirits.”

Hennie nodded, his eyes fixed on a group of soldiers struggling to secure a heavy crate onto a wagon. “An’ the officers?”

Peter hesitated, his mouth tightening into a thin line. “Divided. Folkert’s still broodin’, nae that it’s a surprise. Reinder’s tryin’ tae keep the peace, but even he’s nae blind tae how fragile things are. As for Gosse… well, ye ken Gosse. He’ll dae his duty, but he’s nae happy about it.”

“And the men?” Hennie asked, his voice quieter now.

Peter sighed, glancing at the column forming near the edge of the city. “They’re tired, Hennie. Tired an’ angry. Rumours’re spreadin’, as they always dae. Some think we’ll be cut off before we reach the Maresdoep. Others think the Commonwealth’ll pick us off one by one. Nae one’s talkin’ o’ victory anymore.”

Hennie clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the pommel of his sword. “Let them talk,” he said. “As long as they march.”

Peter gave him a long, measured look before nodding. “Aye. As long as they march.”

The column began moving just after midday, the wagons creaking under their loads as they rolled out of the city gates. The soldiers followed in tight ranks, their boots striking the dirt road in a dull, rhythmic cadence. The sounds of the city faded behind them, replaced by the low murmur of voices and the occasional barked order from an officer.

Hennie rode at the head of the column, his back straight despite the ache in his ribs. The wind tugged at his coat, carrying with it the faint scent of the fields beyond. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, refusing to look back at Amerongen. He couldn’t afford to.

The officers rode in a loose group behind him, their silence heavy with unspoken words. Folkert’s glower was a constant presence, his hands gripping the reins of his horse tightly. Reinder rode beside him, his expression neutral but his eyes watchful. Gosse brought up the rear of the group, his face unreadable.

The landscape around them stretched endlessly, a sea of muted browns and greens. The road beneath their feet was packed dirt, cracked and uneven in places but serviceable. The occasional farmhouse or cluster of trees broke the monotony, though the inhabitants of the region seemed to have long since fled.

Peter rode up beside Hennie, his horse’s hooves kicking up small clouds of dust. “The column’s movin’ steady,” he said. “For now, at least.”

Hennie nodded, his gaze never leaving the road ahead. “Good.”

Peter hesitated before speaking again. “It’s nae goin’ tae get easier, Hennie. Every mile’ll take its toll. Ye’ll need tae keep the men’s spirits up.”

“How?” Hennie asked, his voice flat. “They’ve nae reason tae hope. Nae reason tae trust me.”

“Maybe nae,” Peter admitted. “But they’re still followin’ ye. That counts for somethin’.”

Hennie didn’t reply. He simply urged his horse forward, his jaw set and his eyes hard.

As the afternoon wore on, the mood of the army began to shift. The low murmur of voices grew quieter, replaced by the heavy silence of exhaustion. The endless expanse of the plains seemed to stretch forever, the monotony broken only by the occasional flight of birds or the distant outline of a windmill. The road ahead seemed to blur into the horizon, a reminder of how far they had to go.

Behind him, Hennie could hear the occasional grumble of discontent from the ranks. The officers did their best to keep order, but even they seemed weighed down by the enormity of the retreat. The Henricists had been a proud army once, marching with heads held high. Now, they were little more than a ragged line of weary men, trudging through a land that was not their own.

Hennie closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the wind wash over him. He didn’t know if they would make it back to the Maresdoep. He didn’t know if he would ever see Faursia again. All he knew was that they had to keep moving.

The rhythmic thud of boots on packed dirt filled the air, accompanied by the low creak of wagon wheels and the occasional bark of an officer. The Henricist column stretched far along the road, a snake of weary men and battered equipment winding through the endless plains of western Aubervijr. The men marched in grim silence, their faces etched with fatigue and frustration. A faint breeze rustled the sparse grass by the roadside, carrying with it the faint scent of earth and decay.

Hennie rode at the head of the column, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The dirt road stretched out before them like an unbroken thread, leading into the unknown. Behind him, the officers followed in a loose group, their mounts kicking up dust that clung to their cloaks and faces. Hennie could feel their eyes on him, their doubt and resentment pressing down like a weight he could not shake.

Peter rode up beside him, breaking the oppressive silence. “The men’re holdin’ steady for now,” he said, his voice low. “But there’s nae mistakin’ their mood. They’re tired, Hennie. Tired an’ angry.”

Hennie nodded, his eyes never leaving the road. “Let them be angry,” he replied. “As long as they keep marchin’.”

Peter hesitated, then leaned slightly closer. “Anger can only carry them so far. If they lose faith in ye completely—”

“They’ve nae faith left tae lose,” Hennie interrupted sharply. “That was spent long before Amerongen.”

Peter fell silent, his jaw tightening as he straightened in his saddle. He glanced back at the column, watching the men trudge forward in strained silence. The lines were thinner than they had been at the campaign’s start, the gaps a stark reminder of those lost along the way. The banners, once proudly carried high, now drooped lifelessly, their faded colours barely visible in the weak light.

Further back in the column, Folkert Oosterhof rode alongside Reinder Wiarda and Gosse de Vries. The three men exchanged quiet words, their voices low but tense.

“He’s leadin’ us tae ruin,” Folkert muttered, his hand tightening on the reins. “Every mile we march, we’re deeper in enemy territory wi’ nae plan an’ nae support.”

Reinder shot him a warning look. “Keep yer voice down,” he said. “Ye’ll only stir up more trouble.”

“Trouble’s already here,” Folkert snapped. “The men’re nae blind, Reinder. They ken we’re marchin’ tae our deaths. An’ for what? For a man who’s lied tae us from the start?”

Gosse sighed heavily, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “This isnae the time, Folkert. We’ve a job tae dae, whether we like it or nae.”

“Aye,” Folkert replied bitterly. “An’ that job’s marchin’ tae the grave wi’ our heads bowed.”

Reinder shook his head, his tone firm. “Ye’d best mind yer tongue, Folkert. If Hennie hears ye, there’ll be hell tae pay.”

Folkert smirked, though there was no humour in it. “Let him hear. He kens well enough what I think o’ him.”

The sun hung low in the sky by the time the column reached a crossroads. The officers gathered near the head of the column, their horses stamping impatiently as they discussed their next move. The soldiers milled about in the background, their murmurs growing louder as impatience and exhaustion took hold.

“We camp here,” Peter said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The men need rest, an’ we’ve nae the strength tae push on through the night.”

Hennie nodded slowly, though his eyes remained fixed on the road ahead. “Aye. We’ll stop here. But nae longer than we need tae.”

Folkert snorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “An’ how long’s that, then? A few hours? A day? Or until we’re surrounded?”

Hennie turned to face him, his eyes hard. “Long enough tae keep the men on their feet. Longer than that, an’ we’ll nae make it back tae the Maresdoep at all.”

The two men locked eyes, the tension between them palpable. Reinder stepped between them, his tone calm but firm. “Enough. We’ve bigger concerns than yer feud. Let’s get the camp set up.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the camp settled into an uneasy quiet. Fires flickered in the fading light, casting long shadows over the soldiers huddled around them. The men spoke in low voices, their conversations punctuated by bitter laughter and the occasional curse. The officers kept their distance, their own discussions hushed but no less tense.

Hennie sat alone near the largest of the fires, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. His gaze was fixed on the flames, his thoughts a tangled web of doubt and regret. He could feel the weight of every decision he had made pressing down on him, each one a stone in the ever-growing pile.

Peter approached quietly, taking a seat beside him. For a long moment, neither man spoke.

“They’ll keep marchin’,” Peter said finally, his voice low. “As long as ye dae.”

Hennie let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “An’ where am I marchin’, Peter? Back tae Faursia wi’ my tail between my legs? Back tae a people who’ll nae welcome me?”

Peter’s expression hardened. “Ye’re marchin’ tae keep them alive, Hennie. That’s what matters now.”

Hennie turned to look at him, his jaw tight. “An’ when we get back? What then? What’s left for me?”

Peter didn’t answer. He simply stared into the fire, the silence between them filled with unspoken truths.

The camp stretched across a small rise on the edge of the plains, its fires casting a flickering glow that barely held back the encroaching darkness. Tents, hastily pitched and uneven, dotted the landscape like a patchwork quilt, while wagons were arranged in a loose circle near the centre, their contents half-hidden under heavy tarpaulins. The smell of smoke and damp earth hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of armour and the stale odour of weary bodies.

The soldiers huddled around their fires, their faces hollowed by the dancing light. Their voices were low, cautious, as if afraid that their words might carry too far. Rumours spread like wildfire—of the Commonwealth forces closing in, of the Henricist high command divided, of Brouwer’s supposed betrayal. No one knew what to believe, and the uncertainty weighed on them as heavily as the packs on their shoulders.

A young soldier, his face gaunt and his uniform frayed, leaned closer to the fire, his hands outstretched for warmth. “Think we’ll make it back?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

An older man beside him shook his head, his expression grim. “If the Commonwealth doesnae catch us first, the march’ll kill us. We’ve nae supplies, nae strength left.”

A third soldier, his tone bitter, muttered, “All this for a prince who’s lied tae us since the beginnin’. What’s the point?”

The older man glanced around, his eyes narrowing. “Keep yer voice down. Ye dinnae ken who’s listenin’.”

Near the officers’ tents, the mood was no less tense. Folkert paced in a tight circle, his fists clenched at his sides. Reinder stood nearby, his arms crossed as he watched his fellow lieutenant-general with a mixture of caution and frustration.

“Marchin’ tomorrow’s madness,” Folkert muttered, his voice low but sharp. “The men’re hangin’ by a thread. Push them any further, an’ they’ll break.”

Reinder sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We’ve nae choice, Folkert. Ye ken that as well as I dae. Stayin’ here’s death.”

“An’ marchin’ isnae?” Folkert snapped, rounding on him. “Every step we take brings us closer tae the Commonwealth, nae further away.”

“Ye think I dinnae ken that?” Reinder shot back, his voice rising. “But what else can we dae? Sit here an’ wait tae be slaughtered?”

Before Folkert could respond, Peter appeared, his expression stern. “Enough,” he said firmly. “We’ve nae time for this. Get some rest. We’ve an early start tomorrow.”

Folkert hesitated, then turned sharply on his heel and stalked off into the darkness. Reinder shook his head, muttering under his breath as he followed Peter back to the main fire.

Hennie sat alone, staring into the flames. The shadows danced across his face, accentuating the bruises and lines that had deepened over the past few days. He barely noticed when Peter approached and took a seat beside him.

“Ye should rest,” Peter said quietly, breaking the silence.

Hennie didn’t respond immediately. He traced the edge of his sword’s pommel with his thumb, his mind far away. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. “They’ll nae forgive me, will they?”

Peter hesitated, then sighed. “Forgiveness takes time. An’ right now, time’s nae on our side.”

Hennie’s jaw tightened. “I brought them here, Peter. I lied tae them. An’ now, I’m draggin’ them back wi’ nothin’ tae show for it.”

Peter placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm. “Ye’ve made mistakes, aye. But if ye focus on what’s lost, ye’ll never save what’s left. These men’re followin’ ye because they still believe ye can lead them. Dinnae throw that away.”

Hennie turned to look at him, his eyes hollow. “An’ when we reach the Maresdoep? What then?”

Peter’s expression hardened. “One step at a time, Hennie. One step at a time.”

The camp quietened as the night wore on. The fires burned low, their embers glowing faintly in the darkness. The soldiers, wrapped in their thin blankets, lay sprawled on the hard ground, their breaths shallow and uneven. The officers retreated to their tents, their whispered conversations fading into silence.

Hennie remained by the fire long after the others had gone, his gaze fixed on the dying flames. The weight of the retreat, the campaign, and his own failures pressed down on him like an iron chain. He felt every link, every burden, and knew he could not cast it off. Not yet.

The sky above was clear, the stars bright and cold. The wind carried a faint chill, rustling the sparse grass and the edges of the tents. Hennie pulled his coat tighter around himself, his thoughts a storm of doubt and determination. The road ahead was long, and the odds were against them, but he knew there was no turning back. For better or worse, the Henricist army would march again at first light.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 19

9th of October, 1706
Orvelte, Aubervijr
30-40 miles from the Maresdoep
Afternoon

The Henricists had fled across the breadth of Aubervijr, an impossible distance that few armies would dare to attempt. For two weeks, they had marched without respite, a desperate gamble to escape the crushing weight of the Commonwealth forces at their back. The soldiers, a mix of weary veterans and green recruits and everyone in-between, had been pushed to their absolute limits. Yet even as exhaustion gnawed at their resolve, the faint hope of safety spurred them onward.

The land around them was vast and exposed, a stark contrast to the hills and dense woods they had crossed earlier in their retreat. Here, the plains stretched unbroken for miles, their golden grasses bending under the force of the wind. The occasional copse of trees or low stone wall offered scant cover, leaving the army vulnerable to the ever-watchful eyes of their pursuers. To the north, the hills rose gently, their crests shrouded in low-hanging mist. The road beneath their boots was hard-packed dirt, cracked and uneven, cutting a solitary path through the landscape.

The morning had begun like every other: cold, grey, and unyielding. The sun struggled to break through the thick clouds, casting a pale, lifeless light over the plains. The air was sharp with the bite of autumn, its chill sinking deep into bones already aching from the unrelenting march. The men’s cloaks flapped in the wind, their once-pristine uniforms now stained with dust and grime. Their faces were hollow, their eyes sunken with fatigue, but their steps never faltered.

At the head of the column, Hennie Dumonceau rode in silence. His horse moved at a steady pace, its hooves striking the road in rhythm with the march. Hennie’s expression was unreadable, his pale face betraying no emotion. Yet his mind was a storm of thoughts, every step of the retreat weighing heavily on him. They were close—so close that the salty tang of the Maresdoep seemed to cling to the air. But the proximity to safety did little to ease the knot in his chest.

Peter broke the silence, his voice low. “They’re nae far, Hennie. The scouts have seen them.”

Hennie’s grip on the reins tightened, his knuckles whitening. “They’re watchin’,” he said flatly. “But they’ll nae strike.”

“They dinnae need tae strike,” Peter countered, his gaze fixed on the hills. “They’re runnin’ us ragged, lettin’ the land do their work.”

Hennie didn’t reply immediately, his eyes scanning the horizon. “They’ll nae catch us. We’re too fast.”

Peter’s frown deepened. “Fast’ll nae matter if we break afore we reach the coast.”

“They’ll nae break,” Hennie replied sharply, his tone brooking no argument. “They ken what’s at stake.”

Peter hesitated, his lips pressed into a thin line. “An’ if the Maresdoep’s nae enough? If there’s nae way tae cross?”

Hennie turned to him, his gaze hard. “Then we fight.”

The soldiers trudged onward, their boots grinding into the dirt with every step. Conversations were few, their voices lost to the wind that howled across the plains. Every man felt the weight of the retreat, the knowledge that they were being hunted. Yet they kept their heads down and marched, their thoughts fixed on the distant coastline.

A group of younger soldiers walked in a loose cluster near the centre of the column. Their faces, pale and drawn, bore the look of men not yet hardened by war. They spoke in hushed tones, their words carried off by the wind.

“I dinnae like it,” one muttered, his eyes darting to the hills. “We’ve nae seen them, but they’re there. I can feel it.”

“Ye’re jumpin’ at shadows,” another replied, though his tone betrayed his own unease. “If they wanted tae fight, they’d’ve done it by now.”

“They’re waitin’,” the first insisted. “Waitin’ till we’re too tired tae fight back.”

An older soldier nearby turned his head, his voice low and gravelly. “They’re nae daft, lads. They’re watchin’ us, aye, but they’ll strike when it suits them. Keep yer wits about ye.”

The younger men fell silent, their unease growing with every step. Around them, similar whispers rippled through the ranks, the tension spreading like a fever. The confidence they had carried in the early days of their retreat had begun to erode, replaced by a gnawing sense of dread.

Further back, Folkert rode with a small group of officers. His jaw was set, his eyes scanning the ridges and shadows with sharp precision. Reinder rode just ahead, his expression unreadable as he watched the plains unfold before them.

“The men’re crackin’,” Folkert said finally, his voice low but sharp. “Fifteen days, nae rest, nae food tae speak of. We’re pushin’ them too far.”

Reinder didn’t look back as he replied. “If we stop, we’re done. Ye ken that as well as I dae.”

“Aye, but what good’s a march if we’ve nae men left tae fight?” Folkert countered. “They’re dead on their feet, an’ ye ken it.”

Reinder sighed, his tone softening. “They’ll make it. We’ve nae choice but tae believe that.”

Folkert’s lips pressed into a thin line, his frustration simmering. He turned his attention back to the hills, his thoughts dark. “This land’s nae ours, Reinder. Every step we take makes it clearer. How long till the land itself turns against us?”

As the day wore on, the march slowed. The sun hung low in the sky, its pale light casting long shadows across the road. The men moved like ghosts, their figures blending into the greyness of the plains. The tension was palpable, a suffocating weight that pressed down on every shoulder.

Hennie glanced over his shoulder at the column, his gaze sweeping over the exhausted faces of his men. “They’ll make it,” he muttered to himself, as much a command as a reassurance.

But the silence that followed felt like a lie.

The wind carried a sharper bite now, whistling through the open plains and cutting across the dirt road like an unspoken warning. The golden grasses swayed in waves, mirroring the steady rhythm of the army’s march. The Maresdoep drew closer with every mile, yet the closer they came, the more oppressive the silence around them grew. Even the creak of wagons and the occasional whinny of horses seemed muted against the vastness of the landscape.

Hennie Dumonceau cast a glance over his shoulder, his sharp gaze sweeping across the long column of men trailing behind him. Their faces were worn, their eyes dull with exhaustion, but they marched. They always marched. For fifteen days, they had pushed themselves beyond reason, covering more ground than he dared believe possible. And now, with the coastline nearing, he should have felt relief.

But he didn’t.

“Do ye hear that?” Peter asked, breaking the uneasy silence beside him. He leaned slightly in his saddle, tilting his head toward the plains.

Hennie frowned, his brow furrowing. “Hear what?”

Peter paused for a moment, his expression tightening. “Nothin’. That’s the point. Nae birds, nae foxes in the brush. It’s too quiet.”

Hennie’s hand tightened around the reins. “We’ve scared them off, or the wind’s drowned them out.”

Peter didn’t look convinced. “It’s nae right, Hennie. The land’s too still.”

Hennie shot him a sidelong glance. “Ye’re jumpin’ at shadows, Peter. We’ve made it this far. Another day, an’ we’ll be out of this godforsaken place.”

“Out, aye,” Peter muttered, his tone laced with doubt. “If the sea’s still ours.”

Hennie didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze back to the horizon. The faint scent of salt lingered in the air, promising freedom, but the weight in his chest refused to lift.

Folkert’s sharp voice cut through the stillness further back in the column, drawing the attention of the men around him. “Keep them movin’,” he barked at a junior officer riding just ahead. “If they falter now, they’ll nae pick up the pace again.”

The officer nodded, spurring his horse forward to relay the command. Folkert watched him go, his lips pressed into a thin line. He pulled his cloak tighter against the wind and turned to Reinder, who rode a short distance away.

“The men’re draggin’ their feet,” Folkert said bluntly, his tone clipped. “Another day o’ this, an’ they’ll drop.”

Reinder glanced at him, his expression calm but distant. “They’ve done worse before.”

Folkert snorted, his tone dark. “Aye, but not after marchin’ two hundred miles with a pack breathin’ down their necks.”

Reinder shifted in his saddle, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “We’ve nae choice. Ye ken that as well as I dae.”

“I ken it,” Folkert replied, his voice quieter now. “But it doesnae mean I like it.”

The men marched in uneasy silence, the tension in the air thick enough to cut. Whispers flitted through the ranks, their words carried off by the wind before they could spread too far.

“Why’s it so quiet?” a young soldier muttered to his companion, his voice barely above a whisper. “Even the birds’ve gone.”

“They ken what’s comin’,” the other replied grimly, his eyes darting to the distant ridges. “An’ so dae we.”

Further ahead, a grizzled sergeant shouted at a small group of stragglers, his voice hoarse but commanding. “Pick up yer pace, ye lazy bastards! D’ye think the Commonwealth’s waitin’ for us tae rest?”

The men stumbled forward, their heads bowed, but the fear in their eyes was unmistakable. They had seen the scouts, the shadowy figures on the ridges who vanished as quickly as they appeared. The pursuit was relentless, a constant pressure that gnawed at their resolve.

By late afternoon, the grey sky had darkened further, the clouds heavy with unfallen rain. The road had grown more uneven, cutting through patches of low scrub and sparse trees. Hennie called for a brief halt, allowing the men a moment to catch their breath. Soldiers sank to the ground where they stood, their shoulders slumping as they let their packs slide from their backs.

Hennie dismounted, his boots crunching against the gravelly road as he stretched his legs. Peter joined him, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the resting men.

“They’re close tae breakin’,” Peter said quietly, his voice barely audible over the wind. “Another day of this, an’ they’ll crack.”

“They’ll hold,” Hennie replied, though his tone lacked conviction.

Peter shot him a sharp look. “Will they? Or are ye tellin’ yerself that tae keep marchin’?”

Hennie didn’t answer, his jaw tightening as he stared out at the plains. He could feel the weight of his decisions pressing down on him, the unspoken doubts of his officers and the fear of his men like a blade at his throat. Yet he couldn’t afford to falter. Not now.

The march resumed with a renewed sense of urgency. The soldiers pushed themselves harder, their boots kicking up small clouds of dust as they quickened their pace. The wind had shifted slightly, carrying with it a faint sound that set every nerve on edge. Hennie strained to listen, his heart hammering in his chest.

It wasn’t until the first scout appeared on the horizon that the truth hit him like a blow. The man was riding hard, his horse’s sides heaving as it tore across the plains. The soldiers parted quickly to let him through, their murmurs swelling into a low, uneasy hum.

Hennie turned sharply in his saddle, his pulse quickening as the scout galloped toward him. The man’s face was pale, his eyes wide with fear as he reined in his horse beside the Prince.

“They’re here,” the scout gasped, his voice trembling. “High ground, tae the east. They’ve found us.”

Hennie’s blood ran cold, his hands tightening around the reins. He turned to Peter, his voice low but firm. “Get the officers. Now.”

The wind howled low across the plains, carrying the scout’s trembling words to the officers who stood in stunned silence.

The gravity of those three words, ‘they’ve found us’, rippled outward, their weight settling heavily on every pair of shoulders. Hennie Dumonceau sat motionless in his saddle, his face pale and unreadable. Around him, the officers exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions a blend of disbelief and dread. The rhythm of marching feet slowed, faltered, and then stopped altogether as word began to spread through the column.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind and the distant, ragged breaths of the scout’s horse. Then Peter broke the silence, his voice sharp and urgent. “Where? Where are they?”

The scout pointed, his arm trembling as he gestured toward a line of hills that rose faintly in the distance. “High ground. We saw their banners… cavalry first. Infantry behind.” He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. “Thousands.”

Hennie’s gaze followed the scout’s gesture, his eyes narrowing as he searched the horizon. The hills seemed to blur into the grey sky, their ridges cloaked in a haze of mist. Nothing moved, but the scout’s terror was palpable, and Hennie didn’t doubt his words.

Peter wheeled his horse around, barking orders to the nearby junior officers. “Get the lieutenants. Now! An’ keep the men steady.”

The officers scattered, their voices ringing out as they relayed the command. The column began to shift uneasily, soldiers murmuring to one another as they looked toward the hills. The tension was palpable, a suffocating weight that pressed down on the entire army.

Hennie dismounted, his boots crunching against the gravel as he strode toward a makeshift gathering of his senior officers. His cloak billowed in the wind, his expression unreadable as he approached. Peter joined him, his own face tight with concern.

“They’ll panic if we let this get out of hand,” Peter said quietly, his voice low but firm. “Ye need tae steady them, Hennie.”

“They’ll hold,” Hennie replied sharply, though the flicker of doubt in his eyes betrayed him.

Folkert arrived at a brisk pace, his features taut with barely-contained anger. Reinder followed close behind, his expression calm but guarded. Gosse was already waiting, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. The tension between them crackled like a storm, unspoken accusations hanging in the air.

“An’ here it is,” Folkert said bitterly, his voice cutting through the gathering. “The disaster we’ve been marchin’ toward. Ye ken it was comin’, Hennie. We all did.”

Hennie glared at him, his jaw tightening. “If ye’ve somethin’ tae say, Folkert, say it. Otherwise, shut yer mouth an’ listen.”

Folkert’s eyes flashed, but he held his tongue. Reinder stepped forward, his tone measured. “What’s our play, Hennie? We cannae outrun them now. Not if they’re that close.”

“We cannae fight them here,” Gosse interjected, his voice steady but grim. “We’re too exposed. If they catch us on open ground—”

“They’ll rip us tae shreds,” Folkert finished, his voice dripping with disdain. “An’ whose fault’ll that be, I wonder?”

“Enough,” Peter snapped, stepping between them. “This is nae the time for yer petty quarrels. We’ve a bloody army at our backs. Focus!”

The tension was palpable, the officers glaring at one another as the silence stretched. Hennie finally broke it, his voice low but commanding. “We hold them off. We buy time for the army tae reach the coast. That’s all that matters.”

Folkert scoffed. “An’ how d’ye plan tae do that, eh? Throw more lies at them?”

Hennie ignored the jab, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “We’ll form a rearguard. The strongest sibbes. They’ll hold the line while the rest move on.”

Back in the column, the soldiers stood in uneasy clusters, their whispers growing louder as the news spread. A young recruit clutched his musket tightly, his knuckles white. “They’re here, aren’t they?” he whispered to his companion.

“Aye,” the other replied, his voice hollow. “An’ we’re done for.”

“Keep yer heads down,” a sergeant growled as he passed, his voice hoarse. “They’re nae here yet. An’ if they come, we’ll make ‘em pay for every step.”

But the unease was infectious, spreading like wildfire through the ranks. The men shifted nervously, their eyes darting toward the distant hills. They didn’t need to see the enemy to feel their presence. The weight of the pursuit had been with them for days, but now it was crushing.

The officers reconvened near the front of the column, their voices low and tense as they discussed their next move. Hennie stood apart, his gaze fixed on the hills. The wind tugged at his cloak, the chill sinking deep into his bones. He could feel the weight of his army behind him, thousands of lives hanging on his decisions.

Peter approached him, his expression grave. “They’ll nae hold forever, Hennie. Ye ken that.”

“They’ll hold long enough,” Hennie replied, his tone flat. “They have to.”

Peter sighed, his frustration evident. “An’ what about ye? What happens when they come? Ye’ll nae fight them alone.”

Hennie turned to him, his eyes hard. “I’ll do what needs tae be done.”

Peter shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Ye’ve always had a death wish, Hennie. But dinnae make the rest o’ us pay for it.”

The conversation was cut short by the sound of hoofbeats. Another scout galloped into view, his horse lathered with sweat. He reined in sharply, his voice urgent. “They’re movin’ fast. Cavalry on the ridge. Infantry behind.”

The officers exchanged grim looks, the weight of the news sinking in.

The wind carried a chill that seeped through even the thickest cloaks, tugging at the men’s resolve as much as their garments. The Henricists had halted once more, their column bunched awkwardly on the road, the plains stretching endlessly on either side. Overhead, the grey sky hung heavy with unfallen rain, its oppressive weight mirrored in the expressions of every soldier and officer.

The news of the scouts’ report rippled through the ranks, quiet murmurs swelling into uneasy whispers. Fear clung to the men like the dust on their boots, their collective apprehension growing with every passing moment.

At the front of the column, Hennie Dumonceau stood with his officers, the group gathered in a tense semicircle around a makeshift map spread across a flat rock. The map fluttered slightly in the wind, its edges held down by stones and the weight of their decisions. Hennie’s jaw was set, his eyes scanning the map with an intensity that betrayed the storm brewing within him.

“They’ve nae left us a choice,” Peter said, his voice low but firm. “We’ve tae move fast, or we’ll be caught in the open.”

“They’ll catch us anyway,” Folkert shot back, his tone sharp. “An’ ye ken it. We’ve been lucky till now, but luck runs out.”

Hennie’s gaze snapped up to meet Folkert’s, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “An’ what would ye have us do? Stop? Fight them here an’ now?”

“I’d have us nae waste more lives,” Folkert replied, his eyes blazing. “We’ve stretched this march tae its limit. The men are done, Hennie. They’ll nae hold.”

“They’ll hold,” Hennie said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “They’ll hold because they have tae.”

Gosse cleared his throat, his voice calm but insistent. “If they’re as close as the scouts say, we need tae prepare. A rearguard, as ye said. The strongest sibbes.”

“Aye, an’ what happens tae them?” Reinder interjected, his tone laced with scepticism. “Ye ken what happens tae the rearguard. They’ll be slaughtered tae buy us time.”

“Then we’ll nae waste that time,” Hennie snapped, his gaze hard. “They’ll hold the line, an’ we’ll move. That’s how it has tae be.”

Further down the column, the soldiers shifted uneasily, their nerves fraying under the weight of the news. Small clusters of men huddled together, their whispers blending into a low murmur that carried on the wind.

“They’re here,” a young recruit muttered, his voice barely audible. “We’re done for.”

“Keep yer mouth shut,” a grizzled sergeant barked, his tone harsh but steady. “We’ve nae time for fear.”

“But they’ll find us,” another soldier said, his eyes wide with panic. “They’ll cut us down like dogs.”

“They’ll nae find us if ye keep marchin’,” the sergeant snapped. “So get yer arse movin’.”

The younger men fell silent, their gazes darting nervously toward the distant hills. The veterans among them said nothing, their faces grim but resolute. They had seen enough to know that fear wouldn’t save them.

Hennie turned away from the officers, his cloak billowing in the wind as he strode toward the front of the column. His horse stood nearby, its breath misting in the cold air as it pawed restlessly at the ground. He placed a hand on its neck, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

Peter approached him cautiously, his voice low. “They’re lookin’ tae ye, Hennie. Ye need tae steady them.”

“They’ll march,” Hennie replied, his tone flat. “They’ve nae other choice.”

Peter hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. “An’ if they break? What then?”

“They won’t break,” Hennie said, though his voice lacked conviction. “We’re too close.”

Peter frowned, but he said nothing more, his eyes drifting to the distant hills.

As the day wore on, the tension grew unbearable. The column moved with a restless urgency, the soldiers’ eyes darting nervously to the horizon. Every gust of wind, every rustle of grass seemed to carry the promise of an impending storm.

And then, just as the sun began its slow descent, the first shadow appeared on the crest of the hills. It was small at first, barely distinguishable from the surrounding landscape. But as the soldiers stared, more shadows joined it, their shapes solidifying into a line of figures.

The Commonwealth army had arrived.

The Henricists froze, their movements grinding to a halt as a collective gasp rippled through the column. On the high ground to the east, the Commonwealth forces stood in full battle order, their banners fluttering in the wind. The setting sun cast long shadows across the plains, painting the scene in hues of gold and crimson.

Hennie’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight. Thousands of soldiers stretched across the ridge, their ranks bristling with muskets and bayonets. Cavalry flanked the formation, their horses pawing at the ground as if eager to charge.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of the wind and the distant rustle of banners.

The air around the Henricist camp was heavy with tension as the officers assembled hastily under the shadow of a large oak, its gnarled branches casting long, jagged shapes over the weathered faces of the council. Hennie stood at the centre, his face pale but his expression defiant, as Peter gestured toward the distant ridge, where Commonwealth banners rippled faintly in the late afternoon light.

“They have us,” Peter said grimly, his voice almost lost in the uneasy murmurs that swept through the officers. “We’re trapped.”

Hennie shook his head sharply, his jaw tightening. “We fight,” he said, his voice low and unwavering. “Here. Now. We’ll hold them.”

Reinder’s laugh was harsh and bitter. “Hold them? Look at them, Hennie. They’ll crush us afore we’ve even formed ranks. An’ if we stand an’ fight here, we’ll leave the rest o’ the army in pieces.”

“They’ll hold,” Hennie snapped. “We’ve come too far tae run.”

The murmurs ceased as Folkert stepped forward. He fixed Hennie with a hard, unwavering stare. “If ye fight here, ye doom every last man, woman, an’ child who’s stood wi’ us,” he said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “We retreat.”

Hennie’s lip curled, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. “An’ let them ride us down like dogs? Ye’d have us flee wi’out even tryin’ tae stand?”

“Aye,” Folkert said simply, his tone calm but firm. “Better tae retreat now than let them slaughter us all. But we’ll nae leave wi’out cover.”

The tension hung thick in the air as the officers exchanged glances. Hennie’s gaze darted between them, his chest heaving as if he were caught between anger and despair. “Ye’d have us run, then? Where’s yer courage, Folkert?”

“My courage’s here,” Folkert replied coldly. “I’ll take the rear. I’ll hold them back. But ye’ll take the rest an’ go.”

Hennie’s defiance faltered, his hands falling to his sides. “Ye’ll die,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I die,” Folkert said evenly, his expression unreadable. “But I’ll nae stand by an’ watch us lose it all because o’ pride. Take the men, Hennie. Save them.”

The officers’ voices rose in protest, but Folkert cut through the noise with a sharp command. “Enough! We’ve nae time for bickerin’. Reinder, ye’ll form the first column. Peter, ye’ll take the left flank. I’ll see tae the rear.”

He turned back to Hennie, his gaze softening for the briefest moment. “Go. I’ll hold.”

The retreat began in hushed chaos, the officers barking orders as the Henricist soldiers fell into ranks and began to march. The fields stretched endlessly before them, the horizon veiled by a faint, dusty haze. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and distant fires, and the dull thud of boots against the ground echoed like an ominous drumbeat.

Folkert watched as the main column disappeared into the distance, his expression hardening. He turned to the small group of sibbes that remained: the Laningas, the Antumas, the Brekkanalds, and the Barwegens. Their leaders stepped forward, their faces grim but resolute.

“Ye ken what’s at stake,” Folkert said, his voice steady despite the tension that gripped him. “We’re the last line. If we fail, the army’s lost.”

Clunij Laninga, his face shadowed by the fading light, nodded sharply. “We’ll hold.”

Harke Antuma stepped forward, his scarred face set in determination. “The Antumas’ll nae let ye down.”

Marten Brekkanald and Tijs Barwegen exchanged a glance before nodding. “We’ll do our part,” Marten said, his voice gruff.

Folkert drew his sword, the blade gleaming faintly in the dim light. “Then let’s give ‘em somethin’ tae remember.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the Commonwealth dragoons dismounted on the ridge, their movements slow and deliberate. The fading light cast long shadows over the battlefield, and the Henricists, hidden among the hedges and ditches, waited in tense silence.

Folkert moved among the sibbes, his voice calm but firm as he issued orders. “Hold yer fire till they’re close. Keep yer ranks tight. We’ll make them pay for every step.”

The first shots rang out as the dragoons advanced, their muskets cracking through the still air. The Laningas returned fire, their volleys precise despite the growing darkness. Folkert raised his sword high, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Claymore!”, he roared, as he stared the advancing dragoons down. The sun now had began to set over the west, as Folkert rallied his men forward.

The Laningas surged, their war cry echoing across the field. Clunij led the charge, his blade flashing as he leapt into the ditch. The Antumas followed, their muskets firing in tight volleys that tore through the advancing dragoons. On the western flank, the Brekkanalds and Barwegens advanced cautiously, their shots picking off dragoons as they tried to cross the meer. The fighting was close and chaotic, the cries of men and the clash of steel filling the air.

The first crack of musket fire shattered the tense stillness of the fading light. Smoke drifted lazily upward, mingling with the fading light, as the Commonwealth dragoons began their slow, methodical advance. Their dismounted line stretched across the field, a dark, disciplined mass, moving with a confidence that sent shivers through the Henricist ranks.

Folkert stood at the centre of the Henricist line, his eyes scanning the advancing dragoons. His sword was unsheathed, catching the pale glint of the setting sun. “Hold yer fire!” he bellowed. “Let them come closer!”

The Antumas, Laningas, Brekkanalds, and Barwegens crouched behind hedges and ditches, muskets at the ready. The air was thick with tension, the men’s breaths visible in the cooling evening air. The occasional shuffle of feet or the click of a musket being primed punctuated the silence. All eyes were fixed on Folkert.

When the dragoons were within range, Folkert’s voice rang out. “Fire!”

The Henricist muskets erupted in a thunderous volley, the simultaneous discharge sending a shockwave through the field. Smoke billowed across the line, temporarily obscuring the view, but the anguished cries of the dragoons confirmed the volley’s deadly accuracy. Several soldiers crumpled to the ground, their bodies twisting unnaturally as they fell.

Yet the dragoons pressed on. Their officers barked commands, their voices steady and unwavering. The line reformed, stepping over their fallen comrades without hesitation. As the Henricists reloaded, the dragoons returned fire, their muskets cracking in uneven volleys that sent bullets whistling over the Henricist lines.

The Laningas took the brunt of the fire, several men falling back clutching their wounds. Clunij Laninga, his face set in grim determination, shouted above the din. “Reload, lads! Don’t waste a second! They’ll nae let up!”

Folkert moved swiftly along the line, his voice a steadying presence amidst the chaos. “Keep yer heads! Reload an’ aim true! Every shot counts!”

As the dragoons drew closer, their musket fire intensified, forcing the Henricists to abandon their volleys and focus on individual marksmanship. The Brekkanalds and Barwegens, positioned on the western flank, maintained a steady stream of fire, their muskets cracking in a near-constant rhythm.

Marten Brekkanald, his voice hoarse from shouting, urged his men forward. “Advance, damn ye! Keep firin’! Don’t let ‘em gain ground!”

On the eastern flank, the Laningas prepared for the inevitable clash. Clunij drew his sword, his voice cutting through the cacophony. “Blades out, lads! We’ll meet ‘em steel tae steel!”

The moment came swiftly. The dragoons reached the eastern ditch, their bayonets gleaming as they charged. The Laningas surged forward with a roar, their war cries drowning out the clash of steel. Clunij led the charge, his blade slicing through the first dragoon to meet him. Around him, the Laningas fought with a ferocity born of desperation, their movements sharp and precise despite the chaos.

Folkert, seeing the eastern flank under intense pressure, called for reinforcements. “Antumas, forward! Support the Laningas! Drive ‘em back!”

Harke Antuma rallied his men, leading them into the fray. The Henricist line shifted as the Antumas joined the Laningas, their combined force pushing the dragoons back toward the hedges. The air was filled with the sounds of clashing steel, pained cries, and the relentless crack of muskets.

As the last light of day faded, the battlefield was cast in shadow. Occasional bursts of moonlight broke through the cloud cover, illuminating the chaos below. The Henricists had the advantage. Their opponents’ movements were clearly visible, while their own were obscured. Folkert moved tirelessly between the sibbes, his presence a rallying point for the men. His coat was torn, his face streaked with blood, but his voice remained steady. “Hold the line! Don’t let ‘em break through!”

Clunij, bloodied but unrelenting, fought his way to Folkert’s side. “We cannae hold forever!” he gasped, his chest heaving. “The lads are wearin’ down!”

Folkert nodded grimly. “We just need tae hold long enough. They’ll break before we do.”

The dragoons, sensing the Henricists’ resolve, launched a renewed assault. Their officers, visible in the moonlight, shouted commands to close the gap. The Henricists, though weary, met them with unrelenting ferocity.

On the western flank, the Brekkanalds and Barwegens continued their steady advance, firing as they moved. The crack of muskets and the screams of the wounded echoed across the field, a relentless symphony of chaos.

The Henricist sibbes, tired but defiant, fought like men possessed, each musket volley a declaration of their will to survive. For hours now, Folkert was still moving among the lines, barking orders and lending his presence wherever the fighting was fiercest. “Keep yer wits about ye, lads!” Folkert roared, his voice cutting through the din. “Hold steady, and they’ll break afore we do!”

His words were a lifeline to the men, who clung to their positions with a determination born of desperation. The Antumas, clustered along the eastern flank, fired in controlled volleys, their shots tearing through the advancing Aubervijan dragoons. The Barwegens, positioned on the western edge, responded with the same discipline, their muskets spitting fire into the night.

But the dragoons came on relentlessly. The sound of their boots crunching over the rocky soil mingled with the crack of musket fire and the cries of the wounded. Though the Henricists held their ground, the weight of the enemy’s numbers was palpable. The ground between the two forces was a treacherous no-man’s-land of hedges and ditches, perfect for the Henricists to exploit but equally dangerous to defend. Folkert quickly saw the threat and acted.

“Antumas, shift tae the right and cover the ditch! Laningas, ye’ll hold the centre wi’ me!” His orders were clear, his tone brooking no argument. The men moved swiftly, their confidence in their leader outweighing their fear of the enemy.

On the eastern flank, Clunij Laninga, his sword drawn, led his men with a calm precision that belied the chaos around them. “Forward tae the ditch, lads!” he shouted. The Laningas moved as one, their boots crunching against the uneven ground. As they reached the first hedge, Clunij raised his sword high. “Claymore!”

The cry was echoed by his men as they surged forward, swords flashing in the moonlight. The dragoons, caught off guard by the ferocity of the charge, fell back momentarily, but their officers rallied them quickly. The two forces clashed at the edge of the ditch, steel meeting steel in a cacophony of violence.

High on the ridge, Romeijnders had been hearing the battle unfold below, but could not see a thing besides the endless expanse of darkness below him. Now, with growing frustration. The Henricists were supposed to break under the weight of his superior numbers, yet they held firm.

Without waiting for counsel, he spurred his horse forward, descending the hill at a gallop. The regiment which bear his name, despite having its own, separate commander, were inspired by the sight, and followed in his wake, their bayonets glinting in the fractured moonlight. Romeijnders shouted orders as he advanced, his voice drowned out by the roar of the battlefield.

The Henricists saw the charge coming. Folkert’s expression darkened as he spotted the regiment moving down the hillside. “Another wave,” he muttered to himself, then turned to Clunij. “Hold fast, Laninga. Let them break themselves on us!”

Clunij nodded, his grip tightening on his sword. “Aye, they’ll find nae mercy here.”

The dragoons reached the ditch with a thunderous crash, their bayonets meeting the Laningas’ swords in a vicious melee. Romeijnders, still on horseback, cut through the Henricist line with a precision honed by years of combat. His regiment followed, driving deeper into the Laningas’ position.

But the Henricists did not falter. Clunij rallied his men, their swords flashing as they pushed back against the onslaught. Around them, the Antumas and Barwegens maintained a steady volley of musket fire, their shots finding targets in the dim light.

The battle dragged on, the moon creeping higher into the sky as the hours slipped by. Romeijnders’ stallion reared as he urged his men forward, its hooves kicking up mud and debris. However, the uneven ground proved treacherous. The horse stumbled as it reached the edge of the ditch, its hooves slipping on the wet grass. Romeijnders fought to keep his balance, but suddenly, the stallion reared again, throwing Romeijnders violently to the ground.

The man landed hard, the weight of his armour pinning him to the mud. He tried to stand, as he watched the violent clashes of steal unfold around him. He cried for assistance from his men, his voice however, drowned out by the battle around him. As he lay, helpless amongst the chaos of the battle, it nonetheless raged on, the cries of the wounded and the clash of steel filling the air. He tried to rise, his hand reaching for his fallen sabre, but his strength was failing. As the battle passed him and raged elsewhere, a shadow fell over him. A soldier, his face obscured by the brim of his hat. Folkert noticed the loose clothing and the plaid skirt around his legs, black-and-white in the darkness, a long broadsword dangling in his hand. The following blow was swift, but nevertheless, final for the fated general.

As the dragoons fought, now without a commander and orders, their resolve and coordination quickly faltered. Officers shouted for order, but the stark absence of their commanding officer only added to the chaos. The Aubervijans began to retreat, their movements disorganised and chaotic. Folkert seized the moment. His voice, hoarse from shouting, rang out across the field. “They’re breakin’! Push them back tae the ridge!”

The Henricists advanced cautiously over the meer, their muskets firing in disciplined volleys that tore through the retreating dragoons. The Antumas and Laningas, though bloodied, maintained their cohesion, driving the enemy back step by step. And then, the battlefield fell silent. The Aubervijans had retreated, despite the many thousands who were above the hillside; Ceulemans remained hesitant to order his men into a mudded field in complete darkness. The sibbes, though battered and exhausted, had held their ground and secured the Henricist retreat.

Folkert, his sword stained with blood, stood amidst the carnage. Around him, the sibbes regrouped, their faces etched with a mixture of relief and disbelief. It was over, but the cost was evident in the bodies that littered the field.

Folkert, his sword still slick with blood, stood on the ridge overlooking the field. The meer, illuminated by fleeting glimpses of moonlight breaking through the clouds, bore the marks of a fierce and desperate skirmish. Bodies lay crumpled in the grass, and the air was heavy with the scent of gunpowder and blood. The wind, though cool, brought no solace to the men standing among the remnants of battle.

The Laningas and Antumas clustered near the hedgerows, their faces pale but resolute. Further west, the Brekkanalds and Barwegens maintained their positions, their muskets still aimed at the darkened horizon. The silence was unnerving; the sound of musket fire had faded, replaced only by the laboured breaths of the wounded and the occasional faint groans that drifted through the night.

Folkert wiped his brow with the back of his hand, the coolness of his sweat doing little to calm the heat in his chest. He could feel the weight of the night pressing down on him—the knowledge that they had done their part, but at a cost that would linger in their minds. He turned to Clunij Laninga, the young but fiercely competent head of the Laninga sibbe, who was crouched beside a fallen comrade.

“How many can still stand?” Folkert asked, his voice low but sharp.

Clunij didn’t look up as he pressed a hand to the wounded man’s shoulder, his voice steady but grim. “Enough tae keep the line if they come again, but not for long. We’ve lost a dozen, maybe more. Most of the rest are barely holdin’ together.”

Folkert gave a single nod, though the confirmation did little to ease the sinking feeling in his gut. He turned toward the western flank, where Marten Brekkanald was directing his sibbe to reload and regroup. With swift strides, Folkert moved to him, his boots squelching in the churned earth.

“Marten,” Folkert called out, his voice cutting through the low murmur of the Brekkanald men. “We cannae stay. Gather yer wounded an’ prepare tae move.”

Marten glanced back at him, his jaw tight. “Aye. We’ve held ‘em off, but if they charge again, we’ll nae make it. We’ll carry the wounded, but we’ve no stretchers.”

Folkert rested a hand on Marten’s shoulder, his grip firm. “Then we use muskets, cloaks, anythin’. The ones who can walk, they’ll walk. But we leave no one behind.”

The sibbes moved like shadows, their retreat as methodical and disciplined as their stand had been fierce. Makeshift stretchers were fashioned from broken muskets and discarded cloaks, and the wounded were hoisted onto the shoulders of their comrades. Those too injured to bear weight were carried by teams of men, their faces contorted in pain but silent—each one knowing the necessity of their silence.

The moonlight was sporadic, casting fleeting glimpses of the retreating figures as they slipped through the hedgerows and across the meer. The landscape, though once familiar, now felt alien under the weight of their exhaustion. Every rustle of the wind through the grass, every snap of a twig underfoot, sent a ripple of tension through the group. They knew the enemy could be regrouping even now, preparing for another charge.

Folkert moved among the sibbes, his presence a steadying force. He stopped beside Clunij, who was helping a limping soldier over a ditch. “Keep ‘em movin’,” Folkert said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of command. “We’re nae out of this yet.”

Clunij nodded, his face pale but determined. “Aye, we’ll make it. But nae if we slow.”

Further ahead, Marten and his Brekkanald men were assisting the Barwegens, who had taken the brunt of the final volleys. The camaraderie between the sibbes, often fraught with tension and rivalry in calmer times, now shone through as they worked together, their shared purpose overriding any old grievances.

As the group reached the edge of the meer, the distant sounds of the Aubervijan campfires carried faintly on the wind. The sibbes paused briefly, the wounded laid down gently while the men caught their breath. Folkert stood at the rear, his gaze fixed on the darkened horizon behind them. The battlefield, though out of sight, was etched in his mind—the cries of the dying, the clash of steel, the acrid smoke of musket fire.

A young soldier, no older than nineteen, approached him, his face pale and smeared with dirt. “Sir,” he said hesitantly, “d’ye think they’ll follow?”

Folkert looked at him, his expression unreadable. “If they dae, they’ll nae find us. We’re ghosts tae them now.”

The man nodded, though his hands still trembled as he gripped his musket. Folkert placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Yer alive, lad. That’s what matters. Now keep movin’.”

The retreat resumed, the sibbes melting into the dense thickets that bordered the meer. The terrain grew rougher, the paths winding and uneven, but the men pressed on, their determination fuelled by the knowledge that they had succeeded in their mission. The Henricist army, miles ahead, was safe.

By the time the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the sibbes had vanished into the rolling hills and dense woodlands. The battlefield, once alive with the chaos of combat, was now silent, save for the groans of the wounded and the cawing of distant birds.

Folkert and his men, though battered and weary, had achieved the impossible. They had held the line against overwhelming odds, buying the time needed for the Henricist army to escape. And though their bodies ached and their numbers had thinned, they moved with a quiet pride, knowing that their sacrifice had not been in vain.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 20

11th of October, 1706
Shores of the Maresdoep
Western Aubervijr
Evening

The Maresdoep stretched wide and unbroken before them, a leaden grey expanse that mirrored the overcast sky. Gusts of cold wind tugged at cloaks and ruffled the surface of the water, sending waves crashing in rhythmic intervals along the rocky shore. It was a bleak and desolate scene, one that seemed to seep into the very marrow of the Henricists as they toiled.

The absence of Folkert Oosterhof was a shadow over the army, heavy and oppressive. His absence left a void in their ranks that no officer, not even the seasoned Reinder or the meticulous Peter, could fill. Folkert’s decisiveness, his eye for detail, and his ability to maintain order amidst chaos had been the glue that held the Henricists together. Without him, cracks had begun to form.

The men worked on the beach with a frenetic urgency that bordered on desperation. Supplies were loaded onto the ships with little care for proper stowage, barrels and crates haphazardly stacked in ways that threatened to topple at the first wave. Soldiers bickered over misplaced orders, tempers flaring as mistakes were made and repeated.

Hennie stood on a slight rise overlooking the scene, his face etched with worry and exhaustion. He had tried to impose order, barking commands and attempting to emulate Folkert’s commanding presence, but it had only resulted in confusion.

“Ye call that secured?” Reinder’s voice bellowed across the shore, snapping Hennie’s attention back to the present.

A group of soldiers struggled to lash down a set of barrels to the deck of one of the smaller boats. The ropes were slack, and the barrels shifted precariously with every gust of wind.

“Ye’ll sink the bloody ship before we’ve even launched it!” Reinder stormed over, yanking the ropes from one of the men and demonstrating how to tie them properly. “Do it again. And this time, listen when I speak.”

Nearby, Sietse stood with his arms crossed, his usual sardonic expression replaced by a deep scowl. “It’s nae the men’s fault,” he muttered to Gosse, who was overseeing the loading of another vessel. “Without Folkert, they’re flounderin’.”

Gosse grunted in agreement, his sharp eyes scanning the disorganised efforts around him. “Aye, they dinnae ken their heads from their arses. And I’ll tell ye this—neither does Hennie. He’s nae Folkert, and he kens it.”

At the centre of the activity, Peter was attempting to manage the chaos, his usually calm demeanour frayed at the edges. He moved from group to group, correcting mistakes and issuing orders, but his efforts were barely enough to keep the operation afloat.

“Secure those lines tighter!” he snapped at a group of younger soldiers struggling to hoist a sail. “If Folkert were here—” He cut himself off, the words hanging in the air like a bitter echo.

One of the soldiers, a boy no older than eighteen, looked up at him with wide eyes. “But he’s nae here, sir. What if he’s—”

Peter’s glare silenced him. “He’s comin’ back,” he said firmly, though the doubt in his voice was unmistakable.

Hennie descended from the rise, his boots crunching against the gravelly shore as he approached the officers gathered near the largest ship. “What’s the holdup here?” he demanded, his tone sharper than he intended.

Reinder turned to him, his expression grim. “The men’re makin’ a hash of it. Half of them dinnae ken what they’re doin’, and the other half’re too scared tae make a decision without bein’ told.”

“Then tell them,” Hennie snapped.

“We’ve been tellin’ them!” Reinder shot back, his frustration boiling over. “But it’s nae the same without Folkert. He had a way of makin’ them listen. Ye cannae just replace that.”

“Then ye’ll have tae do yer best,” Hennie said tightly, though he knew Reinder was right.

The officers dispersed, returning to their tasks with grim determination, but the tension on the beach only grew as the day wore on. The men whispered among themselves, their voices hushed but urgent. Rumours swirled like the wind, each one more dire than the last.

“They’re nae comin’ back,” one soldier muttered, his face pale as he hauled a crate onto a waiting boat.

“How can ye say that?” his companion hissed, glancing around nervously.

“Because it’s true,” the first soldier replied, his voice trembling. “If they were alive, they’d’ve been here by now.”

The words spread like wildfire, infecting the ranks with a creeping dread. Even the officers couldn’t hide their unease, their eyes darting constantly to the eastern hills as if expecting the Commonwealth to appear at any moment.

As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and grey, Hennie called a meeting with his remaining command. They gathered near the largest ship, their faces drawn and weary.

“We’ve nae word from Folkert or the sibbes,” Peter began, his tone grim. “It’s been two days. We’ve tae consider the possibility—”

“No,” Hennie interrupted, his voice hard.

Peter hesitated, then continued. “Hennie, I ken ye want tae believe they’re still out there. But we cannae wait forever. The longer we stay, the greater the risk tae everyone here.”

“And what if they’re on their way back now?” Hennie countered. “What if they’re fightin’ their way tae us as we speak?”

Reinder leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “And what if they’re nae? Are ye willin’ tae risk the entire army on a chance?”

Hennie clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he struggled to form a response. The silence that followed was heavy, each man lost in his own thoughts.

The preparations continued into the evening, the men working with a frantic energy that bordered on panic. The beach was a chaotic tableau of movement and sound, but the absence of Folkert’s steady hand was painfully evident.

As night fell, the officers gathered one last time to make their final decisions. Hennie’s voice was strained as he addressed them, his words filled with a desperate hope that felt increasingly hollow.

“We wait,” he said firmly, though his resolve wavered under the weight of their stares. “Just a little longer.”

The officers exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. There was nothing more to say.

The cold night air settled over the camp like a shroud as the Henricists laboured on, their movements punctuated by the creak of timber, the thud of barrels, and the faint murmurs of soldiers whose spirits had long since faltered. The makeshift camp near the Maresdoep was a hive of activity, yet the energy was hollow, drained of hope. For all their frantic efforts, a shadow loomed over every task—the absence of Folkert and the sibbes.

It had been two days since Folkert had departed, and though Hennie had held out hope for as long as he could, the stark reality had begun to settle over him and his men. Whispers had turned to murmurs, murmurs to muted conversations, and now, resignation hung heavy in the air.

By a smouldering fire at the centre of the camp, Hennie stood hunched, his cloak pulled tight against the chill. His gaze flickered between the glowing embers and the eastern hills, now cloaked in darkness. His lips were pressed into a tight line, his brow furrowed with a mix of worry and guilt.

Peter approached, his footsteps soft but deliberate. “Ye need tae make a decision, Hennie,” he said quietly, his tone devoid of reproach but heavy with expectation.

Hennie didn’t look at him. “And what decision is that, Peter? Do we leave? Do we abandon them tae their fate, tae die out there on their own?”

“They may already be dead,” Peter replied, his voice steady but grim. “We’ve waited long enough. Any longer, and ye risk everyone here.”

Hennie’s jaw clenched. “If it were ye out there, Peter, would ye want me tae leave ye behind?”

Peter hesitated, then said softly, “No. But that doesnae change what needs tae be done.”

Across the camp, the other officers were gathering near the largest vessel. Reinder, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, was the first to speak. “We cannae wait any longer,” he said firmly. “The men’re restless, and they’re startin’ tae lose faith. Every minute we stay here is another minute the Aubervijans could find us.”

Sietse, leaning against a stack of barrels, nodded in agreement. “He’s right. We’ve stayed longer than any of us expected. If Folkert’s gone, then he’d have wanted us tae leave. Ye ken that as well as I do.”

Gosse, always more measured, ran a hand through his hair. “Aye, but are we prepared tae sail without knowing for certain? Without even tryin’ tae find out what happened tae them?”

“Do we have a choice?” Reinder shot back. “We’re sittin’ ducks here. We’ve done everything we can tae wait for them, but there comes a time when we’ve tae think about the rest of the army. That time’s now.”

The soldiers, too, were not blind to the growing urgency. Conversations grew louder, the questions sharper, as the minutes dragged into hours.

“Ye really think they’re comin’ back?” one soldier asked, his voice thick with doubt.

“I dinnae ken,” his companion replied, glancing nervously toward the hills. “But if they werenae, we’d’ve heard somethin’ by now, wouldn’t we?”

“And what if the Aubervijans’re just waitin’ for us tae launch? What if they’re out there now, watchin’, plannin’ tae strike when we’re at our weakest?”

The silence that followed was more telling than any answer.

As the final preparations for departure began, the sense of urgency reached a fever pitch. The officers barked orders to the men, their voices sharp and clipped. Supplies were loaded with renewed vigour, though the chaos from earlier still lingered, manifesting in hurried movements and frayed tempers.

Reinder directed a group of soldiers toward the shoreline, his tone brooking no argument. “Get those ropes secured! I want every vessel ready tae launch by the hour.”

Sietse moved among the men, his sharp eyes catching every mistake. “That’s nae how ye tie a knot! Ye want tae drown before we even reach Faursia?”

Even Peter, who was usually calm and collected, found himself snapping at a group of younger recruits. “If ye dinnae know what ye’re doin’, ask someone who does! We’ve nae time tae fix yer mistakes!”

Hennie remained apart from the others, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He could feel the weight of their stares, the unspoken doubts that hung in the air. He knew they were waiting for him to give the final order, to signal the retreat that would take them back to Faursia. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Not yet.

Peter approached him again, his expression softer this time. “Hennie,” he began, his voice almost gentle. “The men need tae hear it from ye. They need tae ken that we’re leavin’. That it’s over.”

Hennie closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the decision. “It’s nae over,” he murmured, more to himself than to Peter.

But even as he said the words, he knew they were a lie.

The final order came just as the last light of day faded into night. The officers gathered one last time, their faces pale but resolute.

“We’re leavin’,” Hennie said quietly, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “Make ready tae sail.”

The officers nodded, their expressions a mix of relief and sorrow. Without another word, they dispersed, leaving Hennie alone with his thoughts.

The Henricist camp stretched across the shoreline, a sombre and disorganised sprawl against the muted grey of the sea. The waves crashed rhythmically in the background, their sound blending with the occasional clink of equipment and the low murmur of soldiers’ voices. Every face bore the same mixture of exhaustion and unease, the men working with a weariness that bordered on despair.

Hennie stood at the edge of the beach, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his back rigid. His eyes, bloodshot from sleepless nights, scanned the far horizon, though there was little to see in the fading daylight. A light mist hung over the water, obscuring the far reaches of the shoreline, while behind him, the camp bustled with activity—or at least what passed for it.

“Still nothin’, then?” Peter asked as he approached, his voice low and hesitant. He stopped beside Hennie, glancing briefly at the younger man’s profile before shifting his gaze to the sea.

Hennie’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Nae sign. Nae word.”

Peter nodded slowly, his expression pensive. “The lads are sayin’ we should leave. They’re fearin’ the Commonwealth’ll find us afore we’re ready tae sail.”

Hennie exhaled sharply, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Folkert’ll come. He kens what’s at stake.”

Peter frowned, the lines on his weathered face deepening. “Aye, but what if he cannae? We dinnae ken what’s happened tae him or the sibbes. Ye cannae ask the lads tae wait fer ghosts, Hennie.”

Hennie’s head turned sharply, his gaze locking with Peter’s. His voice, though quiet, carried a dangerous edge. “He’ll come. He has tae.”

Behind them, the camp was a picture of disorder. The soldiers worked in clusters, their movements slow and uncoordinated without Folkert’s steady hand to guide them. Crates were stacked haphazardly near the ships, ropes hung loose from the masts, and several barrels of provisions lay overturned, their contents spilling into the sand.

Reinder, standing near one of the ships, shook his head in frustration. “Christ, it’s like watchin’ headless chickens,” he muttered, turning to Gosse, who was struggling with a knot.

“The lads arenae used tae this,” Gosse replied, his tone defensive. “Folkert’s the one that handles these things.”

“Aye, and he’s nae here,” Reinder snapped. “So someone else’ll have tae step up.”

Gosse glanced toward the water, his expression grim. “Do ye reckon he’s alive?”

Reinder didn’t answer immediately. He tugged the knot free, his fingers working deftly, before finally replying. “I dinnae ken. But if he’s nae back by mornin’, we leave.”

Gosse’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.

In the Prince’s tent, the atmosphere was suffocating. Hennie sat at the head of a crude table, his arms resting heavily on its surface. Around him, his closest officers stood or paced, their expressions ranging from concern to outright frustration.

“We cannae keep waitin’,” Reinder said, his voice louder than intended. “The longer we stay, the closer the Commonwealth’ll get. Ye ken that as well as any o’ us, Hennie.”

Peter raised a hand, his tone more measured. “Reinder’s right, lad. We’ve nae word from Folkert, nae idea where he or the sibbes are. We have tae think o’ the men here.”

Hennie’s gaze was steely as he leaned forward. “And abandon the men who fought tae give us a chance?” His voice was low but filled with fury. “I’ll nae do it.”

“An’ what’ll ye dae if they’re already dead?” Gosse asked bluntly. “Wait fer them anyway? Let the lads here die tae honour the memory o’ the ones we’ve already lost?”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in. Hennie’s jaw worked, his fists clenching against the table.

Peter sighed, stepping closer to the young Prince. “We’re nae sayin’ tae forget them, Hennie. But if they’re gone, their sacrifice was fer nothin’ if we die here waitin’.”

Hennie’s voice was tight as he replied. “We wait until dawn. If they dinnae come by then…” He paused, swallowing hard. “We leave.”

The camp buzzed with renewed urgency as the decision spread among the men. Soldiers moved hurriedly between the ships and the shoreline, loading barrels, securing ropes, and double-checking supplies. Still, without Folkert’s sharp eye and commanding presence, mistakes were made—ropes left too loose, barrels improperly stacked.

Hennie moved through the camp like a spectre, his mind racing. He barked orders where he saw fit, his frustration evident in every clipped command. Yet, it was clear to all that something vital was missing.

By the time the moon rose high in the sky, the camp had settled into an uneasy quiet. The ships were mostly ready, their sails furled and waiting for the dawn winds. The soldiers, exhausted from days of marching and preparing, rested in uneasy clusters near the fires.

Hennie stood by the water again, Peter joining him once more.

“Ye’ve done all ye can,” Peter said softly. “If they’re tae come, they’ll come. But ye need tae rest, Hennie.”

“I’ll rest when we’re home,” Hennie replied, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

It was almost dawn when the sentry cried out.

“Riders! Westward!”

Hennie froze, his heart hammering in his chest as he ran toward the sentry’s post. Around him, the camp stirred, soldiers scrambling to their feet, hands reaching instinctively for weapons.

“What do ye see?” Hennie demanded.

The sentry pointed, his voice trembling. “They’re comin’ slow, Prince. Could be anyone.”

“Scoutin’ party?” Reinder asked, his voice tight.

“Or the sibbes,” Gosse countered, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

Hennie’s eyes narrowed as he stared into the distance. The riders were moving slowly, their outlines barely visible in the dim light. The tension in the camp was unbearable, every man holding his breath as they waited for the figures to draw closer.

As the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, the truth became clear. The riders’ uniforms were tattered and stained, their faces gaunt with exhaustion, but they were unmistakably Henricist. At their head was Folkert, his posture unyielding despite the obvious toll of the past days.

“They’re here,” Hennie whispered, his voice breaking. “They’re alive.”

The camp erupted in a wave of cheers, the soldiers rushing forward to meet the returning sibbes. Hennie stepped toward Folkert, his heart swelling with a mixture of relief, gratitude, and admiration.

Folkert dismounted with visible effort, his body stiff and his face pale beneath the layers of dirt and dried blood. His tunic was torn, his boots caked with mud, but his eyes held the sharpness of a man who refused to yield. Behind him, the sibbes followed, their steps slow and weary but defiant.

A crowd of soldiers and officers swarmed the group, shouts of relief and jubilation echoing through the camp. Hennie pushed his way to the front, his heart pounding as he came face to face with Folkert.

“Folkert,” Hennie began, his voice thick with emotion. “Ye did it. Ye brought them back.”

Folkert’s lips curled into a faint, wry smile. “Aye, we held the line. But dinnae act like it was easy. We’ve got wounded, they’ll need tended tae.”

Hennie stepped forward, gripping Folkert’s forearm tightly. “Of course… ye saved us all. I… I dinnae ken how tae thank ye.”

Folkert shook his head, his expression turning serious. “Thank me by gettin’ these men home. We’ve nae time fer celebration. The Commonwealth’ll nae stop chasin’ us. Coster is still out there, unimpeded.”

Peter and Reinder approached, their faces a mix of relief and concern. Reinder clapped Folkert on the shoulder. “Christ, man, ye look like ye’ve been through hell and back.”

“Feels worse than it looks,” Folkert quipped dryly, his gaze sweeping the camp. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the disarray.

“What’s this?” he barked, stepping forward to inspect the nearest ship. “Who loaded these supplies? They’re all wrong. This’ll tip the boat afore we’re a mile out!”

The soldiers nearby stiffened, their expressions guilty. Folkert’s commanding tone cut through the chaos like a whip. “Fix it! Now! An’ double-check every last rope an’ barrel while yer at it!”

He turned sharply to Reinder. “How long’ve ye all been sittin’ on yer arses, lettin’ this happen?”

Reinder opened his mouth to respond, but Folkert was already moving, his sharp eyes catching every mistake and issuing corrections with unrelenting precision. The camp, once sluggish and disorganised, snapped into action under his watchful gaze.

“Christ… probably scarin’ the life out of those men. Drenched in blood and still, he’s a machine.” Peter laughed, watching Folkert snapping into action, almost like clockwork, as if the past 48 hours had not affected the man one bit.

Hennie exchanged a look with Peter, who laughed shrugged. “He’s nae wrong though,” Peter admitted.

By the time rays of sunlight began to flicker over the horizon, the Henricist army was ready. The ships, their sails taut and their cargo finally secured, lined the beach like a fleet of silent sentinels. The soldiers, weary but invigorated by the return of their comrades, filed aboard in orderly lines.

Hennie stood at the water’s edge, watching as the first boats pushed off into the dark sea. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Folkert beside him, his expression unreadable.

“We’ll make it,” Folkert said quietly, his voice firm. “We’ve come too far tae fail now.”

Hennie nodded, his throat tight. “We will. Together.”

For a brief moment, the tension between them seemed to dissolve, replaced by a shared understanding of what they had endured and what lay ahead.

As the last boat pushed off, the campfires on the beach flickered and died, leaving only the faint glow of the morning light on the horizon. The fleet moved as one, the oars cutting through the waves in steady rhythm.

The soldiers sat in tight rows, their voices low as they whispered among themselves. Some dozed where they sat, their exhaustion finally overtaking them, while others stared out at the lightening horizon, their thoughts lost in the vastness of the sea.

Hennie sat at the stern of the lead boat, Peter beside him. Folkert stood near the bow, his silhouette stark against the faint glow of the moon.

“D’ye think they’ll follow us?” Peter asked, breaking the silence.

Hennie shook his head. “If they were close enough, they’d’ve struck already. But we’ll nae wait tae find out.”

Peter glanced at Folkert. “He’s somethin’ else, eh?”

Hennie followed his gaze. “Aye. He’s nae easy tae work with, but he gets the job done.”

The conversation lapsed into silence, the only sound the rhythmic splash of oars and the occasional creak of the wooden hulls.

Folkert finally sat down, his movements slow and deliberate. He leaned back against the side of the boat, his head tilting upward to gaze at the sky.

Hennie watched him for a moment before speaking. “Ye dinnae think they’ll stop, dae ye?”

Folkert’s eyes remained on the sky. “The Commonwealth’s like a hound wi’ a bone. They’ll chase us tae the ends o’ the earth if they think there’s a chance o’ catchin’ us.”

Hennie nodded slowly. “We’ll be ready. Once we’re back in Faursia, we’ll regroup, rebuild.”

Folkert’s gaze shifted to Hennie, his expression serious. “Let’s just focus on gettin’ back first.”

The two men fell silent, the weight of their journey settling over them. Around them, the soldiers began to settle into a fitful rest, their bodies swaying with the gentle roll of the waves.

The Henricists had survived another day, but the road ahead remained uncertain.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 21

12th of October, 1706
Orvelte, Aubervijr
Afternoon

The sky was a murky grey, heavy with unspent rain, as if the heavens themselves hesitated to unleash their wrath. A biting wind whispered through the Commonwealth camp, carrying with it the faint acrid scent of burnt wood and damp earth. Smoke curled lazily from scattered fires, most long extinguished, leaving the soldiers huddled in their cloaks as they prepared for another day of relentless drilling and laborious marching.

Herbert Ceulemans stood at the center of his command tent, the single brightest flame in an otherwise dimly lit space. A small oil lamp flickered on the edge of his expansive table, casting sharp shadows across the maps and papers meticulously arranged before him. Ceulemans’ gaze lingered on the largest of the maps, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied the rivers, valleys, and fortifications with the intensity of a predator stalking its prey.

He barely moved, yet the air around him seemed charged with an energy that made the room feel smaller than it was. His posture was relaxed but deliberate—one hand resting lightly on the table, the other clasped behind his back. Every inch of him radiated control, an unshakeable certainty in his purpose.

The death of Romeijnders had been a pivot point, a disruption of the old order that Ceulemans had anticipated and, in some ways, encouraged. The army that now knelt at his feet was no longer an inherited burden of tradition and hesitation—it was a canvas upon which he would paint his masterpiece.

Romeijnders had been a soldier of great experience, but his methods were stagnant, his strategies outdated. He had treated war as a rigid dance of formations and treaties, failing to adapt to the fluidity demanded by modern conflicts. Ceulemans, by contrast, viewed war as an art form—a game of both intellect and intuition, where boldness and innovation could shift the tide in ways mere strength never could.

The officers he had summoned would arrive soon, though Ceulemans had no intention of joining them immediately. Let them stew in their thoughts, uncertain of his purpose. He wanted to observe them first from a distance, to let their nerves unsettle them, their egos clash. There was no better way to test the mettle of men than to see how they performed under pressure—and silence was one of the most potent forms of pressure.

The decision to assemble this particular group of officers had not been made lightly. Each one had been chosen for a specific reason, whether it was their loyalty, their competence, or their potential for manipulation. But there were others, relics of the old guard, who Ceulemans had included only to gauge their value—or lack thereof. He would root out weakness with the precision of a surgeon, excising the rot before it could infect his vision.

A faint smirk played at the corners of his lips as he turned his attention to a smaller map pinned to the wall. It depicted a concentrated area along the River Tijens, a critical artery for the movement of men and supplies. The Henricist retreat had been faster than anticipated, but Ceulemans saw this as an opportunity rather than a setback. He traced the line of the river with his finger, his mind already weaving scenarios in which the Henricists’ speed could become their downfall.

Ceulemans exhaled softly, the sound barely audible over the rustling of the tent’s canvas walls. There was a clarity in solitude, a sharpness to his thoughts that the presence of others often dulled. He thrived in this space, this moment before action, when possibilities stretched out before him like an endless horizon.

His hands moved to the stack of papers beside the map, letters and reports meticulously arranged in order of priority. Most were from officers scattered across the Commonwealth territories, their words laced with the subtext of self-interest or desperation. Ceulemans skimmed through them with a practised efficiency, his mind cataloguing their contents even as his eyes moved on to the next.

A knock at the tent’s entrance broke the stillness.

“Enter,” he said, his voice calm and measured.

A young aide stepped inside, his uniform pristine despite the mud clinging to his boots. He saluted sharply before speaking. “The officers have gathered, sir.”

Ceulemans nodded, though he made no move to leave. “Let them wait.”

The aide hesitated for a moment, then nodded and retreated, leaving the tent as silently as he had entered. Ceulemans turned back to the table, his smirk returning. He could already picture the tension simmering in the assembly tent, the shifting glances, the quiet whispers. It was a symphony of uncertainty, and he was its conductor.

His fingers brushed against the hilt of the sabre resting on the table. It was an ornamental piece, rarely used in combat, but it served as a symbol of his authority. Ceulemans picked it up, its weight familiar in his hand, and held it loosely as he moved to the entrance of the tent.

The camp stretched out before him, a hive of activity and discipline. Soldiers moved with purpose, their boots crunching against the frozen ground as they carried out their orders. The air was filled with the clang of steel, the bark of commands, and the rhythmic thud of boots on earth. Ceulemans watched it all with a mixture of pride and expectation.

This was his army now—not Romeijnders’, not the Commonwealth’s, but his. And he would shape it into a force that would be remembered not for its size, but for its precision, its ruthlessness, and its victories.

He returned to the interior of the tent, setting the sabre down with a deliberate click against the wood of the table. For now, he would let the officers simmer a little longer. There was power in patience, and Ceulemans knew how to wield it better than any weapon.

The seconds stretched into minutes as Ceulemans lingered in his tent. His thoughts drifted between the reports scattered across his table and the officers gathered beyond. The scent of the lamp oil burned faintly in the cool morning air, mixing with the earthy dampness of the camp. He adjusted his cuffs with deliberate care, the fine fabric a stark contrast to the rough wool of the soldiers’ uniforms outside.

To any observer, he might have seemed distracted, but in truth, Ceulemans’ mind was razor-sharp, every movement purposeful. He was not just a commander preparing for a meeting—he was a master craftsman about to set his chisel to stone.

The officers waiting in the assembly tent would be restless by now. He had intentionally given them no indication of when he would arrive. He imagined the shifting of feet, the exchanged glances, the unspoken questions. They would be uneasy, uncertain, and that was exactly how he wanted them.

This was not a meeting for the old guard. Those relics of the past, with their rigid adherence to outdated doctrines, had no place in his vision. But it wasn’t enough to simply replace them; Ceulemans needed to test the men he had chosen, to see how they performed under pressure, how they reacted when left to their own devices.

He stepped toward the entrance of his tent, his boots clicking softly against the wooden planks beneath him. The sabre at his side swayed with the movement, a polished testament to his authority.

Pushing the flap aside, Ceulemans stepped into the open air. The camp greeted him like a well-oiled machine. Soldiers moved with precision, their movements swift but disciplined. The sharp crack of musket drill echoed from the training grounds, punctuated by the bark of sergeants correcting form.

For a moment, Ceulemans simply stood there, his gaze sweeping across the scene. He saw potential in every movement, every action. The men were not yet the army he envisioned, but they were close, closer than they had ever been under Romeijnders’ command.

He took a measured step forward, his pace steady as he advanced toward the assembly tent. The crisp morning air carried the faint tang of gunpowder from the distant musket drills, mingling with the earthy scent of damp grass beneath his boots. Soldiers paused as he passed, their movements freezing for a fraction of a second before resuming. Their deference was not an act of affection—it was the sharp edge of respect born from discipline and fear.

The closer he drew to the tent, the more distinct the voices within became. At first, it was a low hum of conversation, like the distant murmur of a stream. Then words began to emerge, snippets of dialogue rising and falling like waves.

“…has to show up eventually. Doesn’t he?” Dijkgraaf again—Ceulemans recognised the growl of his voice, tinged with impatience and doubt.

“Perhaps he’s testing us,” a smoother voice replied, calm and clipped. Molenaar. Always composed, always trying to stay two steps ahead of everyone else in the room.

“Testing us how? By making us sit here like fools?” Dijkgraaf snapped back.

A third voice cut in—sharper, more eager. “If he wanted fools, he wouldn’t have summoned us in the first place.” Roland Engelbrecht, young and overeager, trying desperately to assert himself amongst his senior peers.

Ceulemans paused a few feet from the tent, his shadow stretching across the canvas as the sun began to rise higher in the sky. He tilted his head slightly, catching the rhythm of their conversation.

“You don’t think it’s strange?” Dijkgraaf pressed, his tone lowering into something almost conspiratorial. “Summoning us like this, no warning, no explanation?”

“It’s not for us to question,” Molenaar replied evenly, his words carrying an air of indifference that only served to fuel Dijkgraaf’s frustration.

“Oh, it’s not, is it? Then what is it for?”

“To listen,” Engelbrecht interjected. “To follow orders.”

“And to keep our mouths shut, I suppose?”

“You said it, not me.”

A few muffled chuckles followed, the sound sharp and nervous. Ceulemans felt a flicker of satisfaction. The tension was growing, building like a pressure cooker, and every word spoken only added to the storm brewing within the tent.

He took another step forward, the leather of his boots creaking faintly as he moved closer. The flap of the tent stirred slightly in the breeze, and he stopped just short of pushing it aside.

“I’ll tell you what this is,” Dijkgraaf said, his voice lowering further. “This is a game. He’s playing games with us, making us sweat while he—”

“Careful, Dijkgraaf,” Molenaar warned, his tone sharp for the first time. “You don’t know who might be listening.”

“Listening?” Dijkgraaf let out a humourless laugh. “He’s not even here!”

Ceulemans raised an eyebrow. He considered stepping in, ending the moment and making his presence known. But no, not yet. He would wait, let them stew a little longer. Every second they thought themselves alone was another second they revealed more about themselves.

The voices inside shifted, taking on a more subdued tone as the conversation turned to speculation about the purpose of the meeting.

“What do you think he’ll want from us?” Engelbrecht asked.

“Commitment,” Molenaar answered without hesitation. “Loyalty. The question is whether we’re willing to give it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dijkgraaf muttered.

The silence that followed was thick, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air like a drawn blade.

Ceulemans smirked to himself. Loyalty would come, one way or another. If it wasn’t given willingly, it would be taken by force—shaped and forged under the hammer of discipline.

At last, he reached out and grasped the tent flap. The voices inside faltered as the shadow of his hand fell across the canvas. A pause, then the soft sound of footsteps as Ceulemans stepped into the room.

The air in the tent shifted as Ceulemans entered, his presence immediately pulling the officers’ attention like an iron magnet. Conversations cut short mid-syllable, and every pair of eyes turned toward him. He let the silence stretch, surveying the room with the deliberate coolness of a man in absolute control.

“Gentlemen,” he said at last, his tone calm but carrying the unmistakable weight of authority. He stepped further inside, his boots striking the wooden planks with measured precision. “I trust the wait wasn’t unbearable.”

The faint smirk that ghosted across his face was not lost on the men. Dijkgraaf stiffened, his jaw tightening as though holding back an impulsive remark. Engelbrecht shifted uneasily in his chair, while Molenaar leaned back, his expression unreadable, as if trying to gauge Ceulemans’ next move.

Ceulemans took his time moving to the head of the table. His sharp eyes flicked over the men, taking in every detail—the nervous drumming of fingers against the table, the tightening of a jaw, the fleeting glances exchanged between certain officers. Each man had a story to tell, and Ceulemans was reading them all.

“Let’s not waste time with pleasantries,” he began, resting his gloved hands on the table. “You’re not here for idle conversation or to sit comfortably in your opinions. You’re here because this army—” his voice hardened, “—requires more than it has been given.”

He let the words hang in the air, watching as some of the men squirmed under his gaze. Dijkgraaf, however, straightened, his brows furrowing in defiance. Ceulemans stored the reaction away for later. He had plans for Dijkgraaf, though not the kind the man might hope for.

“Discipline,” Ceulemans continued, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. “That is what we lack. The enemy across the Maresdoep—the Henricists—are not without merit. They are swift, cunning, and often irrationally bold. They will exploit every weakness we present to them, every crack in our foundation.”

He paused, his piercing eyes scanning the room. “And it is our job to ensure there are no cracks.”

Dijkgraaf opened his mouth as if to speak, but a sharp glance from Molenaar silenced him. Ceulemans didn’t acknowledge the exchange but filed it away in his mind.

“You’ve all been summoned here because I see potential,” Ceulemans said, his tone softening slightly but still carrying an edge. “Some of you will rise to meet it. Others…” He let the sentence trail off, the implication clear.

There was a palpable shift in the room. Engelbrecht sat up straighter, his youthful eagerness shining through despite the tension. Dijkgraaf, meanwhile, crossed his arms over his chest, his face an unreadable mask of resentment. Molenaar remained calm, his fingers steepled as if in thought.

“I am not here to make friends or to coddle egos,” Ceulemans said, pacing slowly around the table. “I am here to lead an army—an army that will not only crush the Henricist rebellion but remind the world of Aubervijr’s power and precision.”

He stopped behind Dijkgraaf, his presence looming. “Those who cannot adapt to this vision will find themselves… replaced.”

Dijkgraaf flinched ever so slightly, a reaction Ceulemans noted with satisfaction.

“Now,” Ceulemans continued, moving back to the head of the table. “Let us speak honestly. What did you discuss while I was absent?”

The officers exchanged uneasy glances. Engelbrecht was the first to break the silence. “We were… speculating on your plans, sir.”

“Speculating?” Ceulemans echoed, his tone neutral but his eyes narrowing slightly. “And what conclusions did you reach?”

Engelbrecht hesitated, clearly uncertain of how much to reveal. “That you intend to… reform the command structure. To make it stronger.”

“An astute observation,” Ceulemans replied, his gaze flicking to Molenaar. “And you, Captain Molenaar? What were your thoughts?”

Molenaar met his gaze without flinching. “I believed you were testing us, sir. Seeing how we would conduct ourselves without your guidance.”

“And?”

Molenaar tilted his head slightly. “Some of us rose to the occasion. Others… faltered.”

Ceulemans’ smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. “Indeed.”

He turned his attention to Dijkgraaf, whose jaw tightened as Ceulemans’ gaze bore into him. “And you, Major? What pearls of wisdom did you contribute to the discussion?”

Dijkgraaf hesitated, his defiance flickering for a moment before he answered. “I questioned the purpose of this meeting, sir. I was… uncertain of your intentions.”

“Uncertain,” Ceulemans repeated, the word carrying an almost mocking lilt. “I see.”

The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Ceulemans let the silence stretch again, allowing the weight of his authority to settle over the men.

“Gentlemen,” he said at last, his voice calm but commanding. “Uncertainty is a weakness we cannot afford. If you harbour doubts, voice them now—or prepare to set them aside permanently.”

He let his words sink in before taking his seat at the head of the table. “This army will change, and it will change quickly. Those who cannot keep up will be left behind. Now, let us begin.”

Thank you! I’ll continue with Ceulemans’ plans for reorganisation and training, weaving in his manipulation of the officers and their reactions. I’ll expand on their growing respect, fear, and the tense atmosphere as Ceulemans lays the foundation for his command.

Ceulemans leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as his eyes swept over the officers seated around him. The silence that followed his declaration lingered, broken only by the distant sounds of the camp—the rhythmic beat of drums, the occasional bark of an order, and the faint clatter of musket drills. Every sound seemed to underscore the stakes of the moment.

“We begin with the command structure,” Ceulemans said at last, his tone measured but firm. “What has worked before, under other generals, no longer suits the needs of this army. An army is like a body—if one part fails, the whole suffers. My duty is to ensure that failure is no longer an option.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto Engelbrecht. “Captain Engelbrecht, you strike me as a man eager to prove himself. Ambitious. Am I correct?”

Engelbrecht straightened in his chair, his youthful eagerness momentarily eclipsing his nerves. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Ceulemans’ voice was as sharp as a blade. “Ambition is a double-edged sword. Wield it wisely, and it will serve you well. Let it control you, and it will be your undoing.”

Engelbrecht nodded quickly, his face flushing slightly. Ceulemans moved on, his gaze settling on Molenaar.

“Captain Molenaar, you’re a man of calculation, are you not? Always weighing your options, looking for the angle.”

Molenaar inclined his head slightly. “I try to be, sir.”

“And what angle do you see now?” Ceulemans’ question was pointed, almost a challenge.

Molenaar’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. “The angle of survival, sir. To adapt and serve.”

Ceulemans allowed himself a small smile in return. “A wise answer.”

Finally, his attention turned to Dijkgraaf, whose posture had grown increasingly rigid. “Major Dijkgraaf. You’ve made your doubts clear. Let me be equally clear—doubt is a luxury this army cannot afford. If you cannot cast it aside, you will find yourself replaced. Am I understood?”

Dijkgraaf’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Understood, sir.”

Ceulemans leaned back again, satisfied for now. “Good. Now, let us speak of training. This army will be drilled to perfection. The Henricists thrive on chaos—charges with blades drawn, breaking lines through sheer force of will. We will counter that chaos with discipline. Precision. Unyielding cohesion.”

He gestured toward the table, where a map of Faursia and Aubervijr was spread out. “I have devised a new bayonet drill specifically to counter their Highland tactics. The thrust must bypass their shield. Aim for the man to your right, not the one in front of you. It disrupts their formation and exploits their weakness.”

The officers exchanged glances, some nodding in understanding, others frowning in confusion. Ceulemans noticed it all.

“Do not mistake this for mere theory,” he continued. “We will rehearse it until it is second nature. There will be no hesitation, no confusion on the battlefield. When the Henricists charge, they will meet a wall of bayonets, and that wall will not falter.”

Engelbrecht spoke up, his voice cautious. “And what of the wounded, sir? Their men—do we offer quarter?”

Ceulemans’ eyes hardened, his gaze cutting through Engelbrecht like a blade. “No quarter,” he said coldly. “The Henricists fight with desperation because they believe they have nothing to lose. We will strip them of that illusion. Every wounded man is a threat—a man who can rise again to fight another day. We will leave no threats on the battlefield.”

The room grew colder, the weight of Ceulemans’ words settling over the officers like a shroud. Even Molenaar, composed as ever, seemed slightly unsettled.

“And their leaders?” Dijkgraaf asked, his voice quiet.

Ceulemans turned his gaze to the map, tracing a path across the Maresdoep with a gloved finger. “Their leaders will fall, one by one. Without them, the Henricist rebellion collapses. That is our ultimate goal—not just victory in battle, but the eradication of their cause.”

The officers exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of Ceulemans’ vision sinking in. He allowed the silence to stretch once more, letting them absorb the enormity of the task ahead. Just as the officers thought Ceulemans may be done, he opened his mouth once again;

“Eusebius Dumonceau… they call him ‘Hennie’,” Ceulemans began, his voice measured, with a slight, deliberate pause on the nickname. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Their so-called Prince.”

His words hung in the air for a moment, and the officers exchanged glances. The weight of Ceulemans’ tone made it clear that the moniker carried no respect in his eyes.

“Behind Eusebius stands Peter Bijlsma, their adjutant-general,” Ceulemans continued, his voice sharp and precise. “A man of unyielding loyalty. Bijlsma landed with Dumonceau at Marrenijl, one of the original seven. His presence is not merely symbolic; he is the foundation upon which Dumonceau’s confidence rests.”

The officers around the table leaned forward slightly, their attention sharpening. Ceulemans let his gaze sweep across the room, ensuring that each man absorbed the gravity of his words.

“And then,” Ceulemans continued, “there is Harmen Brouwer. We initially believed he had no part in the rising, that he had distanced himself entirely. However, recent reports indicate otherwise. Brouwer has rallied approximately 2,500 men—sibbes, primarily—to their cause. This raises their total to 8,000.”

Ceulemans allowed the room to fall into silence. The weight of the number seemed to linger in the air. Some officers shifted in their seats, others glanced at the map sprawled across the table. The enormity of the challenge was sinking in.

“Eight thousand,” murmured Roland Engelbrecht, breaking the silence. His tone was tinged with both disbelief and concern. “And what of their supplies, their artillery?”

“They have none of consequence,” Ceulemans replied sharply, cutting through Engelbrecht’s words like a knife. “Their strength lies not in resources, but in desperation. Never underestimate the power of an army that believes it has nothing to lose.”

Sylvester Molenaar leaned back slightly, his arms crossed. “It’s a fragile kind of power, though. Desperation can break a man as easily as it drives him.”

Ceulemans nodded, acknowledging the comment without fully agreeing. “Perhaps. But desperation also breeds ingenuity. Do not mistake their ragged appearance for weakness.”

He turned his attention back to the table. “Folkert Oosterhof is another key figure in their ranks. He is disciplined, intelligent, and, most dangerously, experienced. Oosterhof commanded at Orvelte, and though the engagement was inconclusive, his tactics demonstrated a formidable understanding of both our methods and theirs. Survivors suggest, at Orvelte, he fielded no more than 900 men. Let us not forget our army numbered 14,000… albeit stood at the top of a hill. He fought in the risings of ‘75 and ‘79; he knows this terrain, this war, better than most.”

Lammert Dijkgraaf cleared his throat. “Oosterhof is disciplined, yes. But he’s reckless too, isn’t he? Leading a rearguard action against an entire army? It reeks of a man with more courage than sense.”

“Perhaps,” Ceulemans replied with a faint smile. “But even recklessness, when wielded correctly, can be a weapon. Oosterhof’s survival at Orvelte, and his ability to return to Dumonceau with his sibbes intact, is proof enough of his capability.”

The room fell silent again as Ceulemans reached into his pocket, producing a folded piece of parchment. He unfolded it carefully, the sound of the paper breaking the stillness.

“This,” he said, holding it up, “is a letter from Daemkiin Fokker. Some of you may have heard of him—a lawyer, a politician, a man who has done more for the Commonwealth than most of you could hope to achieve. Fokker has kept countless sibbes loyal to us, or at the very least neutral. Without him, the Henricist army might well number 15,000, not 8,000.”

He opened the letter fully, his eyes scanning the names before speaking. “Ouwehand. Wiarda. Burmania. Nelissen. All names that now sit within the Henricist command.” His voice was steady, devoid of emotion, but his words carried an undeniable weight. He folded the letter once more and returned it to his pocket.

The officers began murmuring among themselves, their voices low but tense. Molenaar was the first to speak clearly. “If Fokker has kept so many from joining Dumonceau, why not press harder? Bring the neutral sibbes fully to our side?”

Ceulemans’ gaze flicked to Molenaar, his expression unreadable. “Because neutrality is a delicate balance, Captain. Push too hard, and you risk driving them into the arms of the Henricists. Fokker’s work has been precise, measured. His methods cannot be rushed.”

“And the men we face now?” Engelbrecht asked, his tone cautious. “Ouwehand, Wiarda—what do we know of them?”

Ceulemans’ smile returned, cold and calculating. “Reinder Wiarda. He is head of the Wiarda sibbe, its one of the strongest, perhaps largest, in Faursia. Sietse Ouwehand, his father was a Henricist, his mother an Aubervijan. We believe him not to be a Henricist at heart. If we gave him bread and water, and he would gladly fight with us.” He paused a moment. “We know them better than they know themselves. That will be their undoing. Let there be no doubt—we will use every scrap of information, every weakness, to our advantage.”

The room fell silent once more, the officers exchanging uneasy glances. Ceulemans leaned forward, his hands resting on the table.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “This is not a war we will win through brute strength alone. Victory will come from precision, discipline, and intelligence. The Henricists thrive on chaos. We will meet their chaos with order, their desperation with calculated ruthlessness. And when the dust settles, they will realise—far too late—that we knew them better than they ever knew us.”

The officers nodded, some more hesitantly than others. Ceulemans leaned back, satisfied. The seeds had been planted, and now it was only a matter of time.

“Gentlemen,” he said at last, his voice soft but unyielding. “This is not a war we can afford to lose. Failure is not an option. You will rise to meet this challenge, or you will fall. The choice is yours.”

With that, he stood, his movements precise and deliberate. “Dismissed. Prepare your men. Training begins immediately. Assemble them now, in full battle order. Once its done, fetch me.”

As the officers rose and filed out of the tent, Ceulemans remained behind, his gaze fixed on the map. The plan was taking shape, piece by piece, and he would see it through to the end. There was no room for doubt, no room for weakness. The Henricists would fall, and Ceulemans would ensure it.

The officers stepped out into the brisk air, the atmosphere outside the tent a stark contrast to the tension they had just left behind. The camp was alive with activity, soldiers moving about their tasks, the sharp clatter of musketry practice and the dull thud of boots against the earth echoing across the grounds. For a moment, the officers hesitated, exchanging glances as if to silently assess one another. Then, with determined strides, they scattered to carry out their orders.

Sylvester Molenaar, his face grim with focus, turned to Roland Engelbrecht. “Full battle order,” he muttered. “He means to push them hard. The men won’t thank us for this.”

Engelbrecht shrugged, though his jaw tightened. “They don’t have to thank us, Sylvester. They just have to be ready.”

The two officers parted, their respective aides following in hurried steps. Molenaar made his way to the northern end of the camp, where rows of tents stretched in disciplined lines. His boots crunched against the gravel as he passed a group of privates, their chatter silenced the moment they noticed his approach. His voice cut through the din as he approached the cluster of sergeants.

“Sergeant Vreeland!” he barked, his voice carrying the authority of a man who had seen battles both won and lost. “The men are to assemble immediately. Full battle order. Muskets loaded, packs strapped, and bayonets fixed.”

The sergeant, a grizzled veteran with streaks of grey in his beard, saluted sharply. “Aye, Captain. At once.”

Vreeland turned on his heel, bellowing orders with a voice that seemed to rattle the very air. “Fall in, you miserable lot! Muskets ready, bayonets fixed, packs secured! We’re not fighting a tavern brawl—move like you’ve got purpose!”

Within moments, the camp began to shift like a stirred hive. Soldiers, some still nursing the effects of the previous night’s meagre rations and fitful sleep, stumbled into action. The sharp commands of sergeants echoed like cannon fire, cutting through the early morning haze. Men scrambled to assemble their equipment, strapping on belts and fixing bayonets with hurried precision.

At the southern end of the camp, Roland Engelbrecht was overseeing his regiment with the stern eye of a man who accepted no excuses. He moved through the ranks, inspecting muskets with practiced precision. A private fumbled with his bayonet, the weapon clattering to the ground.

Engelbrecht stopped, his gaze hard as flint. “Pick it up,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

The soldier obeyed, his hands shaking as he retrieved the blade. Engelbrecht watched him secure it before stepping closer, his tone softening but no less commanding. “This isn’t just steel. It’s the difference between life and death. Treat it as such.”

Meanwhile, Lammert Dijkgraaf stood at the centre of his company, his voice a calm anchor amidst the chaos. “Today, we prepare for their charge,” he began, addressing the assembled men. “The Henricists will come at us like a storm, wild and unpredictable. But storms can be weathered if you stand firm. Your discipline, your training—those are your shields.”

He gestured toward the sergeants, who began handing out small bundles to each soldier. “These drills will teach you how to break their momentum. I have seen the charge with my own eyes, as have many of you. They drop their heavy equipment and restrictive clothing, and start to run, slowly at first, but slowly speeding up. They will eventually fire their firearms and will immediately drop to the ground to avoid any returning volleys. Thereafter, they will leave their firearms and switch to their thrusting daggers, broadswords and shields. Remember: the Henricists rely on fear and speed. Deny them both, and they are nothing more than farmers with pitchforks.”

The first drill began with the soldiers standing in tight formations, their muskets held steady. Ceulemans himself appeared on horseback, circling the men like a hawk surveying its prey. His piercing gaze seemed to see every weakness, every hesitation.

“When they charge, you will hold!” Ceulemans called out, his voice carrying across the field. “Do not fire until they are within range. And when you fire, aim true. A missed shot is a wasted life—yours or your comrades’.”

He dismounted, handing the reins to an aide, and walked among the lines. “On my command, you will fix bayonets and thrust—not straight, but to the right. The Highlander carries a shield, they call it a targo; they’ll use it to block your strike. By thrusting to the right, you bypass their defence entirely.”

The sergeants began demonstrating the motion, their movements sharp and deliberate. Ceulemans nodded in approval before turning back to the men. “Now you try. Begin!”

The soldiers moved in unison, their bayonets gleaming in the sunlight as they practiced the thrust. Some faltered, their movements clumsy and awkward. Ceulemans stopped beside one such man, his expression unreadable.

“Your stance is weak,” he said, his voice devoid of anger but filled with authority. “Spread your feet. Lower your centre of gravity. Again.”

The soldier obeyed, and this time his thrust was smoother, more confident. Ceulemans gave a single nod before moving on.

The next drill simulated a Highland charge. A group of sergeants, armed with blunt swords and shields, rushed toward the soldiers, shouting and feigning attacks. The men were instructed to hold their fire until the sergeants were within twenty paces, at which point a sharp whistle signaled them to fire, their firearms loaded with blanks.

The first few attempts were chaotic. Shots rang out prematurely, and the lines wavered under the mock assault. Ceulemans’ voice cut through the confusion like a whip. “Hold your ground! If you cannot stand firm here, you will fall in the field! You will not fire first! Once they fire, they will drop; so regardless, you will miss them! You will wait until they are in range.”

Gradually, the men improved. Their volleys became more coordinated, their lines steadier. By the final drill, the simulated charge was met with a precise volley that sent the sergeants scattering, their shields dented and their mock charge halted in its tracks. Even in scenarios where the sergeants reached, and in some places broke through the mock line, the soldiers nonetheless held their ground around them and adapted, absorbing the sergeant’s advance and filling any gaps that may have formed. The officers, and Ceulemans, watched on intently, barking orders and words of reminders and encouragement; they noticed every fault, any of which were quickly corrected.

Ceulemans stood at the edge of the field, his arms crossed as he watched the progress. For the first time that day, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. The men were far from perfect, but they were learning. And that, he knew, was the first step toward victory.

“Enough for today!” he called out, his voice carrying over the field. “Dismissed! We will continue tomorrow from dawn till sunset, until we get it perfect! We cannot predict how any battle may unfold, so we must be prepared for every contingency!”

The soldiers broke rank, their faces a mixture of relief and exhaustion. As they returned to their tents, the murmurs began—some praising the drills, others cursing their aching muscles. But one thing was clear: under Ceulemans’ command, the Commonwealth army was no longer merely surviving. It was transforming.

The evening deepened, and the camp flickered with the warm glow of hundreds of fires. Shadows danced across the tightly packed rows of tents, the rhythmic clang of tools and quiet murmur of voices blending into the ambient hum of a military camp at rest. Above it all, the stars emerged one by one, glinting faintly through a veil of drifting clouds.

Ceulemans stood at the edge of the camp, silhouetted against the darkening sky. His hands rested behind his back, his posture rigid as he observed the men assembling at the heart of the camp. Groups of soldiers, their uniforms wrinkled and muddied from the day’s drills, were gathered in tense clusters, their faces reflecting curiosity, unease, and exhaustion. The order to gather had been unexpected, and the weight of the day’s relentless training still hung heavily on them.

The camp was alive with quiet tension, a contrast to the camaraderie that usually accompanied the evening fires. Conversations were hushed, heads leaned close as men exchanged theories about the sudden assembly. Some speculated about a march, others about punishment, and a few joked nervously about another day of drills that would leave their legs burning and their arms numb. But even the jokes were half-hearted. They all felt the weight of Ceulemans’ expectations.

He turned his gaze to the officers scattered amongst the troops. Roland Engelbrecht and Lammert Dijkgraaf moved purposefully through the clusters, issuing sharp commands and organising the men into neat ranks. Engelbrecht’s deep voice boomed over the murmurs, demanding attention and order, while Dijkgraaf’s sharp eyes missed nothing, his corrections swift and without hesitation. Sylvester Molenaar had taken his place near the front, his piercing voice cutting through the din with an air of authority that carried far in the crisp night air.

The officers’ discipline reflected their growing understanding of Ceulemans’ vision, though he noted with satisfaction that none dared overstep their bounds. He valued competence, but more than that, he valued control. A leader who overreached was as dangerous as a soldier who hesitated, and Ceulemans would tolerate neither.

Ceulemans adjusted his cuffs, smoothing the fabric with deliberate care. Tonight was more than an address; it was an opportunity to shape the men’s resolve. To test their mettle before they faced the Henricists. His piercing gaze lingered on the rows of men as they settled into their places, the faint rustle of movement punctuated by the occasional cough or the clang of a misplaced musket.

He stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the dirt as he approached the assembly. The sound was faint but carried a weight that made the soldiers nearest him stand a little straighter. Engelbrecht was the first to notice his approach, straightening his shoulders as he turned sharply to face his commander.

“The men are ready, sir,” Engelbrecht reported crisply, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment.

Ceulemans gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. “Good.” His voice was low, yet it carried across the assembly like the first stirrings of a storm. “Let us begin.”

He motioned toward the veterans of Orvelte, who stood at attention near the front. Among them was Sergeant Barend Maas, a wiry man whose lean frame belied the strength that had carried him through countless battles. His left arm remained in a sling, a stark reminder of the conflict they had all endured. Ceulemans’ gaze flicked to Maas, and with a subtle tilt of his head, he gestured for the sergeant to step forward.

Maas’s boots clicked against the dirt as he approached the centre of the assembly. His sharp eyes swept over the gathered soldiers, taking in their youth, their unease, and the faint glimmers of determination that sparked in some of their gazes.

“Tell them,” Ceulemans said, his tone measured but commanding.

Maas cleared his throat, his voice rough from years of shouting commands. “Orvelte,” he began, his gaze fixed on the men before him, “was hell. The Highlanders… the Henricists… they do not fight like us. They do not wait for the perfect moment. They charge. They scream. They bring their swords down on you before you can even think to fire.”

The soldiers leaned in slightly, their attention captured by the sergeant’s words. The flickering light of the fires cast shadows across Maas’s face, deepening the lines carved by years of war. He paused, his expression tightening. “We held our ground, but not all of us walked away. They are fast, relentless. If you falter, if you hesitate for even a second, they will cut you down.”

The silence that followed was thick, the weight of Maas’s words pressing down on the men like a tangible force. Even the officers seemed to shift uneasily, their gazes locked on the sergeant as if trying to absorb every word.

Ceulemans stepped forward, his presence commanding their attention as he addressed them directly.

“You have heard the stories,” he said, his voice sharp and clear, “but stories alone will not prepare you for what is to come. The Henricists are unlike any enemy you have faced. They are cunning, ruthless, and they will exploit every weakness you show. But,” he paused, his gaze sweeping the assembly, “they are not invincible.”

He let the statement hang in the air, the weight of it filling the silence.

“They bleed, as we do. They falter, as we do. And they die, as we do. But only if we fight as one. Only if we hold our ground. Only if we trust in our training, in our discipline, in each other.”

The soldiers stood straighter, their unease tempered by the steel in Ceulemans’ voice. The officers exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of determination and apprehension.

“Tonight,” Ceulemans continued, “you will begin to understand what it means to fight as a true army. Not as scattered regiments, not as individuals, but as one unstoppable force. You will train harder, march longer, and fight better than any man in that rabble they call an army.”

He stepped back, his eyes locking with Engelbrecht’s. “Captain, we repeat the drill. Immediately.”

The captain hesitated for the briefest of moments, having fully believed himself that Ceulemans was not going to carry out more drills before the morning. Within milliseconds, he snapped back to his senses, and saluted sharply, his voice ringing out as he turned to address the ranks. “Fall in! Battle order, now!”

As the soldiers scrambled into formation, the camp transformed into a hive of activity. The crackle of the fires and the murmur of the evening were replaced with sharp commands and the clinking of muskets and bayonets. Ceulemans observed from a slight elevation, his expression unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back.

This was deliberate—every part of this exercise, from the timing to the sudden assembly, was designed to unsettle and sharpen his men. He had told them to expect no more training until tomorrow, but war was not fought on predictable schedules. Surprises tested resolve. Only those who could adapt under pressure would endure.

Engelbrecht paced along the front lines, his voice cutting through the darkness. “Tighten those ranks! Muskets up! If you drop your weapon under fire, you’re as good as dead, and so is the man next to you!”

Molenaar moved amongst another cluster of soldiers, his tone less harsh but no less firm. “Keep those packs secured! If you lose your provisions, you’re done for. A starving man is a useless man!”

Dijkgraaf, with his calm authority, issued instructions to the sergeants, ensuring the lines formed with precision. The officers worked like cogs in a finely tuned machine, their efforts seamless as they translated Ceulemans’ vision into reality.

Ceulemans allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. These were men he had chosen, men who understood what was at stake. They were not yet perfect, but they were improving. The contrast between their current performance and the chaos he had inherited from Romeijnders was stark. These officers executed commands efficiently, their voices carrying authority and clarity. The soldiers, though weary, responded with a speed and discipline that would have been unthinkable mere weeks ago.

Barend Maas moved to the right flank, his sharp eyes scanning the men. He barked at one soldier whose musket strap hung loose, his words biting but measured. “Fix it, lad, before you lose it in the mud and find yourself unarmed when the enemy charges!”

The soldier scrambled to comply, his hands trembling as he adjusted the strap. Maas nodded once and moved on, his presence both reassuring and intimidating.

The drills began in earnest. Ceulemans had devised the exercises to mimic the chaos of battle, drawing on reports from Orvelte and his own understanding of Highland charges. The men were ordered to form lines, hold their positions, and wait for the signal to fire. Timing was everything. Fire too early, and the enemy would close the gap before they could reload. Fire too late, and the charge would overwhelm them.

Engelbrecht led a group through the motions, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos. “Hold your fire until I give the order! No man fires alone!”

The soldiers, rifles poised, waited with bated breath as Engelbrecht paced before them. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint shuffle of boots and the occasional cough. Then, with a sharp motion, Engelbrecht raised his arm and dropped it. “Fire!”

The night erupted with a deafening volley as the muskets discharged in unison. Smoke billowed into the cool air, the acrid scent of gunpowder filling their lungs. Ceulemans watched closely, his sharp eyes noting the uneven spacing in one section of the line.

“Sergeant Maas!” he called, his voice cutting through the lingering echoes of the volley.

Maas saluted and approached swiftly. “Yes, sir?”

“Your section is faltering on the reload,” Ceulemans said, his tone cold but controlled. “See to it that it does not happen again.”

Maas nodded, his expression grim. “It will be corrected, sir.”

Ceulemans returned his attention to the field, his mind already calculating. The Highlanders thrived on chaos, their charges designed to disrupt and disorient. To counter this, his men had to become a wall—unyielding, disciplined, and precise. Every man had to know his place, every musket had to fire as one. There was no room for error.

The drills continued, the soldiers’ movements becoming sharper, their lines more cohesive. Ceulemans could see the exhaustion in their faces, the strain in their postures, but he pushed them harder. War would not wait for them to be ready.

As the night wore on, the initial murmurs of discontent faded into grim determination. The men began to fall into a rhythm, their bodies adapting to the relentless pace. Ceulemans allowed himself a slight nod of approval. They were far from perfect, but they were learning.

He stepped forward as the final volley rang out, his voice rising above the din. “Enough!”

The soldiers froze, their eyes snapping to him as he walked along the line, his boots crunching on the dirt. “Tonight, you have taken your first step toward becoming an army. Not a mob, not a collection of individuals, but a single, united force. Remember this: discipline and precision will keep you alive. Without them, you are nothing.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the weary faces before him. “Tomorrow, we will do it again. And the day after that, and the day after that, until you can hold the line in your sleep. Dismissed.”

The soldiers began to disperse, their movements slow and heavy with exhaustion. Ceulemans remained where he stood, watching as the camp settled back into the rhythms of the night. His officers approached, their expressions a mixture of fatigue and respect.

“Well done,” he said quietly, his words directed at no one in particular. “This is only the beginning.”

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 22

14th of October, 1706
Maresdoep Strait
Between Faursia and Aubervijr
Early afternoon

The steady rhythm of waves lapping against the hull had become a backdrop to the Henricists’ days and nights at sea, a constant reminder of their precarious retreat. The fleet, a ragtag assembly of vessels hastily commandeered, cut through the calm waters under a sky heavy with morning haze. The men aboard were quiet, their conversations subdued, as if the weight of their escape from Aubervijr lingered like a ghost among them. Faursia was ahead of them—or so they hoped—but the horizon remained an unbroken expanse of grey.

Hennie leaned against the ship’s railing, his knuckles white as they gripped the wood. The sea spray stung his face, mingling with the cool autumn breeze. His gaze was fixed on the distance, though there was nothing to see. Behind him, the faint murmur of men sharpening bayonets or adjusting their packs barely reached his ears. Each sound was a reminder of their fragility; they had survived Aubervijr, but their fight was far from over.

Peter approached, his boots thudding softly against the deck. “Still nae land, Hennie?” His tone was light, but his sharp eyes betrayed concern.

Hennie shook his head without looking back. “Nae yet. It feels like it should be there, just out o’ reach. But…” His voice trailed off, the sentence unfinished.

Peter stepped beside him, resting an elbow on the railing. “The men are restless. Morale’s high, aye, but it’ll nae last long if they feel adrift.”

“Ye think I dinnae ken that?” Hennie snapped, then immediately sighed. “Sorry. I’m tired, Peter. We all are.”

“Aye, but ye’re their Prince, Hennie. They’ll look tae ye tae feel strong. Nae room for doubt now, lad.” Peter’s tone softened, his words intended to reassure.

Hennie glanced at him, his expression torn between gratitude and frustration. “They’ll need more than my words if we’re tae win this, Peter. I just pray that Faursia is ready for us.”

As if to punctuate the moment, Folkert’s voice rang out from across the deck, loud and booming. “An’ there I was, lads, face-tae-face wi’ one o’ those Aubervijan officers. A blade in one hand an’ a boot in the other! Ye should’ve seen his face when I charged!”

The soldiers around him erupted into laughter, some slapping their knees, others shaking their heads in mock disbelief. Folkert grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he continued. “He dropped his blade faster than ye’d drop a pot o’ boiling stew, I tell ye! Smart lad, though—knows when tae run.”

Peter chuckled softly. “He’s got a way wi’ them, nae doubt. Keeps their minds off the hard truths.”

Hennie allowed himself a small smile. “Aye. Folkert’s got his faults, but he’s nae coward. We owe him much.”

“Aye, that we do,” Peter agreed, his tone growing serious. “But what’ll we find when we land, Hennie? Brouwer’s 2,500 men cannae hold Faursia alone.”

Hennie’s expression hardened. “We’ll find out soon enough. For now, we hold the line, nae matter what waits.”

The hours passed slowly. The light breeze carried with it the salty tang of the sea, and the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the deck. Soldiers shuffled about, checking their equipment or huddling in small groups to exchange quiet words. The camaraderie that had carried them through the retreat was palpable, but so too was the undercurrent of uncertainty.

Folkert, leaning against the mast, whittled a piece of driftwood with a small knife. His focus was sharp, but his voice carried as he addressed the men around him. “Ye ken what’s the first thing I’ll do when we land? Find the biggest plate o’ stew an’ eat like I’ve nae eaten in weeks.”

One of the younger soldiers, a wiry lad named Jan, grinned. “Ye’d still manage tae complain about it, sir.”

Folkert laughed, a deep belly laugh that echoed across the deck. “Aye, lad, but ye’d complain tae if ye’d had tae eat nothing but stale bread an’ salted pork for this long.”

The laughter spread, easing some of the tension in the air. Even Hennie found himself smiling faintly as he watched from afar. For all their differences, Folkert had an undeniable gift for rallying the men.

It was mid-afternoon when the first cry came from the lookout atop the mast. “Land! Land ahead!”

The reaction was immediate. Soldiers scrambled to the railings, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the distant coastline. The faint outline of Faursia rose from the horizon, its rugged peaks and rolling hills a stark contrast to the endless sea they had left behind.

Cheers erupted, a sound so jubilant it seemed to shake the very ship. Some men clasped each other on the shoulders, while others simply stood, staring in awe. Hennie, though his heart leapt at the sight, remained composed, his gaze unwavering as he took in the sight of home.

Peter appeared at his side again, his voice quieter now. “We’re almost there.”

“Aye,” Hennie replied, his tone resolute. “But the fight’s far from over. This is just the beginning.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “Then we’d best be ready.”

Hennie turned to the gathered men, his voice rising above the din. “Listen tae me, all o’ ye! Faursia’s in sight, aye, but this is nae a time tae rest easy. Ready yourselves—once we land, we’ll need tae move fast. Every moment counts.”

The men answered with a rousing cheer, their voices carrying across the waves. The sails billowed as the wind pushed them closer to their destination, and the Henricists braced themselves for what was to come. Faursia awaited, and with it, the next chapter of their fight.

The cheer still echoed across the waters when Hennie stepped to the bow, his hand gripping the railing as if to steady himself against the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. The wind whipped at his face, carrying the salty tang of the Faursian coast. The sea stretched vast and unbroken before them, but the faintest dark smudge had begun to grow on the horizon.

It was Faursia—home.

Hennie exhaled slowly, his chest tightening with a mix of relief and trepidation. Behind him, Peter stood silently, his eyes fixed on the distant shape. The adjutant-general’s usually sharp features softened, the tension of weeks spent in Aubervijr seeming to ebb away with the wind.

“Faursia…” Peter murmured. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”

“An eternity,” Hennie agreed, though his voice carried a note of caution. “But our work is far from over.”

Folkert, leaning casually against the mast with his arms crossed, overheard and snorted. “Work’s never over, is it, lads? Nae when ye’re a rebel.” His words were light, but his eyes betrayed a weariness that no jest could mask.

The men nearby chuckled, their laughter carried on the breeze. The mood across the ships had lightened considerably, with the prospect of Faursian soil beneath their feet once more. Soldiers stood at the rails, pointing and murmuring to one another as the coastline slowly became clearer. Others busied themselves with their gear, oiling muskets, checking packs, or simply talking in hushed tones about their return.

Among them, Reinder moved purposefully, his sharp gaze flitting between the men. He paused near a cluster of younger soldiers, their nervous energy evident as they exchanged hurried words. “Eyes forward, lads,” he barked, his tone both commanding and reassuring. “Faursia’s nae a holiday, and the Commonwealth won’t let us forget it. Stay sharp.”

The soldiers straightened, their conversations halting as they turned their attention to the approaching shore.

Slowly, the familiar landscape of Faursia came into focus. Hennie tightened his grip on the railing, his expression unreadable. He could see hundreds, perhaps thousands of men, gathered on the b 2,500 men were already assembled on the beaches, their ranks clearly visible even from the water. The sight of so many gathered to meet them stirred a deep sense of pride in him.

As the fleet drew nearer, the sounds of Faursia began to reach them—the distant crash of waves on the shore, the faint murmur of gathered voices, and the occasional bark of orders from the waiting ranks.

Folkert straightened, his gaze narrowing. “Looks like they’ve brought out the welcome party,” he remarked dryly.

Hennie turned, his eyes scanning the scene. “Harmen’s done well,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“Aye, he has,” Folkert admitted, though there was a slight edge to his tone. The tension between them, though diminished, was still present—a lingering reminder of the weeks of struggle and uncertainty.

As the ships neared the beach, a small boat broke away from the shore, rowing swiftly toward the flagship. Harmen was unmistakable, standing tall at the bow of the skiff, his coat whipping in the wind. Beside him, an aide held a pennant that fluttered proudly in the breeze, the Faursian colours vivid against the grey sky.

When the boat reached the side of the ship, Harmen climbed aboard with practiced ease, his boots striking the deck with authority. He strode toward Hennie, his hand outstretched. “Prince,” he said simply, his tone steady and respectful.

“Harmen,” Hennie replied, gripping his hand firmly. For a moment, they simply regarded each other, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them.

Folkert broke the silence, stepping forward with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Welcome back tae the fold, Harmen. Hope ye’ve kept yerself busy while we’ve been off savin’ the cause.”

Harmen’s expression didn’t waver, though a flicker of tension crossed his features. “Busy enough,” he said evenly. “Two thousand five hundred men stand ready on the shore, and Venlo’s garrison won’t hold long once we set our sights on it.”

“Venlo,” Peter interjected, stepping closer. “A stronghold, well-defended and near impregnable without siege equipment. We’ve nae the means tae take it outright.”

“That’s a matter for the council,” Hennie said, his tone brooking no argument. “For now, let’s get ashore. We’ll talk strategy when we’re on solid ground.”

The soldiers on the ship began to cheer as the boats landed on the beach. Harmen’s men stood in disciplined ranks, their uniforms freshly pressed and their weapons gleaming. The contrast between the two forces was stark—the battle-worn Henricists disembarking from the ships and the well-prepared reinforcements waiting for them.

The moment Hennie set foot on the sand, a cheer erupted from the gathered troops. The sound was deafening, echoing across the beach and lifting the spirits of all present.

“Welcome home, lads!” a voice called out, and the cheer grew even louder.

Hennie raised his hand, calling for silence. When the noise subsided, he spoke, his voice carrying over the assembled men. “Faursia stands with us, as we stand with her. Together, we’ll take Venlo and secure our future. But for now—rest, prepare, and ready yourselves for what lies ahead. The Commonwealth won’t wait for us, so we won’t wait for them.”

The men answered with a rousing cheer, their voices mingling with the crash of the waves. Behind them, the ships bobbed in the surf, their sails lowering as the Henricists began unloading supplies.

Folkert clapped Harmen on the shoulder, a rare grin breaking through his usual stern demeanour. “Looks like we’ve got work tae do.”

“We always do,” Harmen replied, his voice calm but resolute.

The conversation broke off as the commanders began to disperse, each moving to oversee their assigned tasks. Hennie lingered for a moment, his eyes fixed on the orderly rows of Harmen’s camp, the flickering light from cooking fires casting long shadows across the ground. It was a solid start, but it was painfully clear the setup was meant for 2,500 men—not the 5,500, or thereabouts, now arriving. The work ahead felt monumental, but there was no choice but to press on.

The first signs of strain began to show as the men set about expanding the camp. Harmen’s troops moved efficiently, accustomed to discipline and precision. Their engineers fanned out with tools slung over their shoulders, driving stakes into the ground and marking clear boundaries for the new sections. In contrast, the returning Henricists stumbled through the unfamiliar terrain, their coordination suffering under the weight of exhaustion.

Hennie moved among the chaos, his presence drawing hurried salutes from the soldiers who crossed his path. He acknowledged them with terse nods, but his attention remained fixed on the broader task. Peter was at his side, his sharp gaze taking in every detail with the practised air of a man used to assessing disasters before they spiralled out of control.

“Ye’ve sibbes pitching their tents next tae the supply wagons,” Peter muttered, his tone grim. “An’ the wagons themselves are bogged down in the mud. It’ll nae hold if there’s a storm.”

Hennie’s jaw tightened as he watched a group of men struggling to unload barrels of powder from a cart stuck axle-deep. “Folkert’s men should’ve cleared the ground by now.”

“Aye, they should’ve,” Peter agreed, his voice edged with impatience. “But ye ken Folkert. He’ll get it done when it suits him.”

Hennie shot him a glance but said nothing. Instead, he quickened his pace, striding toward the treeline where Folkert’s booming voice could be heard above the din of axes and shovels. The faint sound of laughter followed, cutting through the steady rhythm of labour.

Folkert was leaning casually against a tree, his arms crossed as he surveyed the clearing with a faint grin. A group of his men were chopping through the dense underbrush, their faces red with exertion but their spirits high. One of them paused to wipe his brow, muttering something that earned a round of chuckles from the others.

“Ye’d think ye’d never seen a tree before,” Folkert called out, his tone mockingly light. “Keep at it, lads, or the Prince’ll have us sleeping in the mud tonight!”

“Speaking o’ the Prince,” Hennie said sharply, stepping into view. His sudden appearance wiped the grin from Folkert’s face, though the glint of mischief remained in his eyes.

“Ah, there ye are,” Folkert said, pushing off the tree. “Come tae see the hard work o’ honest men, have ye?”

Hennie’s expression darkened. “I’ve come tae see why this clearing isnae ready. The wagons are bogged down, an’ the men are pitching their tents in the wrong places. Ye were tae have this ground cleared hours ago.”

Folkert shrugged, his grin returning. “It’s nae a sassenijk field, Hennie. Faursian soil takes more work.”

“Less talk, more work,” Hennie snapped, his patience wearing thin. “I need this camp finished by nightfall, or we’ll be fighting each other for dry ground.”

Folkert held his gaze for a moment, the tension between them palpable. Then he nodded, his tone losing its playful edge. “Aye, Prince. Ye’ll have it.”

Hennie turned on his heel, his frustration simmering just below the surface as he returned to the main camp. Peter fell into step beside him, his expression unreadable.

“Folkert’s nae wrong,” Peter said after a moment. “The ground’s uneven, an’ the men are tired. They’ll finish it, but it’ll take time.”

“We’ve nae time,” Hennie replied, his voice low. “The Commonwealth’s nae far behind, probably crossin’ the Maresdoep as we speak. Whilst we’re still fighting each other more than we’re fighting them.”

Peter didn’t answer, but his silence spoke volumes. They reached the edge of the camp as the first wagons began to move again, the creak of wood and the groan of straining horses and oxen filling the air. Harmen stood near the engineers, his coat billowing in the wind as he gestured toward the western boundary.

“Move the outer stakes back another fifty paces,” Harmen ordered, his voice calm but firm. “We’ll need space for the earthworks.”

Hennie approached, his tone more measured now. “The camp’s growing, but it’s nae fast enough. We’ll need more hands tae finish the defences.”

Harmen nodded, his gaze shifting to a group of men idling near one of the fires. “There are plenty who’ve finished unloading. Put them tae work. I’ll have my officers see tae it.”

“An’ the sibbes?” Hennie asked, his voice edged with doubt. “They’re already at each other’s throats.”

“They’ll fight harder if they’ve something tae defend,” Harmen replied evenly. “Give them ground tae claim, an’ they’ll hold it.”

The hours dragged on as the camp slowly took shape. Smoke from cooking fires mingled with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil, and the steady rhythm of hammers and saws filled the air. By dusk, the new sections of the camp had been outlined, and the first tents were beginning to rise. The defences were crude but serviceable—a shallow trench backed by a low earthen wall that ran along the northern and western perimeters.

Hennie stood at the edge of the camp, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the faint glow of the setting sun bathed the hills in golden light. Behind him, the sounds of the camp were a reminder of the work still to be done—arguments over firewood, the clang of pots, the low murmur of tired voices. Peter joined him, his expression as tired as Hennie felt.

“It’s nae perfect,” Peter said quietly. “But it’s a start.”

“Aye,” Hennie replied, his voice soft. “But we’ve a long way tae go.”

The camp settled into a rhythm as the final traces of daylight faded, replaced by the faint glow of fires scattered throughout the clearing. The soldiers moved with slow, deliberate steps, their exhaustion evident in the slump of their shoulders and the clumsiness of their movements. Yet the work continued, spurred on by the knowledge that rest would only come once the camp was ready to withstand the night.

Hennie walked among the men, nodding faintly in acknowledgement of their salutes. He could feel the weight of their eyes on him—hopeful, expectant, and questioning all at once. He kept his posture straight, his expression composed, even as the doubts gnawed at the edges of his mind. Peter had been right earlier: hope alone would not hold this force together. And yet, it was all he had to offer.

Near one of the fires, Gosse was deep in conversation with a group of sibbe captains, his voice sharp but steady as he outlined the arrangements for the night watch. Hennie slowed his pace as he passed, catching fragments of the exchange.

“We’ll rotate every two hours,” Gosse was saying, pointing at a rough sketch of the camp scratched into the dirt. “Double the watch near the western trench—aye, there—and keep a man on the treeline. Nae sense in leaving our backs open.”

One of the captains, a burly man with a streak of grey in his beard, grumbled something about the lack of warm food for the guards. Gosse silenced him with a glare. “Warm food’ll do ye nae good if the Commonwealth takes yer head before dawn. Ye’ll eat when ye’re relieved.”

Hennie’s lips twitched in a faint smile. Gosse had a way of cutting through the noise, and his pragmatism was something the army desperately needed. He caught Gosse’s eye briefly, giving him a nod of approval before moving on.

Farther along, Folkert was lounging against a stack of crates, his arms crossed as he watched his men dig the final section of the trench. His grin was as sharp as ever, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Pick it up, lads!” he called out, his voice cutting through the night air. “The Commonwealth’s nae waiting for us tae finish our wall before they come calling!”

The men groaned but quickened their pace, their shovels biting into the packed earth with renewed vigour. One of them muttered something under his breath, and Folkert barked a laugh. “Aye, ye can curse me all ye like, but ye’ll thank me when we’re nae being shot at before breakfast!”

Hennie approached, his boots crunching softly against the loose gravel. “How’s it coming?”

Folkert straightened, his grin fading slightly. “It’ll hold, but it’s nae pretty. The ground’s tough, an’ we’re nae masons. Still, it’s better than sleeping out in the open.”

“Aye, it is,” Hennie agreed, his gaze flicking to the trench. It was shallow and uneven in places, but it was better than nothing. “We’ll need tae reinforce it in the morning. But for now, it’ll do.”

Folkert nodded, his expression growing more serious. “The men’re holding up better than I expected, but they’re tired, Hennie. This lot’s nae seen a decent rest since Aubervijr.”

“They’ll rest once it’s safe,” Hennie replied, though his tone lacked conviction. He clapped Folkert on the shoulder. “Good work, Folkert. Keep at it.”

As he moved away, Peter appeared at his side, his face shadowed in the firelight. “Folkert’s nae wrong. The men’re pushing themselves harder than they should. We’ll lose more tae exhaustion than the Commonwealth if we’re nae careful.”

Hennie’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He knew Peter was right, but there was no solution that didn’t carry its own risks. Rest would mean delay, and delay could mean disaster.

They reached the centre of the camp, where Harmen was speaking with one of his engineers near the command tent. The engineer was gesturing toward the defensive wall, his voice low but animated. Harmen listened intently, his brow furrowed in thought. When the conversation ended, he turned to Hennie, his expression calm but tired.

“The wall’ll hold for the night,” Harmen said. “But it’ll need proper shoring up before it’ll stop anything heavier than a musket ball.”

“It’s enough for now,” Hennie replied. “The Commonwealth’s nae likely tae strike tonight.”

Harmen nodded but didn’t look convinced. “We’ll need tae decide on Venlo soon. The men’ll need a goal tae rally around.”

“We’ll talk at the council,” Hennie said, glancing toward the command tent. “For now, let’s get everyone settled.”

The camp slowly began to quiet as the night deepened. Fires burned low, and the soldiers gathered in small groups, their conversations muted. The tension lingered, heavy and unspoken, as the weight of the coming days pressed down on them all.

Hennie stood at the edge of the camp, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon. Somewhere out there, the Commonwealth was gathering its strength, and time was slipping away. Behind him, the camp murmured with life—a fragile haven against the storm that was sure to come.

He exhaled slowly, the cold air stinging his lungs. “Tomorrow,” he murmured to himself. “It all starts again.”

The fires in the camp burned low, casting flickering shadows across the hastily erected tents and freshly dug defences. Hennie stood outside his own tent, arms folded against the chill, as the faint murmurs of the encampment drifted through the still night air. The earlier chaos of axes chopping and wagons creaking had given way to the sounds of tired soldiers settling in—low conversations, the occasional cough, and the distant ring of a hammer from the defences.

Peter appeared from the western edge of the camp, his expression as sharp as ever despite the long day. His coat was dusted with dirt, and his boots carried the dampness of the ground where he’d been checking the watch. “The guards’re in place,” he said simply. “Double patrols on the north and west flanks, as ye ordered.”

Hennie gave a faint nod, though his gaze remained fixed on the horizon. “How’s the mood?”

“Quiet,” Peter replied, stepping closer. “Too quiet, I’d say. The men’re holding on, aye, but ye can feel it. They ken how thin we’re stretched.”

“They’ll hold,” Hennie said, his tone firm. “They’ve nae choice.”

Peter regarded him carefully for a moment before speaking again. “The lads’ll be expecting answers tonight, Hennie. They’ll want tae ken our next move.”

“We’ll decide it together,” Hennie replied, finally turning to meet Peter’s gaze. “Get the commanders. It’s time.”

Peter nodded and slipped away, his footsteps fading into the night. Hennie lingered for a moment longer, the cold air biting at his face. He took a slow breath, steadying himself for the weight of what lay ahead.

One by one, the members of the Henricist high command began to gather. Gosse arrived first, his coat still dishevelled from his earlier work near the treeline. He pushed into the tent without ceremony, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of Hennie.

“Hennie,” he said curtly. “The sibbes’re settled, for now. But ye’d best believe they’ll start grumbling again by sunrise. Some o’ them think their cooks deserve better meat than the rest.”

“They’ll take what they’re given,” Hennie replied, his tone clipped. “We’re nae here tae play favourites.”

Gosse nodded but said nothing more, settling into a seat near the map table.

Folkert entered next, his swagger as prominent as ever despite the streaks of dirt across his face. He glanced around the tent, giving Gosse a faint smirk before turning to Hennie. “What’s the word, then? Are we talking plans, or are we talking excuses?”

“Sit down, Folkert,” Hennie said sharply. “The council’ll begin when everyone’s here.”

“Fair enough,” Folkert replied, throwing himself into a chair with a casual shrug. “I’ll wait.”

Reinder arrived quietly, his movements as calm and measured as his presence. He nodded politely to the others before taking a seat near the edge of the group. His eyes briefly met Hennie’s, a silent acknowledgment of the burden they shared.

Harmen entered shortly after, his coat immaculate despite the day’s chaos. He exchanged a brief word with Peter before taking his place at the table, his expression as composed as ever. “The men’re resting, but they’ll nae settle for long,” he said as he sat. “We’ll need a decision on Venlo before we lose what momentum we’ve gained.”

Hennie gave a faint nod. “We’ll discuss it.”

Sietse and Lieven were the last to arrive, the younger man trailing behind the elder with a look of quiet disdain. Lieven kept his distance as he entered, nodding briefly to Hennie before settling into a seat at the far end of the table. Sietse, by contrast, moved with the slow dignity of a man who had seen too many of these meetings before. He lowered himself into his chair with a faint grunt, his gaze fixed on the map.

The tent fell quiet as Hennie took his place at the head of the table, the flickering lantern casting long shadows across the rough wood. He let his eyes drift over the assembled commanders, gauging their expressions. Tension hung thick in the air, unspoken but undeniable.

“The Commonwealth’ll nae wait for us tae regroup,” Hennie began, his voice steady. “We’re pressed for time, an’ our men’re stretched thin. But we’ve a force o’ 8,000 now. If we move wisely, it’ll be enough.”

“It’ll be enough if we hold together,” Gosse said, his voice sharp. “But ye’ve seen the state o’ the sibbes, Hennie. They’re nae soldiers—they’re farmers wi’ spears. An’ they’ll nae last if Venlo turns into a siege.”

“Then we strike fast,” Harmen said, his tone measured. “Venlo’s strong, aye, but it’s nae impregnable. If we take it quickly, we’ll have a base tae push from.”

“And if it doesnae fall quickly?” Reinder asked, his calm voice cutting through the tension. “We’ll be trapped. Venlo’s nae a village—it’s a fortress.”

The room erupted into debate, voices overlapping as the commanders argued over the risks and merits of an attack. Hennie leaned back slightly, letting them speak as his mind raced through the possibilities. He could feel Peter’s eyes on him, steady and expectant, but he didn’t look up. Not yet.

Finally, Hennie raised a hand, and the voices stilled. “We’ll nae make a decision in chaos,” he said firmly. “Each o’ ye’ll speak in turn, an’ we’ll decide together. But mark my words—whatever we decide, we’ll see it through. There’s nae room for half measures now.”

The commanders nodded, though the tension lingered. One by one, they began to voice their thoughts, the flickering lanternlight casting their faces in stark relief as the weight of the rebellion pressed down on them all.

The lantern flickered as Hennie stood at the head of the table, his hands gripping its edges. The map of Faursia lay before him, its markings stark in the dim light—a patchwork of roads, rivers, and settlements, each bearing its own weight of opportunity or threat. Around him, the commanders had settled into their places, their expressions tense with the gravity of the decisions ahead.

Harmen was the first to speak, his voice calm but steady. “Before we talk o’ Venlo, there’s a matter we cannae ignore—the Highlands’re still far from secure. The Commonwealth’s stirring up sibbes loyal tae them, an’ there’ve been raids near the borders. It’s nae widespread, but if we let it linger, it’ll only grow.”

Peter frowned, tapping the table lightly with his finger. “It’s a threat, aye. But we’ve regiments in Witmarsum prepared tae counter it, Harmen. That’ll ease some pressure on the men here.”

“Witmarsum can hold the line, but it’ll nae be enough tae root out the problem entirely,” Harmen replied. His gaze swept the room. “We’ll still need tae coordinate wi’ the sibbes who’ve pledged tae us. They’re best suited tae handle these raiders, but they’ll need tae ken we’re backing them.”

“Then send word,” Folkert said with a shrug. “Let the sibbes play their games. We’ve bigger problems tae solve.”

Harmen’s sharp gaze fixed on him. “The ‘games’ ye’re talking about could cripple our supply lines if they’re nae stopped. It’s nae just villages being raided—it’s storehouses, wagons. They’re trying tae starve us out.”

Peter nodded slowly. “He’s right. But Witmarsum’s regiments’ll buy us time. If the sibbes’re given clear orders an’ see that we’re holding the Lowlands, they’ll fight tae keep their own lands free.”

“That’s where Venlo comes in,” Harmen said, turning back to the map. “It’s nae just a roadblock. It’s the key tae the Lowlands. If we take it, we cut the Commonwealth’s ability tae resupply. An’ we send a message that this rebellion isnae just holding ground—it’s winning.”

“Venlo’s nae an easy target,” Gosse interjected, his tone clipped. “A town’ll fall quickly enough, aye—but the castle’s another matter. Ye all remember Eemshaven.”

A brief silence fell over the room, the memory of that prolonged failure casting a shadow over the discussion. Reinder spoke next, his calm voice breaking through the tension. “The castle’s walls’re stronger than Eemshaven’s. An’ we’ve nae siege guns tae speak of. If we fail there, we’ll lose more than just the castle—we’ll lose the confidence we’ve gained.”

“We dinnae need tae breach the walls,” Folkert said, leaning forward with a glint of determination. “The garrison’s small—600, maybe 700. If we surround them an’ cut them off, they’ll fall.”

“An’ how long’ll that take?” Gosse asked, raising an eyebrow. “The Commonwealth’ll nae sit idle while we lay siege. They’ll strike from the Highlands, or worse—land troops behind us.”

Peter spoke up, his tone even. “That’s why we need tae act fast. If we take the town, we’ll have the supplies tae hold the siege. It’ll also give us a base tae strike from if the Commonwealth comes south.”

Harmen tapped the map with his finger, his brow furrowing. “The town’s nae the problem. The castle is. Even if we take the town, we’ve nae the artillery tae breach those walls. An’ we’ve seen what happens when a siege drags on.”

Hennie straightened, his voice cutting through the rising tension. “Then we dinnae let it drag. Folkert, ye’ll take point wi’ the scouts an’ give us a full report on Venlo’s defences. Harmen, ye’ll coordinate wi’ the sibbes an’ ensure they’re backing us in the Highlands. An’ Peter, ye’ll see tae the men—make sure they’re ready tae march.”

The commanders exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of caution and determination. The plan wasn’t perfect—far from it—but it was taking shape.

“We’ve nae room for hesitation now,” Hennie said, his voice firm. “The Highlands’ll hold, but the Lowlands’re the key tae the fight ahead. If we take Venlo, we’ll nae just secure the roads—we’ll prove we can win.”

The council broke soon after, the commanders dispersing into the night to carry out their orders. Hennie lingered, staring down at the map as the flickering light played across its surface. The weight of the rebellion pressed heavily on his shoulders, but there was no turning back now.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 23

1st of November, 1706
Venlo, Faursia
37 miles from Eemshaven
Late afternoon

The biting wind swept across the Faursian countryside as the Henricist army moved south, their pace methodical but unrelenting. After the 14th, the Henricists retired to Kollum and by October 27th, the two columns had left Kollum behind, its bustling markets and crowded streets replaced by the open plains and sparse forests that stretched toward Venlo. The soldiers had grown accustomed to the rhythm of the march—the creak of wagons, the crunch of boots against frost-hardened earth, and the low murmur of orders passed along the lines. But the weight of their mission hung heavily over them all.

Hennie rode at the head of the second column, his breath clouding in the cold air as he surveyed the road ahead. His coat flapped in the wind, and his fingers gripped the reins tightly. Damwâld lay ahead, its modest size offering little comfort beyond a brief respite for the men. Beyond that, Hurdegaryp awaited, where he would establish his headquarters at Hurdegaryphuis. It was a practical decision, but it felt distant and disconnected from the urgency of the campaign.

He glanced over at Peter, who rode beside him with his usual sharp-eyed attentiveness. “How long till we reach Damwâld?”

“Two hours, maybe less,” Peter replied, his voice low to avoid it carrying. “The men’ll need rest when we get there, Hennie. They’re holding steady, but it’s a hard march.”

“They’ll rest when the camp’s set,” Hennie said curtly, his gaze fixed forward. “Venlo’s close enough tae taste, Peter. We cannae slow down now.”

Peter frowned but didn’t press the point. He had learned to pick his battles with Hennie, and now was not the time. Instead, he turned his attention to the column behind them, where wagons laden with supplies struggled to keep pace with the marching soldiers.

The march south had been fraught with challenges, both logistical and personal. After a victory by Henricist militias in the north-east at Bergentheim on October 16th, the Highlands had been more or less secured, thanks in no small part to the regiments stationed in Witmarsum and the cooperation of loyal sibbes. But the cost of holding the Highlands indefinitely was clear, and the Henricist leadership had unanimously agreed that pushing south into the Lowlands was the only viable path forward. Venlo, a vital stronghold that controlled access between the Highlands and the Lowlands, became their next target.

The decision to split the army into two columns had been a calculated risk. Folkert led the first column on a more direct route toward Hanzirk, his forces moving swiftly but with the burden of high expectations. Their journey was marked by skirmishes with Commonwealth scouts and the occasional delay caused by the need to secure critical supply lines. The second column, under Hennie’s command, had taken a slower but more strategically cautious route, passing through Damwâld and Hurdegaryp. The split allowed them to cover more ground, but it also highlighted the fractures within the high command.

The lingering tensions from the withdrawal at Amerongen had not faded. If anything, they had worsened. Folkert had made his concerns around the siege known; he remained with his column at Hanzirk, 10 miles from Venlo. Naturally, quiet accusations of cowardice and even treachery began to circulate among the officers, with Folkert bearing the brunt of the whispers. Why was he not with the army? Why was he not leading the siege? The divisions were subtle but dangerous, threatening to undermine the unity that had carried them this far.

By October 31st, Hennie’s columns had begun to converge on Venlo. The approach was marked by a growing sense of unease. The soldiers had heard the stories of Eemshaven—the last major siege of the campaign, where the Henricists had been forced to abandon their efforts after weeks of grinding failure. The castle at Venlo loomed ahead, a daunting silhouette against the grey sky, and its reputation was no less formidable.

Harmen arrived at the head of a vanguard detachment, his horse’s hooves crunching against the frosty ground as he pulled up alongside Hennie. His expression was grim, his coat dusted with the frost of the early morning.

“The town’s nae fortified,” he reported. “They’ve nae the numbers tae hold it against us. But the castle… that’s another matter. They’re dug in, well-provisioned. Ye can see the smoke from here.”

Hennie nodded, his eyes narrowing as he studied the distant spires and rooftops of the town. “The town falls first. We’ll deal wi’ the castle after.”

Harmen hesitated before speaking again. “Ye ken what happened at Eemshaven, Hennie. We’ve nae the artillery for this. If we cannae breach the walls…”

“Then we’ll starve them out,” Hennie interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “One step at a time, Harmen.”

The army halted just beyond the town’s limits, the columns spreading out to establish a perimeter. Soldiers moved quickly to set up camp, their breath visible in the cold air as they drove stakes into the frozen ground and hauled supplies into position. Fires sprang to life, their warmth providing some relief from the chill as the men prepared for the night ahead.

Hennie dismounted near the centre of the camp, his boots sinking into the frost-covered earth as he surveyed the activity around him. The sound of hammers and the low hum of voices filled the air, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence of the surrounding countryside. Peter approached him, his expression as sharp as ever.

“Ye’ll need tae speak wi’ the men,” Peter said. “They’ll nae say it, but they’re thinking o’ Eemshaven. Ye need tae remind them why we’re here.”

Hennie nodded, though his jaw tightened at the mention of the failed siege. He stepped toward the nearest group of soldiers, his voice rising above the din. “Listen tae me, lads! Venlo’s ahead, an’ it’s ours for the taking. We’ve come this far together—through snow, blood, an’ fire. An’ we’ll finish what we started. Rest tonight, but ready yerselves. Tomorrow, we take the town!”

A cheer rose from the men, their voices carrying through the camp and lifting the spirits of those nearby. Hennie turned away, his expression hardening as he walked back toward the command tent. Inside, the senior officers were gathered, their faces lit by the flickering glow of a single lantern.

Harmen leaned over the map, his finger tracing the roads leading into Venlo. “The town’s nae the problem,” he said. “It’s the castle. Even if we take the town, the garrison’ll nae just give up. An’ we’ve nae the guns tae make them.”

“Then we hold,” Hennie said firmly. “We cut their supply lines an’ force them tae surrender.”

“That could take weeks,” Gosse muttered, his tone sceptical. “An’ what happens when the Commonwealth sends a relief force?”

“Then we’ll meet them in the field,” Hennie replied. “But for now, we focus on the town.”

The tension in the room was palpable, the weight of past failures pressing against the fragile resolve of the present. Hennie’s gaze swept over the faces of his commanders, searching for doubt but finding only determination.

“We move at dawn,” he said. “Get yer men ready.”

The camp settled into an uneasy quiet as the night deepened. Fires burned low, their smoke curling into the starless sky. The soldiers huddled close, their conversations muted as they prepared for the battle ahead. In the distance, the castle loomed, its silhouette a constant reminder of the challenges yet to come.

The frost-coated fields stretched out before the Henricist camp, the dawn light painting the landscape in muted greys and pale golds. Smoke from the previous night’s campfires clung stubbornly to the air, mingling with the cold mist that blanketed the ground. The quiet hum of activity had begun to rise—a soft murmur of voices, the metallic clink of muskets being checked, and the groan of wagons as they were loaded with supplies. Horses snorted and stamped their hooves, their warm breath visible in the icy air.

Hennie stood atop a slight rise near the forward positions, his silhouette outlined against the faint glow of the rising sun. He had been awake long before dawn, pacing the camp and speaking with the men, his voice steady but low, each word chosen carefully to reassure them of the day’s purpose. The shadow of Eemshaven loomed large in the minds of many, its failure a scar that still festered beneath the surface. Hennie knew he had to dispel that memory—or at least bury it deep enough that it wouldn’t hold them back.

Peter approached him from the left, his steps crunching against the frozen grass. His expression was sharp as always, his brow furrowed with the weight of unspoken concerns. He carried a leather-bound notebook tucked under one arm, a habit that had become almost reflexive during their long campaigns.

“They’re ready tae move, Hennie,” Peter said, his voice low but clear. “But ye’ll nae miss the hesitation. They’re thinkin’ o’ Eemshaven. Ye’ll need tae speak tae that.”

Hennie nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Aye, they’re thinkin’ it. But words’ll nae erase it, Peter. Action will. Once they see the town’s ours, they’ll forget the rest.”

Peter hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly. “An’ if they dinnae? If we falter again, it’ll nae just be a loss—it’ll shatter them.”

Hennie turned to face him fully, his jaw tightening. “Then we dinnae falter. We move quick, we hit hard, an’ we take the town before they’ve time tae breathe. They’ll nae have the chance tae remember Eemshaven.”

Before Peter could reply, Gosse appeared at Hennie’s right, his movements deliberate but unhurried. He nodded briefly to Peter before addressing Hennie directly. “The Highlanders’re in position, an’ the engineers’re ready tae move on your order. The plan’s sound, Hennie—we’ve nae need tae second-guess it.”

Hennie’s gaze lingered on Gosse for a moment, a faint glimmer of approval in his expression. “Good. Reinder’ll take the southern flank wi’ the Highlanders. Harmen’s got the square. Peter, ye’ve the left. Gosse’s wi’ me in the centre.”

Peter’s eyes flicked toward Gosse, a barely perceptible shift in his posture betraying his unease. “Aye,” he said, his tone neutral. “We’ll hold the left.”

Hennie turned back to the rise, his voice rising slightly as he addressed the gathering officers. “Ready yer men. The town falls today. We’ll nae waste time on drawn-out fights—break them quick, an’ push them back tae the castle. Dinnae give them an inch!”

The officers dispersed, their movements brisk as they relayed the orders down the line. Peter lingered a moment longer, his gaze fixed on Hennie before turning sharply and walking back toward his position.

The camp came alive with purpose as the sun climbed higher into the grey sky. Soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, checking their weapons and adjusting their gear. The low murmur of voices rose steadily, punctuated by the occasional clatter of iron-shod wheels on frozen ground or the sharp bark of a sergeant issuing orders.

Harmen stood near a cluster of engineers, his calm voice directing their movements as they prepared tools and supplies for the coming assault. His methodical approach had earned him the quiet respect of those under his command, and his men worked with a precision that belied the chaos of the battlefield they would soon enter.

“Focus on the square,” Harmen said, gesturing to the rough sketch of the town spread out on the table before them. “Barricades here an’ here. Once the vanguard breaches the outer defences, we’ll move in an’ secure the area. Dinnae waste time on anything else.”

One of the engineers, a wiry man with a perpetual scowl, frowned as he studied the map. “An’ what if the garrison pushes back? If they’ve got artillery trained on the square—”

“Then we adapt,” Harmen interrupted smoothly. “But dinnae assume failure before we’ve even begun. Ye’ve seen worse than this.”

Not far from Harmen’s group, Reinder paced among his Highlanders, his voice booming as he spoke to them. “Ye ken what tae do, lads! Push forward, clear them out, an’ hold yer ground. Dinnae let them box ye in—it’s their streets, aye, but it’ll be our blood that claims them!”

The Highlanders responded with a low rumble of assent, their weapons gleaming in the pale light. Many of them had fought under Folkert Oosterhof for years—not Reinder, but their loyalty was just as much to the Henricist cause as Folkert. To fight under an entirely new commander, even briefly, only demonstrated their fighting spirit.

The first volley of musket fire cracked across the frozen field, sending a ripple of sound through the morning air. Smoke billowed upward, curling into the sky as the Henricists advanced in disciplined lines. The vanguard, led by the Highlanders, surged forward with a roar, their blades and axes glinting in the faint sunlight.

Hennie rode near the centre, his voice cutting through the din. “Steady, lads! Keep yer lines tight—dinnae falter now!”

Behind him, Gosse moved with the precision of a seasoned commander, his sharp eyes scanning the battlefield as he directed the musketeers. “Volley fire on my mark! Nae wasted shots—make them count!”

On the left flank, Peter observed the advancing lines with a critical eye. He issued quick, sharp commands to the captains under his command, ensuring that the formation held steady. Yet even as he focused on his task, his thoughts lingered on Hennie and Gosse. The subtle shift in Hennie’s trust had not gone unnoticed, and Peter felt the weight of it pressing heavily on his shoulders.

The defenders, though poorly equipped and disorganised, fired sporadically from behind hastily constructed barricades. Their shots were wild, many going wide, but the occasional crack of a musket ball hitting flesh served as a grim reminder of the stakes.

The roar of Highland voices filled the air as the vanguard surged forward, their battle cries merging with the clash of steel and the crackle of gunfire. Smoke billowed across the battlefield, mingling with the frost to create a haze that blurred the line between friend and foe. The defenders had begun to waver, their ragged volleys growing more sporadic as the Henricists closed the gap.

On the southern flank, Reinder led his men with unrelenting energy. His broadsword rose and fell in measured arcs, each swing punctuated by the sharp clang of steel against steel. “Press them hard, lads! They’ve nae the stomach for a fight—send them scurrying back tae their mothers!”

His Highlanders responded with an almost feral intensity, their axes and swords cutting through the thin line of militia that attempted to hold the barricades. The crude wooden defences splintered under the weight of the Henricist assault, and the defenders began to retreat toward the narrow streets of the southern district.

Behind the vanguard, Harmen and his engineers moved swiftly to secure the ground already taken. They worked with practiced efficiency, overturning carts and barrels to create makeshift barricades that would hold against any counterattack. Harmen’s calm voice cut through the chaos as he directed his men, his sharp eyes constantly scanning the battlefield for any signs of weakness.

“Hold this line,” he ordered, gesturing to a cluster of men who were dragging a cart into position. “Once the square’s secured, reinforce the left. If they push back, we’ll nae let them take what we’ve already claimed.”

Peter’s voice rang out over the clatter of musket fire and the shouted commands of officers. “Steady now! Keep yer volleys tight—dinnae waste powder!” He moved briskly along the line, his sharp eyes catching every hesitation, every misstep, and addressing them with quick, decisive commands.

The left flank had been tasked with clearing a series of narrow alleyways that led toward the heart of the town. The defenders here, though fewer in number, had the advantage of familiarity with the terrain. They fired from second-story windows and narrow choke points, forcing the Henricists into bloody close-quarters combat.

Peter watched as one company faltered under the pressure, their advance slowing as musket balls rained down from above. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, his voice cutting through the din. “Push forward! Cover fire tae the right—dinnae let them pin ye down!”

The soldiers rallied at his command, their lines tightening as they pressed onward. Yet even as Peter directed the battle with practiced precision, he couldn’t shake the gnawing sense of isolation. Hennie had placed him on the left flank—a critical position, to be sure, but one that kept him away from the centre, where Gosse now stood at Hennie’s side. The subtle shift in loyalty stung more deeply than he cared to admit.

At the heart of the battlefield, Hennie rode alongside Gosse, the two men working in near-perfect sync as they directed the main thrust of the attack. Hennie’s sword was drawn, its polished blade catching the pale sunlight as he raised it high. “Advance! Dinnae stop till we’ve taken the square!”

Gosse, riding just behind him, issued his own commands with equal authority. “Volley fire! Front rank, kneel—fire on my word!”

The musketeers responded with a disciplined crackle of gunfire, their volleys punching through the defenders’ lines with brutal efficiency. The militia began to crumble, their scattered resistance no match for the relentless Henricist assault. Smoke and blood filled the air, and the ground beneath Hennie’s horse was slick with mud and ash.

Hennie glanced toward Gosse, his expression hard but approving. “They’ll nae hold much longer. Keep them under pressure.”

“Aye,” Gosse replied, his tone steady. “An’ once we’ve the square, we’ll fortify. The castle’s theirs, but the town’ll be ours.”

For a brief moment, Hennie allowed himself a flicker of hope. The plan was working. The town would fall, and with it, the first step toward securing the Lowlands. Yet even as he pushed forward, a faint unease lingered in the back of his mind. The castle loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the grey sky, its ramparts bristling with defenders who would not give up so easily.

The northern quarter of the town was a labyrinth of narrow streets and tightly packed buildings, the perfect terrain for ambushes and guerrilla tactics. The defenders here fought with desperation, using the cramped spaces to their advantage as they fired from windows and rooftops.

Hennie led the charge personally, his sword flashing as he cut through a militia officer who had attempted to rally his men. The soldiers around him surged forward, their confidence bolstered by his presence.

“Clear them out!” Hennie shouted, his voice rising above the chaos. “Room by room if ye have tae, but dinnae let them regroup!”

The Henricists pressed onward, their progress slow but steady. Each building had to be cleared individually, the defenders fighting fiercely to hold every inch of ground. The air was thick with smoke, and the acrid stench of gunpowder stung their nostrils as they advanced.

By the time the sun reached its zenith, the town had fallen. The defenders had retreated to the castle, their forces battered and disorganised. The streets were littered with debris and the bodies of the fallen, and the air was heavy with the scent of blood and ash.

Hennie stood in the centre of the square, his sword still in hand, his coat stained with soot and mud. Around him, the Henricists moved with purpose, securing the town and tending to the wounded. The tension in the air had not eased—if anything, it had deepened. The castle loomed above them, its walls a stark reminder of the fight that was yet to come.

Harmen approached, his face lined with exhaustion but steady. “The town’s ours,” he reported. “But the castle’s sealed tight. They’ll nae come out willingly.”

“Let them stay inside,” Gosse said, joining the conversation. “We’ll cut them off an’ starve them out.”

Peter arrived moments later, his expression unreadable. “An’ what happens when the Commonwealth sends a relief force? Ye ken they’ll nae just sit by while we hold this town.”

“Then we meet them,” Hennie replied firmly. “But for now, we fortify. The castle’s a problem for another day.”

Peter’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded, stepping back as Gosse leaned in to confer with Hennie. The tension between the two was palpable, the growing distance between Hennie and Peter more evident with each passing moment.

The castle loomed in the distance, its high walls casting long shadows over the town as the sun began its slow descent. Though the streets were now firmly under Henricist control, the air carried a lingering tension. The soldiers worked in near silence, clearing debris, tending to the wounded, and fortifying positions against any potential counterattack. Smoke curled from the remnants of barricades, mingling with the faint scent of blood that hung over the square.

Hennie stood near the northern edge of the town, watching as the last groups of defenders disappeared behind the castle gates. His sword was sheathed now, though his hand rested idly on the hilt. The battle for the town had been won, but the true challenge lay ahead. The castle was a fortress in every sense of the word—its thick stone walls and elevated position made it nearly impervious to direct assault.

Peter approached quietly, his boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. He carried his notebook under one arm, his other hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. Despite the victory, his expression was tight, his gaze fixed on the distant castle.

“They’ll nae come out willingly,” Peter said, his tone measured. “An’ ye ken as well as I that we’ve nae the guns tae bring those walls down.”

“I ken it,” Hennie replied, his eyes narrowing. “But they’re nae invincible. They’ll need supplies, an’ we’ve the town. We’ll starve them out.”

“A siege’ll take weeks,” Peter countered. “An’ every day we spend here’s another day the Commonwealth’s got tae send a relief force. If we’re tae hold this ground, we’ll need tae act fast.”

Hennie turned to face him, his expression softening slightly. “I ken what ye’re sayin’, Peter. An’ I trust yer judgement, as I always have. But we’ve nae the luxury o’ quick victories. We hold the town, we cut their supplies, an’ we wait. It’s the only way.”

Peter nodded slowly, though his frown deepened. “Aye, I’ll hold the line. But ye’ve got tae be ready for what comes next. The men’ll need somethin’ tae keep their faith in ye.”

“An’ they’ll have it,” Hennie said firmly. “We’ve come this far, Peter. We’ll see it through.”

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the high command gathered inside Hennie’s tent. The heavy canvas walls did little to keep out the cold, but the warmth of the small fire in the corner offered some relief. A rough map of Venlo and its surrounding terrain was spread across the central table, its lines illuminated by the flickering glow of lanterns.

Hennie stood at the head of the table, his hands resting on its edges as he leaned over the map. Harmen, Gosse, Reinder, and Peter were gathered around him, each with their own distinct presence. The faint sound of soldiers moving through the streets outside served as a constant reminder of the day’s work.

“We’ve the town,” Hennie began, his voice steady but edged with weariness. “The garrison’s sealed themselves in the castle, but they’ll nae hold forever. We’ve cut their supply lines, an’ it’s only a matter o’ time before they’ve tae choose between starvation an’ surrender.”

Gosse nodded, his expression calm and analytical. “Aye, we hold the town firm, fortify the square, an’ keep them penned in. If they make a move, we’ll be ready.”

Reinder leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed as a faint smirk played on his lips. “An’ what about the men? They’ve fought hard today—dinnae think they’ll keep up the pace if they feel we’re sittin’ idle.”

“They’ll nae be idle,” Harmen interjected. “The engineers’re already fortifyin’ key positions. We’ll have barricades ready an’ lines drawn by nightfall.”

Peter, who had remained silent until now, stepped forward, his voice calm but pointed. “An’ when the Commonwealth sends a relief force? Ye ken as well as I that they’ll nae let us sit here uncontested. We need tae prepare for that, Hennie.”

Hennie met his gaze, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. “We’ll prepare, Peter. But one thing at a time. The castle’s our focus for now.”

The subtle tension between the two did not go unnoticed. Gosse leaned slightly closer to the table, his eyes flicking between Hennie and Peter before speaking. “Peter’s right tae raise the concern, but we’ve the numbers an’ the position. If they come, we’ll meet them on our terms.”

Peter’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. The dynamics in the room were shifting, and it was clear that Gosse’s voice now carried considerable weight with Hennie. Yet for all his frustration, Peter remained steadfast—his loyalty to Hennie ran too deep to falter now.

As darkness fell over the town, the fires burned low, casting flickering shadows across the cobblestone streets. Soldiers moved quietly through the square, their breath visible in the cold air as they carried supplies and reinforced the barricades. The castle loomed in the distance, its ramparts lit by the faint glow of torches as the garrison prepared for the long nights ahead.

Hennie walked the perimeter of the square, his coat pulled tightly around him as he observed the preparations. He paused near one of the barricades, watching as a group of engineers worked to secure its base with heavy stones. Harmen stood nearby, his calm voice offering direction as he oversaw the operation.

“They’re workin’ quick,” Hennie remarked, his tone carrying a hint of approval.

“Aye, they ken the stakes,” Harmen replied. “An’ they’ve seen what happens when we’re caught unprepared.”

Hennie nodded, his gaze shifting toward the castle. “They’ll nae hold forever. But I’ll nae let them think we’re idle. Keep the men busy—they’ll need tae feel they’ve the advantage.”

The night wore on, and the tension in the camp remained thick. Inside the command tent, Hennie and Gosse sat in quiet conversation, their voices low as they discussed the next steps. Peter lingered outside for a moment, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword as he watched the faint glow of the castle torches. For all his frustration, his loyalty to Hennie burned strong, and he resolved to see this fight through to the end.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 24

8th of November, 1706
Hanzirk, Faursia
10 miles from Venlo
Morning

The frost-covered fields surrounding Hanzirk stretched endlessly, pale and brittle under the weak November sun. The early light cast long shadows over the rolling ridges and low thickets, giving the landscape an eerie stillness that belied the tension simmering within the Henricist camp. Folkert Oosterhof stood at the crest of a low rise overlooking the northern approach, his sharp eyes fixed on the horizon. The faint whistle of the wind carried no sound of drums or marching feet yet, but he knew they would come.

The camp behind him was alive with muted activity. The Zutphol Highlanders, ever disciplined, gathered in tight formations near their standard, checking their muskets and discussing the terrain in hushed voices. Nearby, the Richel regiments stacked ammunition and arranged supply wagons in preparation for a rapid movement if the need arose. The sibbes—Dijmeron and Visschaert—were more scattered, their men adjusting mismatched armour and sharing quiet words around small fires.

Folkert’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he stood in silence, his thoughts turning over the challenges ahead. Their position at Hanzirk had been chosen for its vantage, a shallow ridge offering clear sightlines and defensible ground. But the numbers would not favour them if the Commonwealth came in force.

The sound of boots crunching over frost broke the stillness. Harmannus Tamminga, the grizzled commander of the Zutphol Highlanders, approached with a scout at his side. The scout’s face was flushed with cold and urgency, and he wasted no time saluting before speaking.

“They’re comin’, sir,” the scout said, his breath visible in the chill air. “Columns—a lot of them. Ten miles out, movin’ fast.”

Folkert turned his gaze back to the horizon, though there was nothing yet to see. His jaw tightened. “How many?”

“Four thousand, maybe more,” the scout replied. “An’ that’s just the first column. There’s word o’ another tae follow.”

Harmannus stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “The Commonwealth’s nae takin’ chances this time. They’re throwin’ everything they’ve got at us.”

Folkert nodded slowly, his mind racing. “An’ they ken we’re here. The bastards mean tae pin us down.”

Sybren Dijmeron arrived moments later, his heavy boots crunching against the frozen ground as he joined the group. The chief of Sibbe Dijmeron carried himself with a quiet authority, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword older than he was. “What’s the plan, sir?” he asked, his tone even but edged with expectation.

“We dinnae fight here,” Folkert replied firmly. “We’ve nae the numbers nor the ground tae hold Hanzirk. We withdraw south tae Hurdegaryp an’ regroup wi’ Hennie. Let the bastards chase us if they’ve the stomach for it.”

Harmannus nodded in quiet agreement, but Sybren frowned, his brow creasing. “The men’ll nae take kindly tae retreatin’, sir. They’ve held this ground for days. They’ll see it as runnin’.”

Folkert’s eyes snapped to him, his tone sharp. “It’s nae runnin’. It’s survivin’. Ye tell the men that. An’ if they dinnae like it, they’re free tae stay an’ die here on their own.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and for a moment, no one spoke. Then Sybren inclined his head slightly, conceding the point. “Aye, sir. I’ll see tae it.”

As Sybren turned to leave, Meindert Visschaert approached, his younger face flushed with determination. “When d’ye want us tae move, sir?” he asked.

“Now,” Folkert said. “Pack everything that’ll move an’ burn what won’t. We leave nae trace.”

The camp sprang into action at Folkert’s orders, the tension palpable as the men prepared to abandon their position. The Zutphol Highlanders moved with grim efficiency, their practiced discipline evident as they loaded supplies and formed ranks. The Richel regiments followed suit, their officers barking orders to keep the men focused.

The sibbes, by contrast, were more chaotic. Meindert rode through their lines, his voice cutting through the murmurs as he urged them to stay in formation. “Keep it together, lads! We’ll nae give the Commonwealth a reason tae laugh at us today!”

Eelco de Richel, the commander of the Richel regiments, rode up to Folkert’s side. His black coat was dusted with frost, and his sharp features betrayed no hint of doubt. “We’ll need tae move faster than this if we’re tae stay ahead o’ them, sir. The Commonwealth’ll nae wait for us tae get comfortable.”

“They’ll nae catch us,” Folkert replied, his tone resolute. “The ground’s on our side, an’ the weather’ll slow them more than it slows us. Just keep the lads movin’.”

Lieuwe Wybrensma, Folkert’s adjutant, approached with a small group of scouts. His expression was a mix of determination and unease. “Sir, if we’re tae regroup wi’ Hennie, we’ll need tae send word now. He’ll nae ken the scale o’ what’s comin’ unless we tell him.”

Folkert nodded. “Aye, ye’re right. Take a rider an’ make sure the Prince kens the full picture. An’ tell him we’ll need every man he can spare.”

Lieuwe saluted and turned to issue the orders. Folkert watched him go, his jaw tightening as he scanned the horizon one last time. The Commonwealth would come, but the Henricists would not be there to meet them—not yet.

As the last supply cart creaked onto the muddy road south, Folkert mounted his horse and rode to the head of the column. The men followed in silence, their boots crunching against the frozen ground. The sun had risen higher, but its pale light did little to warm the bitter air.

Hanzirk faded behind them, a ghost town left to the advancing enemy. But for Folkert and his men, the road ahead was what mattered now. Hurdegaryp awaited, and with it, a chance to regroup and fight again.

The first hour of the withdrawal was tense, the silence broken only by the rhythmic crunch of boots on frost-covered ground and the occasional low murmur of orders passed down the line. Folkert rode at the head of the column, his sharp eyes scanning the ridges and thickets that flanked their route. The air was bitterly cold, each breath visible as faint clouds before dissipating into the stillness.

Behind him, the Zutphol Highlanders marched in disciplined ranks, their spears and muskets glinting faintly in the pale sunlight. Harmannus Tamminga moved among them on horseback, his weathered face set in a mask of focus as he barked encouragement to the men.

“Keep yer heads high, lads,” he called out. “We’ve left nae battle behind, only a trap. We’ll fight when the ground’s ours tae take.”

The Richel regiments followed closely, their wagons creaking under the weight of supplies hastily salvaged from the camp at Hanzirk. Eelco de Richel rode alongside the lead wagon, his expression calm but watchful. The commander’s quiet presence was a steadying influence on his men, who moved with methodical efficiency despite the unease that lingered in the air.

It was the sibbes who showed the most signs of strain. Their looser formations made them less disciplined on the march, and the constant need to maintain order slowed the column’s progress. Meindert Visschaert rode through their lines, his sharp voice cutting through the murmurs and scattered complaints.

“Keep in step, damn ye!” he shouted, his tone both commanding and exasperated. “We’ve nae time for stragglin’. If ye fall behind, ye’re left tae the Commonwealth.”

His words carried an edge of truth that silenced further grumbling, though the men’s expressions remained wary.

Folkert rode in silence, his thoughts a storm of calculations and worries. Every mile they put between themselves and Hanzirk was a relief, but it also felt like a retreat from a fight that needed to be fought. He hated leaving the ground to the Commonwealth, hated the thought of their flags raised over the camp they had just abandoned. But he knew the truth—staying would have meant certain defeat, and his men were too valuable to be thrown away on a futile stand.

The terrain ahead grew more rugged as they approached the shallow valleys leading toward Hurdegaryp. It was a landscape Folkert knew well from his years in the Highlands, a patchwork of narrow ridges and muddy tracks that could slow even the most determined pursuit. If the Commonwealth tried to chase them here, they would pay for every step.

Lieuwe Wybrensma approached at a brisk trot, his horse’s hooves muffled by the soft earth. The adjutant’s expression was tense but determined. “The rear guard reports nae sign o’ pursuit, sir,” he said. “Looks like they’ve stayed put at Hanzirk.”

“They’ll nae stay there long,” Folkert replied. “Coster’s nae fool. He kens he’s got the numbers tae crush us, an’ he’ll nae waste them sittin’ still.”

Lieuwe hesitated for a moment before adding, “Ye’ve made the right call, sir. The men’ll see it in time.”

Folkert’s gaze remained fixed ahead as he replied, his tone even. “They’ll see it when we’re all still breathin’ at the end o’ this. An’ nae before.”

As the day wore on, the column slowed, the weight of the wagons and the uneven terrain taking its toll. The sibbes struggled the most, their lack of cohesion evident in the frequent stops and starts along their line.

Sybren Dijmeron rode up to Folkert, his expression dark. “The lads’re nae takin’ this well,” he said bluntly. “They’re mutterin’ about why we’re leavin’. Callin’ it cowardice.”

Folkert’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice calm. “They’re angry. Let them be. Better they mutter now than scream when they’re bleedin’ on a field we cannae hold.”

Sybren hesitated, his fingers tightening on the reins. “An’ if the mutterin’ spreads? If they stop listenin’?”

Folkert turned to face him fully, his eyes cold. “Then ye remind them who’s leadin’. An’ ye remind them why they’re here in the first place. This fight’s bigger than their pride.”

Sybren nodded reluctantly, though his expression remained grim as he rode back to his men.

By late afternoon, the landscape began to shift, the narrow ridges giving way to gentler slopes and scattered groves of trees. The column pressed on with renewed urgency, the prospect of reaching Hurdegaryp before nightfall spurring the men forward.

Eelco de Richel joined Folkert at the head of the column, his horse moving in perfect step with Folkert’s. “The ground’s in our favour now,” he remarked. “If they’re comin’, they’ll find this a harder road than they expect.”

“Aye,” Folkert agreed, his tone thoughtful. “But they’ll come all the same. Coster’s nae one for half-measures.”

Ahead, the faint outline of Hurdegaryp’s church steeple rose against the horizon, a welcome sight after hours of marching. The thought of reaching the small town brought a measure of relief to the men, though the tension in the air remained thick.

Folkert turned to Eelco, his expression hardening. “Get the men ready tae dig in when we arrive. This’ll nae be the end o’ the march, but it’ll be a place tae make ready.”

Eelco nodded and spurred his horse forward, calling out orders to the nearby officers.

As the first stars began to appear in the evening sky, the Henricist column reached Hurdegaryp, their arrival marked by the quiet shuffle of tired men and the creak of wagons. The fires lit in the small camp sent faint glows into the night, a fragile beacon in the cold darkness.

Folkert dismounted near the edge of the camp, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. He cast a long glance back at the road they had travelled, his thoughts already turning to the fight that would inevitably come.

“We’ve done what we can,” he muttered to himself, his breath visible in the chill air. “Now it’s up tae them.”

The fires in Venlo’s camp burned low, casting flickering shadows over the cobblestones and the men who moved among them. The faint glow of the castle torches still visible from the camp’s southern edge served as a grim reminder of the ongoing siege. Supplies had been carefully rationed, and patrols now circled the camp to guard against sabotage or surprise. The long days of slow progress had worn on the men, and the air carried an unshakable sense of restlessness.

Inside the command tent, the mood was equally tense. Hennie sat at the head of the table, leaning forward with his hands steepled before him. Across from him, Gosse de Vries scanned a recently delivered message, his sharp eyes narrowing as he absorbed the contents.

“They’ve made their move,” Gosse said, breaking the silence. “Folkert’s withdrawn tae Hurdegaryp. Coster’s forces’re massin’ at Hanzirk, an’ there’s nae doubt they’ll come south.”

Peter Bijlsma, seated to Gosse’s right, frowned deeply. “An’ what does Folkert expect us tae do? We’re sittin’ in the shadow o’ a castle that still stands, an’ he wants men tae leave for Hurdegaryp?”

Gosse shot him a pointed look. “If we dinnae reinforce him, the road tae Venlo’s wide open. Ye ken as well as I that he’ll nae hold them alone.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, his lips pressing into a thin line. “An’ what happens when they strike here while we’re divided? We’ve struggled enough tae keep the siege steady as it is.”

“That’s why we dinnae strip the camp bare,” Hennie interjected, his voice calm but firm. “We send enough tae make a difference at Hurdegaryp but nae so much that we’re left vulnerable here.”

Peter’s gaze shifted to Hennie, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “It’s nae as simple as sendin’ men, Hennie. Every lad we send tae Folkert’s another musket lost here. The castle’s watchin’ us, an’ the garrison’ll take their chance the moment they see weakness.”

“It’s nae simple, aye,” Hennie replied, his tone hardening slightly. “But it’s necessary. Folkert kens the Commonwealth’s movements better than any o’ us right now, an’ if he says we need tae move, then we move.”

Gosse nodded in quiet agreement. “The Prince is right. Folkert’s message made it clear—they’ve numbers tae burn, an’ they’re nae afraid tae use them. If we lose the Highlands tae Coster, we lose this war.”

The debate stretched on, the tension in the tent thick enough to cut. Peter’s arguments were logical, grounded in the realities of their position at Venlo, but the weight of the Commonwealth’s approach pressed heavily on Hennie’s mind. Every delay, every hesitation, was another step closer to catastrophe.

“Enough,” Hennie said finally, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “We send men. Gosse, ye’ll help me decide who goes an’ who stays. Peter, ye’ll keep the siege steady here.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, but he inclined his head slightly, conceding the point. “Aye, Hennie. But ye’d best make it worth it. If this goes wrong, we’ll nae get another chance.”

“It’ll nae go wrong,” Hennie replied, though his tone carried the weight of uncertainty he refused to show.

As the meeting broke, the three men exited the tent into the cold night air. The faint sounds of the camp echoed around them—low conversations, the scrape of boots on stone, the distant clang of a hammer striking iron. The fires burned low, casting long shadows across the cobblestones.

Peter lingered behind, watching as Hennie and Gosse moved toward the camp’s southern edge to prepare the departing column. For all his frustration, his loyalty to Hennie remained unshaken. He resolved, silently, to hold Venlo steady no matter the cost.

The orders spread quickly through the camp, and the chosen regiments began assembling near the southern barricades. The soldiers moved with quiet efficiency, their faces betraying no trace of complaint as they loaded wagons and checked their weapons. Gosse moved among them, his sharp gaze ensuring every detail was accounted for.

Hennie stood near the barricade, his arms crossed as he watched the preparations. Despite the cold, he felt the weight of the decision burning in his chest. Each man who marched to Hurdegaryp was a gamble—a risk taken for the chance to secure their position against the looming storm.

Gosse approached, his expression calm but resolute. “The lads’re ready,” he said. “We’ve taken enough tae reinforce Folkert, but nae enough tae leave the siege exposed.”

Hennie nodded. “Good. Let’s nae keep them waitin’.”

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the departing column began its march southward. The sound of boots striking frost-covered ground echoed faintly as the men moved in disciplined ranks, their breath visible in the cold morning air. Hennie and Gosse rode at the head, their cloaks wrapped tightly against the chill.

The roads were rough and uneven, the previous night’s frost turning patches of mud into treacherous ruts. Despite the difficulties, the column maintained its pace, their resolve strengthened by the knowledge of what lay ahead.

Hennie glanced at Gosse as they rode, his voice low. “Think Folkert’ll hold until we reach him?”

Gosse’s eyes remained fixed on the road ahead. “If anyone can hold them, it’s Folkert. But he’ll need every musket we’ve sent, an’ then some.”

The journey to Hurdegaryp was far from over, but the weight of their choices hung heavy in the air. Venlo remained behind them, a precarious stronghold, while the Highlands loomed ahead as the next battlefield in a campaign that had yet to find its resolution.

The night deepened as the Henricist column pressed forward, their footsteps crunching softly against frost-covered ground. The road south was treacherous, with patches of ice making the wagon wheels groan as they struggled to maintain their course. The men moved in silence, their breaths visible in the frigid air, while the officers exchanged quiet words as they rode along the flanks. Hennie rode at the head of the column, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his thoughts far from the present.

Gosse de Vries rode beside him, his sharp gaze darting between the column and the landscape ahead. He broke the silence. “The lads’re holdin’ steady, but they’ll nae keep this pace forever. We’ll need tae rest soon.”

Hennie glanced at him, his brow furrowed. “We’ve nae time for rest. Every mile we put between us an’ Venlo’s a mile closer tae Folkert. If Coster reaches him afore we do, this’ll all be for naught.”

“The men’ll march themselves tae death if ye ask it,” Gosse replied, his voice low. “But dead men win nae battles.”

Hennie’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “A short rest, then. Long enough for the lads tae catch their breath, nae more.”

The column came to a halt in a small clearing off the road, the men dropping their packs and muskets with weary sighs. Fires were lit quickly, their faint glow casting flickering shadows on the frost-covered ground. The officers gathered near the head of the column, exchanging quiet words as they planned the next leg of the march.

Hennie stood near one of the fires, his gaze distant as he stared into the flames. Gosse approached him, his expression thoughtful. “Ye’ve nae eaten since we left. The men’ll nae hold it against ye if ye take a moment tae care for yerself.”

“There’ll be time for that later,” Hennie replied, his tone clipped. “Right now, we’ve a march tae finish.”

Peter Bijlsma’s absence weighed on his mind. Despite their disagreements, Peter had been a constant presence at his side for years, a steadying force even in the most turbulent moments. But now, with Gosse emerging as his closest confidant, the distance between them felt sharper than ever. He pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the task ahead.

The fires burned low as the column resumed its march, the soldiers moving with renewed determination. The road grew narrower as it wound through a wooded valley, the trees casting long shadows in the moonlight. Scouts rode ahead, their silhouettes barely visible against the pale glow of the frost.

By the time the last light of the day faded through the trees, the column was approaching the outskirts of Hurdegaryp. The town’s church steeple rose faintly against the horizon, a beacon that stirred a ripple of relief through the ranks. Hennie and Gosse exchanged a glance, their unspoken agreement clear—they had arrived, but the fight was far from over.

The camp near Hurdegaryp was already a hive of activity as they entered. Folkert Oosterhof stood near the edge of the clearing, his arms crossed and his expression grim. Behind him, the Zutphol Highlanders were reinforcing their position along a low ridge, while the Richel regiments worked to secure supply lines. The sibbes milled about near the centre of the camp, their movements less coordinated but no less determined.

Hennie dismounted and approached Folkert, his boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. “Ye’ve done well tae hold this far,” he said, his tone measured. “But we’ll need more if we’re tae hold against what’s comin’.”

Folkert’s gaze was sharp as he replied. “We’ve held for now, but it’s a thin line, Hennie. If the Commonwealth pushes, we’ll need every man ye’ve brought an’ then some.”

Gosse joined them, his voice calm but firm. “The lads’re ready. They’ll hold the ridge as long as they’ve breath in them.”

The tension between the two commanders was palpable, but it was overshadowed by the urgency of their situation. Hennie turned to survey the camp, his mind already racing with strategies and contingencies. The battle for Hurdegaryp was about to begin, and the stakes had never been higher.

As the fires burned brighter and the soldiers prepared for what lay ahead, the Henricist command gathered near the ridge. Plans were laid, positions were assigned, and the weight of the coming fight settled heavily on every man present. For Hennie, it was another step in a journey that had already cost so much—and would demand even more before it was over.

The frost bit sharply at the night air as Hennie’s column crested the final ridge leading into Hurdegaryp. The men, though weary from the relentless march, tightened their ranks as the camp below came into view. Fires dotted the hillside, the faint glow casting long shadows across the improvised fortifications that Folkert and his men had begun to erect. The unmistakable banners of the Zutphol Highlanders and Richel regiments swayed in the breeze, a welcome sight after days of uncertainty.

Hennie urged his horse forward, his breath visible in the cold as he scanned the camp for Folkert. Gosse rode beside him, his sharp eyes narrowing as they took in the layout of the defenses. “They’ve done well,” Gosse remarked. “The ridge’s solid, an’ they’ve made the most o’ the ground. But it’ll nae hold if Coster brings his full weight.”

Hennie nodded silently, his thoughts turning to the message Folkert had sent days earlier. His decision to withdraw from Hanzirk had been a calculated risk, one that Hennie supported in theory, though he knew others would see it as weakness. The Henricists had learned through bitter experience that holding ground at all costs often came at too steep a price.

As they approached the camp’s edge, Folkert appeared on the far side, standing near a fire with Harmannus Tamminga and Meindert Visschaert. He turned at the sound of approaching hooves, his expression dark but focused. The tension that had simmered between him and Hennie in recent months was still evident in the slight tightening of his jaw, but there was no mistaking the relief in his eyes as he saw the column behind them.

“Ye made it,” Folkert called out as Hennie dismounted. His tone carried the faintest edge of reproach, but it was tempered by pragmatism. “Took yer time, though.”

“We brought all we could spare,” Hennie replied, his voice calm. “An’ it’s a damned sight better than nothin’. How bad’s it look?”

Folkert gestured toward the northern approach. “They’re massin’ at Hanzirk—seven thousand strong by the scouts’ count. They’ve the numbers, aye, but they’ll nae rush in blind. They’re waitin’ for somethin’—or someone.”

“Coster,” Gosse muttered, his tone sharp. “An’ when he gets here, they’ll throw everything they’ve got at us.”

Folkert nodded grimly. “Aye. That’s why we’ve set the ridge. It’ll slow them enough tae bleed ‘em before they reach us. But it’ll nae hold without every musket we’ve got.”

Harmannus stepped forward, his weathered face lined with exhaustion. “The Highlanders’ve done all they can, but the lads’re spent. If we’re tae hold this ground, we’ll need tae dig deeper than ever.”

“We will,” Hennie said firmly. “An’ when they come, they’ll ken they’ve stepped intae hell.”

The Henricist camp buzzed with activity as the two forces merged, the newly arrived reinforcements bringing fresh energy to the defenders. Engineers worked to reinforce the barricades along the ridge, hauling timber and stones into place under the watchful eyes of Eelco de Richel. The Richel commander moved among his men with brisk efficiency, his voice cutting through the cold air like a whip.

“We’ll nae leave a single gap,” Eelco barked. “Every inch o’ this ridge’ll be fortified afore the day’s done. If the bastards want tae take it, they’ll pay in blood.”

Nearby, Sybren Dijmeron directed his sibbesmen to secure the flanks, their mismatched armour and weapons a stark contrast to the disciplined regiments around them. Meindert Visschaert moved through their lines, his sharp voice keeping the men focused as they dug trenches and prepared firing positions.

Folkert and Hennie stood near the centre of the ridge, surveying the work with critical eyes. Despite their shared goal, the tension between them was palpable, a reminder of the strained relationship that had defined much of their recent interactions.

“Ye’ve done well here,” Hennie said finally, breaking the silence. “The ground’s solid, an’ the men’re workin’ hard. But this’ll nae be enough if we dinnae work together.”

Folkert turned to him, his expression unreadable. “I’ve always worked for the cause, Hennie. An’ I’ll keep workin’ for it. But if this fails, it’ll nae be on my shoulders alone.”

“It’ll nae fail,” Hennie replied firmly. “We’ll make sure o’ that.”

Gosse approached, a stack of reports in hand. “The scouts’re reportin’ movement tae the north—nae full advance yet, but they’re testin’ the ground. We’ll need tae be ready tae meet them when they come.”

Hennie nodded, his gaze sweeping over the camp. “Then we’ll finish what we’ve started. Every musket, every blade—we’ll use them tae their fullest. This ridge’s ours, an’ it’ll stay that way.”

As the night wore on, the Henricist forces worked tirelessly to prepare. The ridge took on the appearance of a fortress, with barricades and firing positions stretching its length. Fires burned low as the men rested in shifts, their faces set with grim determination.

Hennie moved among them, offering quiet words of encouragement and listening to their concerns. Despite the fatigue in their eyes, there was a flicker of hope—hope that their efforts would not be in vain.

Folkert watched from a distance, his arms crossed as he observed Hennie’s interactions. For all their differences, he couldn’t deny the loyalty Hennie inspired in the men. It was a quality Folkert had never sought for himself, but one he knew was invaluable in a leader.

Before long, the camp settled into an uneasy quiet. The fires burned brighter against the dark, their light casting long shadows over the ridge. Hennie and Gosse stood together near the southern edge, their gazes fixed on the horizon.

“Tomorrow’ll be the test,” Hennie said softly. “An’ if we fail, there’ll be nae comin’ back from it.”

“Then we’ll nae fail,” Gosse replied, his voice steady. “We’ve come this far. We’ll see it through.”

The two men stood in silence for a moment longer before turning back to the camp. The battle for the ridge—and the fate of the Henricist army—was fast approaching.

“If they dinnae attack by tomorrow…” Gosse pondered, his eyes looking to Hennie, who’s gaze seemed to avert his.

“Then we must make the first move.” Hennie concluded bluntly.

“Aye, yer right. We shall soon see.” Gosse said, before turning on his heels and retiring, his footsteps fading into the night as he left Hennie on his own. His mind raced between conclusions and contingencies, his breath visible in the night air. They had not failed yet. The prospects of both victory and defeat seemed just beyond his reach. Even if the imminent battle ended with a victory, it would hardly mean outright victory. Hennie knew there was still so much more at stake, and every result lay just beyond the horizon.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 25

9th-10th of November, 1706
Hanzirk, Faursia
Midnight

The air inside the command tent was heavy, thick with the unspoken tension of the decisions that lay ahead. Hennie Dumonceau sat at the head of the table, his hands clasped tightly before him as his commanders settled into their places. The lantern overhead swayed faintly with the wind, casting shadows that seemed to flicker in time with the men’s unease.

Gosse de Vries was the first to break the silence, his voice calm but edged with urgency. “Coster’s lads’ve made their camp a mile out. Scouts’ve been watching them all day—nae movement, nae sign they’re plannin’ tae push. If they dinnae strike by now, they won’t.”

Hennie nodded, his gaze fixed on the map spread across the table. The inked lines of ridges, streams, and roads blurred slightly in the dim light. “Then we must strike first,” he said firmly. “Waitin’ longer only gives them more time tae prepare.”

Peter Bijlsma shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his frown deepening. “We’re already stretched thin, Hennie. Venlo’s holdin’ by a thread, an’ if this goes wrong, we’ll lose everything we’ve built here.”

“That’s why we’ll nae give them the chance tae see it go wrong,” Gosse interjected, his sharp tone cutting through the tension. “Coster underestimates us. He thinks we’ve nae the stomach tae take the fight tae him, an’ that’ll be his undoing.”

Hennie’s gaze flicked briefly to Peter, the frustration in his eyes barely masked. “Peter, I need ye tae trust me on this. We’ve held this far because we’ve taken risks when we’ve had tae. This is another risk, aye, but it’s one we cannae afford nae tae take.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, but he nodded reluctantly. “Aye, Hennie. But ye’ll nae convince me this’ll be easy.”

Folkert Oosterhof, standing near the edge of the tent, finally spoke, his voice low and measured. “Nae battle’s ever easy, Peter. But the lads’re ready. They’ve been ready since Zeidendijs. If we hit them hard an’ fast, we can throw their lines into chaos before they’ve time tae react.”

The mention of Zeidendijs brought a faint murmur of agreement from the others, though the memory of that hard-fought victory lingered like a shadow over the room. Hennie straightened, his tone sharpening as he began laying out the plan.

“Brouwer’s regulars’ll march toward Venlo tae draw their scouts away,” he began, tracing a line on the map with his finger. “That’ll buy us enough time tae position Folkert’s Highlanders here”—he tapped the ridge south of the Commonwealth camp—“an’ hold the high ground. They’ll nae see the attack comin’ until it’s already on them.”

“And the left?” Gosse asked, leaning forward.

“That’ll be your command,” Hennie replied, meeting his gaze. “Hold it steady until Folkert’s lads’ve done their work. Once they break their flank, we’ll roll the whole line forward.”

Peter shifted again, his expression dark. “An’ if they dinnae break?”

“They will,” Hennie said, his tone firm. “They’ve nae the numbers tae hold against a charge on that ground.”

The confidence in his voice carried weight, but the tension in the room remained thick. The divisions within the command were evident—Gosse’s growing influence had begun to overshadow Peter’s, and the old resentment simmered just beneath the surface. Hennie glanced at Peter briefly, a flicker of guilt crossing his face, but he pressed on.

“Folkert,” Hennie continued, turning to the Highlander commander, “ye’ll lead the right, aye?”

Folkert inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Aye. I’ll take the Brekkanalds tae the ridge an’ hold until ye give the word.”

“And the men?” Gosse asked. “Are they ready?”

“They’re ready,” Folkert replied evenly. “An’ if they’re nae, they will be by mornin’.”

The council stretched into the night, the men poring over maps and plans, debating tactics and contingencies. The flickering light of the lanterns cast long shadows over their faces, highlighting the strain etched into each man’s expression. As the final details were agreed upon, the commanders began to rise, their movements slow with exhaustion.

“Well, they clearly havenae attacked…” Gosse began, his voice trailing off as he glanced at Hennie.

“Then we must make the first move. Tomorrow.” Hennie concluded bluntly, his tone carrying the weight of the decision they had just made.

“Aye.” Gosse said after a moment, his tone resigned.

He turned on his heels and left the tent, his footsteps fading into the night as the cold air rushed in briefly with his exit. Hennie remained seated, his hands still resting on the edge of the table. His mind raced between conclusions and contingencies, his breath visible in the chill. They had not failed yet, but the line between victory and defeat felt thinner than ever. Every possible result seemed just beyond the horizon, shrouded in uncertainty.

Hennie rose slowly, his gaze falling on the map one last time before he stepped out into the cold. The fires of the camp burned low, and the faint sounds of soldiers preparing for the dawn mingled with the rustling of the trees. He drew his cloak tighter around him, his jaw set as he moved toward the centre of the camp.

There was no more time for doubt. Morning would bring battle, and the outcome would shape the future of their cause.

The camp was alive with muted activity, the stillness of the frosty night punctuated by the sounds of preparations. Fires burned low to avoid drawing attention, their faint glow casting shifting shadows on the faces of soldiers and officers alike. Despite the late hour, the urgency of the coming dawn kept many from sleep. Orders were quietly passed along the lines as men readied themselves for the crucial manoeuvres ahead.

Harmen stood near the eastern edge of the camp, his regiment assembling in disciplined silence. The regulars moved efficiently, checking their gear, loading wagons, and adjusting their muskets. The weight of their task—a diversion to draw the Commonwealth’s attention—was clear in their determined faces. Harmen surveyed them with an appraising eye before addressing them, his voice calm but carrying authority.

“We’ve marched further than this for less,” he began, his tone steady. “This isnae the kind o’ fight where ye’ll see the glory for yourselves, but it’s the kind that’ll bring the rest o’ the lads their chance. Keep yer pace, keep yer line, an’ remember—this night belongs tae us.”

A low murmur of affirmation passed through the men. Harmen’s leadership had always been a source of confidence for them, and tonight was no different. He moved through the ranks, stopping occasionally to offer a word or a nod, his presence a steadying force amid the tension.

Gosse arrived not long after, his breath visible in the cold air as he stepped up beside Harmen. His sharp gaze scanned the regiment briefly before he spoke, his tone matching the gravity of the moment. “Every step ye take tonight’ll decide what happens at the ridge. Keep their eyes on ye, hold yer nerve, an’ the rest o’ us’ll do the rest.”

Harmen glanced at him, a faint smile crossing his lips. “We’ll hold. Ye’ve my word on that.”

The two men exchanged a brief nod before Gosse turned to leave, heading toward the western side of the camp where Folkert and the Highlanders were preparing. As Harmen’s column began to move, their footsteps crunching softly against the frost-covered ground, the sound faded into the night. They marched eastward under the dim light of the crescent moon, their discipline and resolve unwavering.

To the west, the Highlanders gathered under the shadows of the ridge. Their silhouettes stood out against the pale glow of the fires, their movements quiet but deliberate. The Brekkanalds, armed with muskets and broadswords, formed the backbone of the force. Their patchwork of rough wool and tartans gave them a rugged, battle-worn appearance, a reflection of their reputation as fighters.

Folkert stood among them, his voice rising just enough to carry over the soft murmurs. “This ridge is ours,” he said, his tone commanding. “By nature, by ground, an’ by the strength o’ the lads who’ll hold it. They’ll come tae take it, but they’ll pay in blood for every step they try.”

The men responded with faint murmurs of agreement, their faces set with determination. Folkert continued, his gaze sweeping across the lines. “Ye ken the drill—nae fire until I give the word. Hold yer lines, an’ keep steady. The bastards’ll break afore we do.”

Nearby, Harmannus and Meindert worked to ensure the Highlanders and sibbes were positioned correctly. Harmannus moved with the precision of a seasoned soldier, his voice cutting through the cold air as he issued commands. Meindert, ever the steady presence among the sibbes, focused on reinforcing the flank, his men digging shallow trenches and piling stones to create rudimentary cover.

Eelco, overseeing the Richel regiments stationed further along the ridge, joined Folkert briefly, his tone quiet but resolute. “The lads’re set, an’ the ground’s solid. We’ve nae much time, but we’ll make it work.”

Folkert nodded, his expression hard. “They’ll come up that slope thinkin’ they’ve the advantage. We’ll show them they’re wrong.”

Lieuwe appeared beside him, a thin layer of frost clinging to his cloak. “Scouts report nae movement yet, but the weather’s turnin’. Snow’s comin’ by mornin’, an’ it’ll nae be light.”

“Good,” Folkert replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Let the bastards march through the cold. It’ll slow ‘em down.”

The preparations continued well into the early hours of the morning, the camp bustling with quiet determination. Men carried ammunition to the forward lines, others hauled timber to reinforce makeshift barricades. The ridge, once a simple natural feature, now bore the markings of a defensive position—firing lines, trenches, and carefully placed cover.

Hennie arrived just before dawn, his cloak pulled tightly around him against the biting cold. He exchanged brief words with Folkert, his expression grim but resolute. “Everything’s in place?”

“Aye,” Folkert replied. “Harmen’s off tae do his work, an’ we’re ready here. The lads’re holdin’ fast.”

“Good,” Hennie said. “They’ll nae ken what hit them.”

The faint glow of the rising sun began to cast long shadows over the ridge, its light diffused by the thickening clouds. Snowflakes drifted lazily at first, then more steadily as the weather turned. The Henricists, their positions solidified and their spirits bolstered by the careful planning, waited for the moment to strike. For all their preparation, the uncertainty of the battle ahead hung heavy in the cold air.

Hennie and Gosse stood together near the centre of the line, their gazes fixed on the horizon. “This is it,” Hennie said quietly. “If we falter here…”

“We’ll nae falter,” Gosse interrupted, his tone steady. “We’ve done what needs doin’. The rest’s up tae the lads.”

The first light of dawn broke pale and cold over the ridge, the frost-covered ground glistening faintly as the snow began to fall in earnest. The men huddled in their positions, their cloaks drawn tightly around them as they waited in silence. The fires in the Henricist camp had long since been doused to avoid detection, leaving the warmth of the men’s breath to battle the biting chill of the November air.

Folkert paced the lines, his sharp gaze scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. The Highlanders remained poised, their muskets propped against the barricades as they murmured quietly among themselves. Harmannus Tamminga stood with his men near the centre, his deep voice offering reassurance to the younger soldiers as they adjusted their positions.

“Keep yer heads, lads,” Harmannus said. “We’ve the ground an’ the strength tae hold. When they come, they’ll regret the day they crossed us.”

Meindert moved further along the flank, his sibbesmen busily reinforcing their shallow trenches with stones and fallen branches. The younger soldiers looked to him for guidance, their nervous energy visible in the way their hands fidgeted with their weapons. “Hold steady,” Meindert called out. “They’ll come when they’re ready, an’ we’ll be here tae meet them.”

Hennie stood near the centre of the line, his arms crossed as he surveyed the scene. Beside him, Gosse leaned on his musket, his sharp eyes focused on the Commonwealth camp barely visible through the trees in the distance.

“They’ve nae made a move,” Gosse said quietly. “They’re sittin’ there like they’ve nae a care in the world.”

“They’re underestimatin’ us,” Hennie replied, his tone grim. “Coster’s too cautious. He thinks he’s got all the time in the world.”

“That’ll be his mistake,” Gosse said with a faint smile. “The lads’re ready tae take the fight tae him if he hesitates too long.”

As the morning wore on, the snow began to fall more heavily, blanketing the ridge in a thin layer of white. The men adjusted their positions, careful to keep their powder dry and their weapons ready. Scouts moved quietly along the flanks, reporting back with updates that revealed little activity from the Commonwealth forces.

Folkert approached, his boots crunching softly against the frozen ground. “They’ve nae stirred,” he said, his voice low. “Scouts say they’re sittin’ quiet, but that’ll nae last.”

Hennie nodded. “We’ll hold till we’ve nae other choice. But if they dinnae move soon, we’ll take the first step.”

By midday, the tension in the air was almost unbearable. The men shifted restlessly in their positions, their breaths visible in the cold as they exchanged quiet words. The snow had begun to melt in places, turning the ground into a slippery mix of mud and ice. Officers moved among the lines, checking weapons and offering quiet reassurances.

Then, faintly, the sound of drums began to echo from the Commonwealth camp. The men on the ridge tensed, their hands tightening around their weapons as they listened. The drums grew louder, joined by the sharp notes of fifes and the rumble of boots on frozen earth. Coster’s army was stirring.

Folkert stood at the crest of the ridge, his sharp eyes fixed on the distant movement. “They’re testin’ the waters,” he muttered. “But they’ll nae move far.”

Hennie joined him, his gaze steady as he watched the activity below. “They’ve beat tae arms,” he said. “But it’s nae a full advance. They’re watchin’, waitin’ tae see what we’ll do.”

“Aye,” Folkert agreed. “An’ they’ll keep watchin’ till they’ve a reason tae move.”

The men remained on high alert as the hours crept by. Despite the sound and movement in the Commonwealth camp, there was no sign of an advance. The drums quieted, and the tension in the air grew thicker with each passing moment.

By early afternoon, the snow had turned to a mix of rain and sleet, the wind driving the icy droplets into the faces of the men on the ridge. Visibility dropped as the weather worsened, and the already difficult terrain became even more treacherous. Hennie moved along the lines, his presence steadying the men as they huddled in their positions.

“They’ll nae move in this,” Gosse said, joining him near the centre. “Coster’s cautious enough tae wait till it clears.”

“That’ll be his mistake,” Hennie replied. “The lads’re ready tae take the fight tae him, weather or nae.”

Folkert arrived moments later, his expression grim. “If we’re tae move, it’s now. The ground’s in our favour, an’ they’re nae expectin’ it.”

Hennie nodded, his jaw set. “Then we strike. Let the lads ken it’s time.”

The command spread quickly through the lines, and the men began to rise from their positions, their movements careful but deliberate. The Highlanders took their places at the crest of the ridge, their muskets gleaming faintly in the dim light. The sibbes moved to reinforce the flanks, their rough armour and weapons giving them an intimidating presence despite their disorganisation.

As the rain and snow continued to fall, the Henricists braced themselves. The time for waiting was over. The battle for Hanzirk was about to begin.

The battle crept forward like the storm itself—slow, unforgiving, and inevitable. Each moment stretched into an eternity as the Henricists braced for the next attack, their muscles taut, their nerves strung tighter with every passing second. The Brekkanalds, still anchored firmly on the right, worked quickly to reload their muskets after repelling the first charge. Folkert paced along their line, his broadsword gleaming with rain and reflecting the faint light breaking through the clouds.

“Keep yer wits, lads!” he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. “This fight’s ours, so long as we dinnae lose our heads. Another volley like the last an’ they’ll nae dare show their faces again!”

Harmannus moved beside him, his deep voice adding weight to the command. “Stay sharp, lads! This ground’s ours, an’ we’ll nae yield an inch!”

The Highlanders responded with low murmurs of affirmation, their faces set in grim determination. They had seen worse and survived, but even the most seasoned among them could feel the tension in the air. The Commonwealth forces were reeling for now, but the next wave was already forming in the haze below the ridge.

In the centre, Hennie stood amidst a flurry of activity. Messengers darted between units, their boots churning the mud as they carried orders to the flanks. Gosse arrived beside him, his face streaked with rain and sweat, his eyes sharp with concern.

“The Brekkanalds’ve done well, but the left’s nae holdin’,” Gosse said bluntly. “Meindert’s lads’re startin’ tae falter under the weight.”

Hennie’s jaw tightened, and he turned to one of the messengers. “Tell the Lowlanders tae shift left an’ shore up the line. Meindert needs support.”

The messenger saluted and sprinted off, his figure quickly swallowed by the swirling snow. Hennie turned to Gosse, his voice low but firm. “Ye think they’ll hold?”

Gosse shrugged, his gaze fixed on the battlefield. “They’ll hold as long as they’ve breath in them. But they’ll need more than the Lowlanders if the militia pushes hard.”

Hennie nodded grimly, his mind already racing through the possibilities. “Then we’ll keep the reserves close. If it comes tae it, we’ll reinforce in person.”

The next wave came harder than the first. The Commonwealth infantry, their lines bolstered by fresh battalions, moved up the slope in disciplined formations. The front line advanced with bayonets fixed, their muskets gleaming in the dim light. Behind them, the dragoons regrouped, their horses struggling to find purchase in the treacherous mud.

Folkert saw them coming and raised his sword high, his voice booming across the ridge. “Ready yer muskets! Wait for the word—hold yer fire till I say!”

The Highlanders steadied their ranks, the front row kneeling with muskets braced while the second row stood ready to fire over their shoulders. The Commonwealth troops advanced slowly, their boots slipping in the mire but their formation holding.

“Wait…” Folkert called, his voice rising with the tension. “Wait…”

The Commonwealth infantry came within fifty yards, their bayonets glinting ominously. Folkert’s sword cut through the air. “Fire!”

The volley was deafening. Smoke erupted from the Highlander lines, obscuring the battlefield for a moment before clearing to reveal the carnage. The Commonwealth front line faltered, their ranks broken as men fell screaming into the mud. A second volley followed before they could recover, driving them into full retreat.

Folkert wasted no time. “Advance!” he roared, leading his men down the slope in pursuit. The Brekkanalds surged forward, their broadswords gleaming as they descended on the disorganised enemy.

At the centre, Hennie watched the Highlanders’ charge with grim satisfaction. “They’ve broken the right,” he said to Gosse. “But the left…”

Before he could finish, a rider galloped up, mud spraying in his wake. The man’s face was pale, his voice hurried. “The left’s falterin’, sir! Meindert’s sibbes’re fallin’ back!”

Gosse swore under his breath and turned to Hennie. “We need tae move now, or the line’ll collapse.”

Hennie nodded, his decision immediate. “Rally the reserves. We’ll reinforce the left ourselves.”

The two men mounted quickly and rode toward the embattled flank, the sound of their horses’ hooves barely audible over the chaos. As they approached, the scale of the disaster became clear. The sibbes, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the Commonwealth advance, had begun to scatter. Meindert stood defiantly among them, shouting orders as he tried to rally his men.

“Stand yer ground!” Meindert roared, his voice hoarse. “Nae one moves till I say!”

But his words fell on deaf ears as the panic spread. Hennie and Gosse arrived moments later, their presence enough to slow the retreat. Hennie dismounted quickly, his voice carrying across the line.

“Hold fast, lads! This fight’s nae over! Stand yer ground an’ show them what Faursia’s made of!”

The sight of their leader spurred the men to action. The sibbes began to regroup, forming a ragged line behind Meindert as Hennie and Gosse directed the reserves into position. The Lowlanders filled the gaps, their muskets raised as they braced for the next wave.

Meanwhile, on the right, Folkert’s charge had driven the Commonwealth dragoons into full retreat. The Brekkanalds pushed hard, their broadswords cutting through the disorganised infantry as they descended into the enemy camp. But the pursuit began to falter as the men lost cohesion, distracted by the chaos and the temptation of plunder.

Folkert realised the danger too late. “Hold yer ground!” he shouted, his voice strained. “Dinnae lose the line!”

But the sloping terrain and the confusion of the storm made it impossible to regroup. The Highlanders, scattered across the field, were vulnerable to a counterattack. Folkert cursed under his breath, his mind racing as he tried to regain control.

The battle was devolving into chaos. On the left, the Henricists struggled to hold against the relentless Commonwealth advance. On the right, the Highlanders’ charge had achieved its initial goal but left them dangerously exposed. And in the centre, Hennie fought desperately to coordinate the fragmented lines.

As darkness began to fall, the storm intensified, turning the battlefield into a quagmire of mud, blood, and broken bodies. Both sides fought with a ferocity born of desperation, the outcome hanging by a thread.

The battlefield had become a scene of unrelenting chaos. The storm lashed at men and horses alike, the driving sleet and snow reducing visibility to mere feet. The ground was a treacherous mire of mud and blood, sucking at boots and dragging down those unlucky enough to fall. The sounds of muskets, shouts, and the clash of steel filled the air, though much of the action was hidden by the swirling weather.

On the left, the Henricists struggled to hold their precarious position. Hennie moved among the men, shouting commands and encouragement, his voice rising above the storm. Beside him, Gosse directed the reserves, his sharp gaze assessing every faltering line.

“Push them back!” Hennie roared, his sword flashing as he pointed toward the advancing Commonwealth troops. “This line doesnae break—nae while we still stand!”

Meindert, battered but unyielding, rallied his sibbes with sheer force of will. His presence, a grim and commanding figure against the storm, began to steady the shaken troops. “They’re nae invincible!” he shouted. “Hold yer ground, lads—show them what a Faursian can do!”

The combined effort of the sibbes, Lowlanders, and reserves began to turn the tide. The Commonwealth infantry, hampered by the worsening weather and relentless musket fire, faltered. Their formations, once precise, started to unravel under the sustained pressure. Hennie saw the hesitation ripple through their ranks and seized the moment.

“Advance!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the storm. “Push them back! Let them ken this ground’s ours!”

The Henricists surged forward, their cheers rising above the clash of battle. The Commonwealth troops wavered, their lines buckling under the renewed assault. Within minutes, the left had stabilised, and the Henricists began to reclaim the ground they had lost.

On the right, Folkert was fighting his own battle against disarray. The Highlanders, scattered in their pursuit, had begun to plunder the Commonwealth camp. Tents were torn open, wagons overturned, and supplies looted as discipline gave way to chaos. Folkert rode among his men, shouting commands, his frustration mounting.

“Get back tae the line!” he bellowed, his voice hoarse. “We’ve nae time for this! The fight’s nae over!”

Lieuwe rode up beside him, his face grim. “The lads’re too spread, sir. If they counter now, we’ll be cut off.”

Folkert cursed under his breath, scanning the battlefield. The Commonwealth forces, though battered, had not fully broken. On the far side of the camp, fresh troops were beginning to form, their movements shielded by the storm. Time was running out.

“Rally what ye can,” Folkert said, his tone sharp. “We hold this ground till the rest catch up—or till we’re dead.”

Lieuwe nodded and spurred his horse into action, weaving through the scattered Highlanders as he shouted for them to reform. Slowly, pockets of order began to emerge, though it was clear the opportunity for a decisive blow had been lost.

As the storm reached its peak, the centre of the battlefield descended into utter chaos. The sloping terrain and poor visibility made coordination nearly impossible. Both sides fought desperately, their lines breaking and reforming in a swirling melee of mud and blood.

Hennie found himself in the thick of it, his sword swinging as he rallied his men. Around him, the Henricists fought with grim determination, their cries of defiance mingling with the clash of steel and the crack of sporadic musket fire.

Gosse appeared at his side, his musket in hand and his face streaked with mud. “The left’s holdin’,” he said breathlessly. “But the right’s in trouble. Folkert’s lads’re scattered—he needs support.”

Hennie’s gaze darted toward the right, where the faint outline of the Highlanders’ position was barely visible through the storm. He knew the risks of dividing his forces further but had no choice.

“Send word tae Folkert,” he said, his voice firm. “We’ll hold the centre while he regroups. Tell him tae fall back if he has tae—this fight’s nae worth losin’ his men.”

Gosse nodded and disappeared into the fray, leaving Hennie to focus on the immediate battle. The Commonwealth forces were pressing hard, their fresh reserves pushing toward the Henricist centre with renewed determination. Hennie raised his sword high, his voice carrying across the field.

“Hold the line! They’ll break afore we do—hold!”

The battle dragged into the fading light of evening, the storm showing no sign of relenting. Both sides were battered, their ranks thinned by the relentless fighting. The Henricists, though bloodied, held their ground. The Commonwealth forces, exhausted and demoralised, began to falter.

On the right, Folkert finally managed to reform his lines, his Highlanders retreating to higher ground. The looting had cost them precious time, but the regrouped force was still formidable. Folkert, his sword drawn and his voice rising above the din, led his men in a final push to secure their position.

In the centre, Hennie and Gosse coordinated the final stages of the Henricist defence. The Commonwealth troops, their morale shattered by the unrelenting resistance, began to withdraw. By the time the last light of day faded into darkness, the battlefield had fallen silent.

The aftermath was a grim scene. The storm continued to howl as the Henricists regrouped, their faces hollow with exhaustion. Fires were lit along the ridge, their flickering light illuminating the mud-soaked ground and the scattered bodies of the fallen.

Hennie stood near the centre of the ridge, his cloak heavy with rain as he surveyed the field. Beside him, Gosse leaned heavily on his musket, his expression weary but resolute.

“We held,” Gosse said quietly. “But it cost us.”

“Aye,” Hennie replied, his voice low. “An’ it’ll cost us again if we’re nae careful.”

Folkert approached, his steps heavy but his presence steady. “The lads’ve done their part,” he said simply. “We’ll regroup an’ be ready for what comes next.”

Hennie nodded, his gaze distant. “We’ve a long way tae go. But for now, we’ve done what needed doin’.”

The Henricists had won the day, but the cost of victory weighed heavily on all of them. The storm continued to rage, a fitting backdrop to the hard-fought battle that had unfolded. The fight for Hanzirk was over, but the war was far from won.

The fires burned low across the Henricist encampment as the storm finally began to wane. The biting wind eased, leaving only the sound of distant thunder and the faint rustle of the remaining snowfall. The battlefield below the ridge was a ruin of churned mud, shattered equipment, and bodies, barely visible in the dim light of the fires. The aftermath of the day’s fighting hung heavily over the camp, a tangible weight pressing down on everyone.

Hennie sat inside his tent, his shoulders slumped as he poured over reports brought in by his officers. His cloak hung on a peg nearby, soaked and dripping onto the ground. The rain and blood had left streaks across his face, but he made no effort to clean them. The weight of command and the cost of the battle were etched into his features.

Gosse entered quietly, his steps heavy as he approached the table. He carried a bundle of reports, which he set down before sitting across from Hennie. For a moment, neither man spoke, the silence broken only by the distant murmur of the camp.

“We’ve taken stock,” Gosse said finally, his voice low. “Fifty dead, maybe eighty wounded. Most o’ the losses came on the left.”

Hennie nodded, his gaze fixed on the map spread before him. “An’ the Commonwealth?”

“Seventy dead, maybe more,” Gosse replied. “A few hundred wounded or missin’. They’ve retreated tae Eemshaven, what’s left o’ them.”

Hennie exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. “We held the ground, but it cost us.”

“Aye,” Gosse agreed. “But it’s a cost we could afford. Coster’s lads’ve lost more than men—they’ve lost their nerve.”

The tent flap opened, and Folkert stepped inside, his cloak wrapped tightly around him. He looked as exhausted as the others, but his presence carried its usual weight. He nodded briefly to Gosse before turning to Hennie.

“The right’s regrouped,” Folkert said. “The Highlanders’ve settled in for the night. We’ll nae see another attack anytime soon.”

“Good,” Hennie replied. “But we’ll nae assume they’re done. Coster’ll regroup at Eemshaven, an’ when he does, he’ll be ready tae hit us again.”

Folkert folded his arms, his expression hard. “He’ll nae find us as easy tae break as he thinks. The lads’ve proven that much.”

Hennie’s gaze shifted to Folkert, a faint hint of gratitude in his eyes. “Aye. They’ve done more than anyone had the right tae expect. But the question remains—where do we go from here?”

The commanders gathered later that night, the tent filled with the muffled sounds of men talking in low tones. Harmen, Meindert, Eelco, and the others sat around the table, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of a lantern. The tension between them was palpable, though exhaustion had dulled its edge.

Gosse opened the meeting with a blunt assessment. “The Commonwealth’s regroupin’, but it’ll take them time. Coster’s lads’ll be cautious after today—they’ll nae rush in blind again.”

“Aye,” Harmen said, his tone measured. “But that’ll nae stop them. Eemshaven’s strong, an’ they’ll be ready tae push back if we give them a chance.”

Folkert leaned forward, his hands resting on the table. “Then we dinnae give them one. We press forward, keep them off balance. Venlo’s castle’s still a problem, but we’ve shown we can hit them hard when it matters.”

Eelco shook his head, his voice steady but cautious. “Pressin’ forward’s a gamble. The lads’re spent, an’ the weather’s nae on our side. We’ll need tae consolidate before we can think o’ takin’ another step.”

The room fell silent as Hennie considered their words. His gaze lingered on the map, the lines and symbols blurring slightly in the dim light. He knew they were right—both of them. The army needed time to recover, but they also couldn’t afford to lose momentum.

“We hold for now,” Hennie said finally, his voice firm. “The lads’ll rest an’ recover, but we keep the pressure on. Send scouts tae track Coster’s movements—if he so much as blinks, I want tae ken about it.”

The others nodded, though the tension remained. The divisions within the command had grown more apparent, and Hennie knew it was only a matter of time before they boiled over.

After the meeting, Hennie stepped outside into the cold night air. The camp was quieter now, the fires burning low as the men tried to rest. The faint glow of torches illuminated the ridge, their light flickering against the darkened sky.

Gosse joined him after a moment, his arms crossed as he leaned against the post outside the tent. “The lads’ll need more than a day tae recover,” he said quietly. “An’ the officers’ll need time tae stop bickerin’.”

“They’ll manage,” Hennie replied, his gaze distant. “They’ve nae choice but tae.”

Gosse hesitated, then added, “Peter’s nae happy, ye ken. He’s startin’ tae see what’s comin’.”

Hennie didn’t respond immediately, his expression unreadable. “Peter’s a good man, but he’ll need tae find his place. Gosse, I’ll nae lie—this is hard for me.”

“I ken,” Gosse said, his tone soft. “But the cause comes first. Ye’ve made the right call.”

Hennie nodded slowly, though the weight of the decision still lingered. “Let’s hope so.”

As the night deepened, the fires began to die out one by one, leaving the camp bathed in darkness. The Henricists, though battered and weary, held the ridge. The battle of Hanzirk had been a hard-won victory, but the road ahead remained uncertain. The shadow of the Commonwealth loomed large, and the divisions within their own ranks threatened to unravel everything they had fought for.

Hennie stood alone at the edge of the ridge, his breath visible in the cold air as he stared out into the darkness. The storm had passed, but its memory lingered in the churned earth and the silence that followed. He clenched his fists, his resolve hardening.

The fight was far from over. But for now, they had survived. And that was enough.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 26

27th of November, 1706
Eemshaven, Faursia
Late afternoon

The road stretched ahead like a scar across the frozen landscape, flanked by fields of withered grass and skeletal trees that rattled faintly in the biting wind. The Commonwealth column moved with relentless precision, its rhythmic march a testament to its discipline. Thousands of boots struck the ground in unison, the sound rolling across the desolate countryside like distant thunder. Above, the pale winter sky hung heavy with clouds, their dull greys and whites blending seamlessly into the snow-covered hills. The late afternoon sun was already beginning to dissipate over the horizon, just barely hanging above the snow-covered horizon.

At the column’s head, Herbert Ceulemans rode in silence, his sharp gaze fixed on the horizon where the faint outline of Eemshaven’s spires barely pierced the haze. His dark cloak billowed slightly in the wind, but his posture remained unyielding. To his left and right rode his three chosen officers—Dijkgraaf, Molenaar, and Engelbrecht—each keeping a respectful distance from their General. Behind them, a sea of soldiers stretched into the distance, their polished uniforms and gleaming bayonets a stark contrast to the muted tones of the surrounding land.

The silence of the march was broken only by the occasional clink of metal or the low murmur of an officer passing orders along the ranks. Even the soldiers, though tired from the unending march, dared not grumble. The weight of Ceulemans’ presence hung over the column like a shadow, his reputation for exacting discipline well known among the men. There was no room for weakness here, no tolerance for hesitation. They were Aubervijans—trained, disciplined, and bred for the purpose of crushing rebellion.

Ceulemans slowed his horse slightly as they passed a dilapidated farmhouse. Its walls sagged inward, and its roof was missing several large patches where the timbers had collapsed under the weight of the snow. From inside, faint movement could be seen—a pair of wide eyes peeking out from the darkness. Ceulemans’ gaze lingered on the building for only a moment before he turned his attention back to the road.

“These people live like vermin,” Molenaar muttered, breaking the silence. “Hiding in the cracks, hoping not to be seen.”

“They survive,” Ceulemans said simply, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “They do what they must, as all living things do.”

“Even the Henricists, General?” Engelbrecht asked, a faint note of challenge in his tone.

Ceulemans turned his head slightly, his steel-grey eyes locking onto the Major. “Especially the Henricists,” he said coldly. “It is their nature to survive at any cost, no matter how futile their struggle. That is why they remain dangerous.”

Engelbrecht nodded, though he shifted uneasily in his saddle. He had served under Ceulemans long enough to know that such discussions rarely ended in anything but the General’s quiet disdain. The column pressed on, its pace unwavering despite the worsening wind.

The road began to rise gently as they approached a low ridge, the incline causing the men at the rear of the column to falter slightly in their step. Officers barked commands to close ranks, their voices cutting through the cold air like whips. Ceulemans glanced back briefly, his sharp eyes assessing the formation. It was tight, orderly, and unbroken. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the horizon.

As they reached the crest of the hill, the land below unfolded like a map. Eemshaven lay in the distance, its walls dark and imposing against the pale sky. The spires of its churches and towers jutted upward, their silhouettes almost skeletal in the weak light. Thin columns of smoke rose from chimneys near the docks, mingling with the faint haze that always seemed to linger over the city in winter.

Ceulemans reined in his horse, raising a gloved hand to signal the column to halt. The soldiers obeyed immediately, their boots striking the ground in unison one final time before silence fell. Behind him, his officers gathered, their expressions a mixture of anticipation and unease.

“It looks quiet,” Dijkgraaf said, his voice low. “Too quiet.”

“It is winter,” Molenaar replied, his tone dismissive. “What would you have them do? Sing carols from the rooftops?”

“Enough,” Ceulemans said sharply. He turned his gaze back toward the city, his expression unreadable. “Eemshaven has learned to fear soldiers, as all cities do. They will not welcome us, but they will not resist us either. That is all that matters.”

Molenaar glanced at him. “And if the Henricists have stirred trouble here?”

Ceulemans’ lips curled into a faint smile, though it held no warmth. “The Henricists lack the numbers or the strength to incite rebellion here. This is a city of pragmatists, not idealists. They will do as they are told.”

“And if they do not?” Engelbrecht asked cautiously.

“Then they will learn the consequences,” Ceulemans replied coldly. He gestured to the column behind him. “Majors, ensure the men maintain their discipline as we enter the city. Any breach of order will be dealt with severely.”

“Yes, General,” the three replied in unison, their tones clipped and efficient.

As the column resumed its march, the tension in the air seemed to thicken. The distant walls of Eemshaven grew larger with every step, their dark stone appearing almost black against the snow-covered ground. The soldiers moved with renewed purpose, their breaths rising in visible plumes as they quickened their pace. For them, the sight of the city represented more than just shelter from the cold—it was the next step in a campaign that promised victory, vengeance, and perhaps even glory.

Ceulemans rode in silence, his thoughts focused and unyielding. The Henricists might have escaped Hanzirk with their pride intact, but that pride would be their undoing. He would see to it personally. As the first snowflakes began to fall, dusting the road in a thin layer of white, Ceulemans allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. The Henricists could not hide forever. Their time was running out.

At last, the gates of Eemshaven loomed ahead, their iron-bound timbers weathered but sturdy. Guards stood at attention on either side, their uniforms stiff and spotless despite the cold. Beyond the gates, the faint outlines of narrow streets and tightly packed houses could be seen, their windows dark and unwelcoming.

Ceulemans slowed his horse as they approached, his gloved hand tightening on the reins. The city awaited, but he felt no sense of triumph—only the quiet certainty that this, like all things, was another step toward inevitability.

The gates of Eemshaven groaned open, their iron-bound timbers echoing in the narrow valley where the road climbed toward the city. The city itself emerged gradually as the column approached—layered, uneven, and crowned by its imposing castle that loomed high above the jagged rooftops. Built into a sheer outcrop of blackened stone, the fortress seemed to pierce the overcast sky, its ramparts dark and brooding against the pale winter haze. The sight of it struck an imposing figure even among Ceulemans’ seasoned officers.

Eemshaven was not a welcoming city. The twisted streets at its base seemed to writhe like the roots of some great tree, rising toward the clustered buildings of the upper city, where narrow spires and bell towers stabbed upward. The lower streets were quiet now, lined with timber-framed houses pressed tightly together, their facades weathered and darkened by years of wind and soot. Only the occasional puff of smoke from chimneys betrayed any signs of life.

The wind picked up as the column passed through the gates, carrying with it the mingled scents of wet stone, ash, and salt from the nearby sea. Ceulemans, at the head of the column, tightened his cloak against the cold and glanced upward, his eyes tracing the silhouette of the castle’s battlements. The fortress, its walls scorched by battles fought centuries before, stood as a symbol of both resilience and subjugation—a reminder of the Commonwealth’s unyielding grip on Faursia.

Behind him, his Majors exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of awe and unease. “Eemshaven never fails to feel as though it watches you,” Molenaar muttered, his voice low.

“Perhaps because it does,” Engelbrecht replied with a faint smirk. “Its people are Faursians, after all. You can be certain there are a thousand pairs of eyes upon us this very moment.”

Ceulemans did not turn his head but spoke in a voice that carried easily. “Let them watch. The more they see, the more they will understand the futility of resistance. There is no power in this city greater than the army now within its walls.”

“Except, perhaps, the castle,” Dijkgraaf ventured, gesturing toward the fortress perched high above them. “It has seen countless armies pass beneath its shadow, and it still stands.”

Ceulemans’ lips curled faintly, though the expression was devoid of warmth. “Stone may endure, Major, but it does not conquer. Remember that.”

The cobbled streets of the city echoed with the rhythmic tramp of thousands of boots as the column wound its way upward. The roads were narrow, twisting sharply in places to accommodate the steep incline of the city. Ceulemans’ horse moved steadily, its hooves clicking against the uneven stones, while the soldiers behind maintained their disciplined pace despite the cramped and winding streets.

The further they climbed, the more apparent Eemshaven’s stark divisions became. The lower city, with its tightly packed houses and smoke-streaked walls, was a place of shadows and silence. The people who lived there had long learned to avoid the gaze of soldiers, their lives shaped by the whims of those who passed through. The upper city, by contrast, bore the marks of wealth and power. Here the houses were taller, their facades lined with stone and decorated with carvings of saints and heraldic beasts. The windows glinted faintly in the pale light, though most were shuttered now, their occupants wary of the army’s arrival.

The market square came into view as they ascended further. It was a wide, open space bordered by elegant stone buildings and crowned by the shadow of the castle high above. Snow covered the cobblestones, undisturbed save for a few sets of footprints leading toward the town hall. At its centre stood an ancient fountain, its carvings weathered but still recognisable as a figure of some long-forgotten king, his sceptre raised as though to command the heavens.

Ceulemans dismounted as they reached the square, his boots crunching against the frost-laden stones. The column began to fan out behind him, the soldiers moving with precision as they took up positions around the square. The sound of orders being issued mingled with the distant tolling of a church bell, though the city itself remained eerily quiet.

From the steps of the town hall, a small delegation emerged, their figures stark against the weathered stone backdrop. At their head was Daemkiin Fokker, his fur-lined coat lending him an air of authority as he descended toward the assembled officers. His sharp gaze swept over the scene, lingering briefly on Ceulemans before settling into a carefully neutral expression.

Fokker halted a few steps away from Ceulemans, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of a cane that was more ornament than support. He inclined his head slightly, the gesture respectful but devoid of warmth. “General Ceulemans,” he said, his tone smooth. “Eemshaven welcomes you and your army. I trust the journey was uneventful.”

Ceulemans returned the nod, though his gaze remained sharp and assessing. “Uneventful, yes. Your preparations?”

“Complete,” Fokker replied. “The barracks have been cleared, and additional quarters secured for your officers. Supplies have been inventoried and rationed, though I must remind you that the city’s resources are not infinite.”

Ceulemans’ lips curled faintly, though the expression did not reach his eyes. “Your city’s resources will suffice, Lord President. My men require discipline, not indulgence.”

Fokker’s expression did not waver, though the faintest twitch of his lips suggested amusement. “Discipline is, of course, your forte, General. Though I wonder if your men might not require something more as the campaign wears on.”

Ceulemans stepped closer, his voice dropping slightly but losing none of its edge. “They require nothing but my orders. If the people of Eemshaven wish to remain untroubled, they will do well to remember that.”

The tension between the two men was palpable, the air heavy with the weight of their unspoken conflict. Fokker’s companions shifted uneasily, their glances darting between the General and the Lord President. Behind them, the soldiers continued their steady movements, their presence a stark reminder of the Commonwealth’s authority.

The snow fell steadily, blanketing the city in an unbroken sheet of white as the Commonwealth soldiers began their methodical work of securing Eemshaven. The rhythmic tramp of boots echoed through the narrow streets, mingling with the clipped shouts of officers directing their men. Each movement carried the weight of purpose, the city bending slowly but unmistakably under the pressure of Ceulemans’ army.

Herbert Ceulemans and Daemkiin Fokker remained on the steps of the town hall, their conversation unfolding like a sparring match—measured, deliberate, and loaded with tension. Though the two men stood on the same side of the conflict, their differences ran deep. Fokker’s fur-lined coat and dignified bearing spoke to his role as a statesman, but to Ceulemans, he was still Faursian, bound by the very traditions and loyalties the General sought to crush.

“I must say,” Fokker began, his voice light but deliberate, “your army is an impressive sight, General. Their discipline is… formidable.”

Ceulemans glanced at him briefly, his expression unreadable. “Discipline is what wins wars, Lord President. It is the difference between victory and annihilation.”

“Discipline, yes,” Fokker agreed, his tone even. “Though some might say that understanding one’s enemy is just as important. Perhaps even more so.”

Ceulemans turned his gaze back to the soldiers working in the square, his lips curling faintly. “You speak of understanding as though it were some great virtue. But understanding does not win battles. Obedience does.”

Fokker smiled faintly, though it carried no warmth. “And yet, without understanding, obedience can falter. The Faursian Highlands, for example—they are not simply a battlefield to be crossed or a people to be subjugated. They are a web of loyalties, histories, and grudges. Crush one rebellion, and another will rise if those threads are not properly managed.”

“Is that why you spend your days courting sibbe leaders?” Ceulemans asked coldly, his gaze flicking toward Fokker. “Do you believe their loyalty can be bought with words and gestures?”

“I believe loyalty must be nurtured,” Fokker replied, his tone firm. “Fear alone is a brittle tool. It may break a man’s will, but it will not secure his allegiance.”

Ceulemans’ eyes narrowed slightly, his voice dropping. “I have no need for brittle tools. I need results. And I have little patience for Faursian sentimentality.”

The two men fell silent for a moment as the bustle of the city continued around them. Soldiers moved in tightly organized lines, their breath visible in the cold air as they unloaded supply wagons and established barracks near the lower gate. A group of officers conferred nearby, their voices low and clipped as they planned the next phase of the occupation.

Fokker observed it all with the practiced eye of a statesman, his sharp gaze lingering on the castle that loomed above the city. “You do not like me, General,” he said finally, his tone calm. “That much is clear. But whether you like it or not, my work has kept this city—and much of Faursia—stable. Without it, you would be marching into chaos, not order.”

Ceulemans turned to face him fully, his expression hard. “You presume much, Lord President. Do not mistake the Commonwealth’s discipline for fragility. This city is stable because it knows the cost of rebellion. Not because of your dealings with sibbes.”

“And yet,” Fokker said, meeting his gaze evenly, “if not for my dealings, those sibbes would have rallied to the Henricist cause. Do you know what that would have meant? Instead of marching with five thousand men into Aubervijr, they would have marched with twenty thousand. Perhaps more. Your victories might not have been so decisive.”

Ceulemans’ jaw tightened, though he kept his voice level. “You underestimate the strength of the Commonwealth army. Even twenty thousand rebels would not have stood against our might.”

“Perhaps,” Fokker said, his tone light but pointed. “But it is better not to test such odds. My methods may not align with yours, General, but they serve the same purpose. Stability. Order. Victory.”

“Victory does not need your approval, Fokker,” Ceulemans replied coldly. “And neither do I.”

As the conversation continued, the activity in the square intensified. A detachment of soldiers moved toward the upper city, their footsteps echoing as they ascended the winding streets. At the barracks, wagons were unloaded with military precision, barrels of powder and crates of rations carried into the fortified compound under the watchful eyes of officers.

The snow, now falling thicker, muffled the sounds of the city, casting a faint hush over its streets. Despite the apparent calm, a tension hung in the air—a sense of unease that seeped into every corner. The people of Eemshaven, watching from behind their shutters, could feel it. The soldiers, hardened though they were, could feel it too.

Fokker watched as a group of soldiers entered a nearby inn, their presence sending the owner scurrying into the back rooms. “You will need more than soldiers to secure Faursia, General,” he said quietly. “The Henricists may be broken at Venlo, but their cause will not die so easily. And neither will the grievances that fuel it.”

Ceulemans turned to him, his sharp eyes narrowing. “The grievances of the defeated are irrelevant. Once the Henricists are crushed, their cause will be no more consequential than a mob in the streets of Harlingen.”

Fokker raised a brow, his tone faintly amused. “And yet, it is the grievances of mobs that topple kingdoms. Dismiss them at your peril, General.”

“I do not dismiss them,” Ceulemans said sharply. “I destroy them. That is the difference between us.”

Fokker inclined his head slightly, though his expression remained neutral. “As you say, General. Let us hope your destruction is enough to hold Faursia.”

The wind picked up as Ceulemans stepped down from the town hall’s steps, his boots crunching against the freshly fallen snow. His officers followed silently, keeping pace as he strode toward the square where the heart of the army’s occupation was unfolding. The faint tension from his exchange with Fokker lingered in his expression, though it was quickly replaced by his usual stern composure.

Dijkgraaf and Engelbrecht, their dark cloaks dusted with snow, saluted sharply as Ceulemans approached. They stood near a group of soldiers who were unloading crates from a supply wagon, their muskets stacked in neat rows nearby.

“Majors,” Ceulemans said briskly, his voice carrying over the din of activity. “What is the status of the barracks?”

“Secured and functional, General,” Dijkgraaf replied immediately. “The men are moving in as we speak. The rations were thinly stretched, but the stores will suffice for now.”

“The stores will suffice when properly rationed,” Ceulemans corrected, his tone icy. “Ensure the men understand that discipline extends to their stomachs. Waste will not be tolerated.”

“Yes, General,” Dijkgraaf replied, his back straightening.

Engelbrecht gestured toward the winding streets leading up to the castle. “And the upper city, General? Do you wish for us to station men there as well?”

Ceulemans’ eyes narrowed as he gazed up at the castle’s dark silhouette. “The upper city is not our concern for the moment. The garrison there remains loyal to the Commonwealth, but I will not risk complacency. Post sentries on the roads leading to the castle and report any unusual movements.”

“As you command,” Engelbrecht said, bowing his head slightly.

While Ceulemans gave his orders, Fokker lingered in the square, his sharp eyes scanning the unfolding scene. He approached the General again, his presence a sharp contrast to the military precision surrounding him.

“You intend to consolidate your position here before moving north, I assume?” Fokker asked, his voice calm.

Ceulemans glanced at him briefly. “That is correct. Eemshaven will serve as a staging ground for our campaign. From here, we will push north toward Witmarsum, secure the Lowlands, and ensure the Henricists have no safe haven left to retreat to.”

“Witmarsum is a logical choice,” Fokker said, nodding thoughtfully. “Its resources will be invaluable, and its proximity to the Highlands makes it a strong position to hold. However, I must warn you—do not underestimate the Henricists’ ability to regroup. Even now, their leaders are likely planning their next move.”

Ceulemans’ lips curled faintly. “Let them plan. Whatever schemes they devise will shatter the moment they meet my army on the field.”

“Perhaps,” Fokker replied, his tone measured. “But I caution you against viewing this campaign as a mere series of battles. The Henricists draw strength from their cause, from their belief in something greater than themselves. You cannot crush an idea as easily as you crush an army.”

Ceulemans’ gaze turned cold. “You speak as though you sympathise with them, Lord President.”

“I sympathise with reality, General,” Fokker said smoothly. “And the reality is that Faursia will not be pacified by force alone. If you wish to end this rebellion permanently, you must address the root of its grievances. Otherwise, you are simply planting the seeds of the next rising.”

“Do you have anything else to add?” Ceulemans asked dismissively.

Fokker adjusted his stance, licking his lips. “Venlo.”

“Currently besieged by the Henricists, yes.” Ceulemans answered sharply.

“They will abandon it… tomorrow, perhaps the day after. They will march north. To Westkappelle”, Fokker said confidently. “The weather is worsening. So perhaps, when you arrive Witmarsum, you ought to remain there, until it clears. They will do the same.”

“I will.” Ceulemans said with a sneer.

The conversation hung heavy in the cold air as the snow continued to fall. Around them, the soldiers of the Commonwealth army worked tirelessly to transform the city into a bastion of control. The lower city’s barracks were quickly filling with troops, their equipment neatly stacked and their quarters tightly packed. The upper city, though quieter, remained under watchful observation, its castle looming as both a symbol of power and a potential threat.

A group of officers approached Ceulemans, their breaths visible in the frigid air. Among them was Molenaar, his sharp features set in a look of quiet determination.

“General,” he began, saluting smartly. “The supply lines have been established, and we have secured additional quarters for the officers near the docks. The citizens are… cooperative, though their resentment is palpable.”

“They will cooperate,” Ceulemans said bluntly. “If resentment is the price of obedience, so be it.”

Molenaar hesitated for a moment before continuing. “There have also been… whispers, General. The people speak of Henricist sympathisers still within the city.”

Ceulemans’ expression darkened. “Whispers are meaningless without proof. Focus on securing the city. Leave the rumours to Fokker’s spies.”

Fokker, who had been listening silently, interjected smoothly. “Sympathisers mean nothing here. This is not the Highlands.”

Ceulemans shot him a sharp glance. “There will be no cause to sympathise with when this is over.”

“Is that what your predecessors said in 1679?” Fokker asked with a faint, wry smile.

“Watch your mouth.” Ceulemans snarled, his eyes fixsated on the man. “I am not them.”

“So you say.” Fokker concluded, before retiring, his footsteps crunching against the snow as he walked back towards the town hall.

As the day wore on, the snow began to ease, though the cold remained biting. The castle’s shadow stretched long over the city as dusk approached, the first lanterns flickering to life in the streets below. Soldiers moved through the city in well-ordered patrols, their presence a constant reminder of the Commonwealth’s authority.

In the market square, Ceulemans paused to observe the city he now held in his grasp. The people of Eemshaven, though subdued, remained a source of unease. He could feel their resentment in the silence that greeted his army, in the wary glances from behind shuttered windows. It was a silence he intended to break, one way or another.

“Majors,” Ceulemans said, his voice cutting through the cold air. “Ensure the men are prepared to march within the week. We move for Witmarsum as soon as the supplies are secured.”

“Yes, General,” Dijkgraaf replied crisply, his breath visible in the air.

Fokker remained standing near the steps of the town hall, his gaze thoughtful as he watched Ceulemans issue his orders. “Witmarsum will be a difficult campaign,” he said quietly. “The Highlands are treacherous, and the Henricists will not give them up easily.”

“No campaign worth fighting is easy,” Ceulemans replied without looking at him. “And no enemy, no matter how stubborn, is invincible.”

Fokker’s faint smile returned, though his eyes remained sharp. “I wonder, General—do you truly believe that? Or are you simply convincing yourself?”

Ceulemans turned to face him, his expression hard as iron. “You will find, Lord President, that I do not need convincing. The Henricists will fall. And when they do, Faursia will finally belong to the Commonwealth.”

Fokker’s boots struck sharply against the frosted stones as he exited the town hall, the cold air biting at his face. The streets of Eemshaven were quiet, the kind of quiet that never truly brought peace. The city’s lights burned softly in the distance, glimmering against the snow-laden rooftops. Soldiers paced the cobbled streets in pairs, muskets resting on their shoulders, their dark shapes blending with the shadows.

Fokker paused for a moment in the square, his breath clouding the air as he glanced upward at the looming castle perched above the city. The weight of Ceulemans’ presence seemed to cling to the air, heavy and unyielding. Fokker’s hand tightened slightly on the fur lining of his coat.

The city was secure. The Commonwealth had taken another step toward tightening its grip on Faursia. And yet, as he looked toward the Highland road stretching north, Fokker felt no relief.

Eemshaven was quiet, yes—but it was not calm. The faint whispers of resentment that hung in the air were a reminder of the stubbornness of the Faursian people, a stubbornness Ceulemans had grossly underestimated. The General’s methods—his uncompromising brutality and his insistence on domination through fear—might win battles, but they would leave scars far deeper than any sword.

Fokker turned slowly and began walking toward his quarters, his boots crunching through the thin crust of snow. His thoughts were heavy, each step weighed down by an uneasy certainty: the storm that loomed over the Highlands would not break so easily. Faursia would endure, as it always had, no matter the cost.

And yet, as the chill of the night settled deep into his bones, he could not shake the lingering doubt—would the Commonwealth endure as well?

Behind him, the town hall loomed, its lights casting long shadows against the snow-covered square. Somewhere within its stone walls, Ceulemans was no doubt plotting his next move with all the precision of a seasoned soldier. But as Fokker turned the corner, his thoughts wandered to the people of Faursia—the men and women whose spirit could not be measured in strategies or counted in musket fire.

For all his cold certainty, Ceulemans did not understand them. He did not understand their resolve, their deep-rooted ties to land, to sibbe, to tradition. To Ceulemans, Faursia was a battlefield to be conquered, nothing more. But Fokker knew better.

Faursia was not a land to be bent or broken—it was a land that endured, even through fire and blood. How much more either it, or the Henricists would endure, he did not know for sure. But every part of him hoped there was more to it than an ending soaked in the blood of those who did not deserve to die.

And in that moment, as the snow fell silently around him, Fokker felt the weight of his place in this campaign more keenly than ever. His mind now drifted to his own home. Beverenhuis, in Westkappelle itself; the home of he and his family for generations. He smiled faintly. He longed to return home.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 27

29th of November, 1706
Venlo, Faursia
Late afternoon

The snow fell like a shroud over the Henricist camp, muffling sound and swallowing detail. Rows of tents, once chaotic with life and the bustle of men preparing for battle, now sagged under the weight of frost. The fires, scattered and sputtering, did little to cut through the oppressive cold, their embers flickering weakly before being swallowed by the icy wind. The camp had the air of something already abandoned, though its soldiers lingered—ghosts of their former selves, hollowed out by the weeks of futility.

Hennie moved through the frozen silence, his boots crunching softly in the snow. He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders, but the biting wind found its way through regardless, chilling him to the bone. His breath misted before him, curling away into the grey sky like smoke from a dying fire.

Here and there, men sat hunched outside their tents, staring blankly into the distance or at the ground before them. Their faces were pale, pinched by hunger, and lined with a weariness that no rest could cure. Muskets leaned forgotten against the weathered wood of barrels, their iron barrels dulled with frost. The men had the look of those who had resigned themselves to failure, though they lacked even the energy to name it.

The camp was quieter than it had ever been. There were no drills, no rallying cries, no shouted orders. Only the occasional low murmur of voices, drifting like ghosts on the cold wind, and the steady, distant crunch of footsteps—the sound of more men leaving.

Hennie paused at the edge of a fire pit, where the embers glowed faintly against the white ash. The tracks in the snow told a clear story. Dozens of men had passed this way in the night, their footprints leading away from the camp and toward the shadowed hills beyond. Desertion had begun as a slow trickle after Hanzirk, but it had grown with each passing night. Now, it was a flood.

He stared at the tracks, his jaw tightening. He did not need to ask how many had gone; the evidence was all around him. The gaps in the ranks during morning roll call, the abandoned tents sagging under their own weight, the cold silence where once there had been life. It was not just the numbers that crushed him—it was the sense of inevitability. One man left, and another followed, and another after that. There was no stemming the tide.

Hennie turned away from the tracks and pulled his cloak tighter. He could feel the eyes of the remaining men on him, though few dared to meet his gaze directly. Their glances were fleeting, their expressions hollow. There was no defiance in them, but no loyalty either—only a weariness that mirrored his own.

The camp stretched out before him as he walked. The rows of tents, once vibrant with movement and the sound of men preparing for war, now seemed lifeless, slumped under the weight of frost and futility. A lone figure emerged from a tent ahead, his shoulders stooped as he adjusted a loose belt around his waist. He glanced at Hennie briefly before lowering his head and disappearing into the distance.

Hennie’s path took him toward the camp’s centre, where a makeshift stockade had been erected early in the siege. It was empty now, its purpose long forgotten. The wooden beams were warped with frost, their surfaces scarred by the tools that had built them. The sight of it made his chest tighten. It was just one more symbol of their failure.

Beyond the stockade, the towering silhouette of Venlo Castle came into view. Its dark stone walls rose high against the grey sky, unyielding and untouchable. Snow had settled in the grooves of its battlements, giving it an almost ethereal appearance, but there was nothing ethereal about the challenge it presented. Hennie stopped and stared at it, his breath coming in shallow clouds.

It was a fortress built to withstand armies far greater and far better equipped than his. It had been clear from the beginning that taking Venlo was a near-impossible task, but he had pushed forward regardless. He had believed—or perhaps had wanted to believe—that their cause would find a way. Now, as he looked at the castle’s towering walls and impenetrable gates, he felt only the cold, crushing weight of reality.

At the camp’s edge, Gosse stood with a handful of officers, their faces lined with worry. They spoke in hushed tones, their words carried away by the wind before they reached Hennie’s ears. As he approached, Gosse turned, his expression hard but steady.

“More tracks this morning,” Gosse said without preamble. “They’re leaving faster than we can count them.”

Hennie nodded, his gaze drifting to the horizon. “How many?”

“Hundreds,” Gosse replied. “An’ more’ll go before nightfall. They see nae future here, Hennie. They think the cause is done.”

“The cause isnae done,” Hennie said sharply, though the conviction in his voice wavered.

Gosse held his gaze for a moment, then sighed. “It doesnae matter what we think. What matters is what they think. They’re scared, Hennie. They dinnae trust us. They dinnae trust this siege.”

Hennie turned away, his hands tightening into fists. “We’ve come this far. We cannae turn back now.”

“It isnae turnin’ back,” Gosse said, his voice low. “It’s savin’ what’s left. If we stay here any longer, there’ll be nae one left tae fight wi’.”

The snow fell heavier as the day wore on, obscuring the distant hills and turning the camp into an isolated island in a sea of white. Hennie retreated to his tent, the cold pressing against his skin even as he stepped inside. The interior was dimly lit by a single lantern, its flame flickering weakly in the draughts that found their way through the canvas.

The map of Faursia lay on the table before him, its lines and marks faded with damp. Hennie stared at it, his hands braced against the edges. Each place name seemed to mock him—each line, a failed ambition. He thought of the men who had followed him, who had trusted him to lead them to something better, and of those who now walked away into the snow, their faith shattered.

For the first time, he allowed himself to wonder if Folkert had been right all along.

The tent was suffocating, not from heat, but from the tension that clung to every breath. The muted light of the lantern flickered, casting unsteady shadows on the damp canvas walls. Hennie now sat at the head of a rough table, the map of Faursia sprawled before him, its lines and marks blurred from damp and handling. His shoulders were tense, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. He had not yet spoken, allowing the storm of his thoughts to build as the command filtered in.

One by one, they arrived, each man carrying his own weight of frustration, doubt, or simmering resentment. Gosse was first, as always, his movements deliberate, his cloak dusted with snow. He took his seat to Hennie’s right without a word, his eyes scanning the map. Peter came in moments later, his boots crunching against the frozen ground, his expression lined with the weariness of a man who had been fighting not just the Commonwealth, but himself. Harmen followed, his pace slower, his gaze steady but pained.

Jorien arrived quietly, his coat pulled tightly around him, his usual energy dulled by the cold and the bleakness of their situation. Sietse entered with a slight limp, his weathered face unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a storm of emotions. Lieven came last, slipping in with a faint smirk, his gaze flitting from one man to the next as if measuring their usefulness.

And then there was Folkert. He pushed through the tent flap with an air of defiance, his boots heavy against the ground. Snow clung stubbornly to his shoulders and hair, giving him the look of a man freshly emerged from battle. He took his seat at the far end of the table, his piercing eyes already fixed on Hennie.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The silence was thick, broken only by the faint hiss of the lantern flame and the muffled howl of the wind outside.

Peter was the first to break the silence, his voice low but edged with frustration. “This cannae go on,” he said, gesturing toward the map. “The men are leavin’ us faster than we can count them. Another hundred last night, maybe more. An’ every day we sit here, it’s the same. Desertions, frostbite, hunger. The lads dinnae believe in this siege any more than we do.”

“Speak for yerself,” Folkert snapped, leaning forward, his elbows braced on the table. “Some o’ us still believe in fightin’, nae runnin’.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “Fightin’? Is that what ye call this? Sittin’ in a frozen camp while our lads waste away? This isnae fightin’, Folkert. This is dyin’.”

Folkert’s eyes blazed, and he opened his mouth to retort, but Hennie raised a hand, silencing him. “Enough,” Hennie said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension. He turned his gaze to Peter, his tone softening. “What d’ye suggest, Peter? That we just pack up an’ leave? That we give up Venlo an’ hope the lads will still follow us?”

“Aye,” Peter said, his voice firm. “Because if we dinnae leave, there’ll be nae one left tae follow us.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and it was Sietse who took it up, his voice steady but weary. “Peter’s right,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “This siege was doomed from the start. We’ve nae the men, nae the supplies, nae the siege engines. All we’ve got is hope, an’ hope’s nae enough tae bring down Venlo.”

“Hope’s all we’ve ever had,” Folkert shot back, his tone biting. “An’ it’s gotten us this far. Or are ye suggestin’ we give up the cause entirely?”

Sietse’s gaze hardened. “I’m suggestin’ we use what little we’ve got left tae fight another day. Or would ye rather see the lads starve tae death while ye cling tae yer pride?”

Folkert slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing through the tent. “This isnae about pride. It’s about fightin’! If we leave Venlo, we’re tellin’ the lads we dinnae believe in the cause any more than they do.”

“An’ what good is the cause if there’s nae one left tae fight for it?” Reinder said, his voice calm but firm. His gaze shifted to Folkert, his tone measured. “The lads are leavin’ because they’ve lost faith in us. An’ I cannae say I blame them. Look around ye, Folkert. This camp’s fallin’ apart. If we dinnae move soon, we’ll lose more than just Venlo. We’ll lose everything.”

Folkert’s lips curled into a thin, bitter smile. “Aye, let’s run back tae Westkappelle an’ tell the lads we’re regroupin’. That’ll inspire confidence, nae doubt.

“It’s nae runnin’,” Harmen interjected, his voice calm but resolute. “It’s survivin’. We cannae win this war by lettin’ ourselves be destroyed here. The Highlands are still ours, an’ Westkappelle’s still strong. We need tae think beyond this siege.”

Lieven leaned back in his chair, his smirk deepening. “Harmen’s got the right of it,” he said smoothly. “But we’ll need more than just a plan. We’ll need a story. The lads dinnae need the truth—they need somethin’ they can believe in. Frame it as a tactical move, an’ they’ll follow. Tell them we’re headin’ tae regroup, tae strike where it matters most.”

“An’ what happens when they see through it?” Peter asked, his tone sceptical.

“They’ll see what we show them,” Lieven replied. “The trick is tae make them believe it’s still worth fightin’ for.”

Hennie remained silent, his gaze fixed on the map. He could feel the weight of their words pressing down on him, each one pulling him closer to a decision he did not want to make.

Finally, Gosse spoke, his tone cutting through the rising tension. “This isnae about stories or tricks,” he said. “It’s about survivin’. The lads need a reason tae follow us, aye, but they also need somethin’ tae follow. If we stay here, there’ll be nae army left tae lead. We need tae move, an’ we need tae move now.”

Hennie’s hands tightened into fists on the table. “If we leave, we’re admitin’ defeat,” he said quietly.

“No,” Gosse replied, his voice steady. “We’re admitin’ we’re still alive. An’ that’s more than we’ll be if we stay.”

“An’ what o’ Ceulemans?” Lieven asked after a moment’s pause, his tone almost curious.

“He has been in Eemshaven for two days.” Hennie sighed, leaning forward over the table. “If we are tae leave Venlo now, then the Lowlands are his.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of the decision settling over them like a heavy snowfall. Hennie closed his eyes briefly, the burden of leadership pressing down on him.

“We have no choice.” Folkert concluded, his hand hitting the table as he straightened his back. The council exchanged uneasy glances, but nonetheless, their agreement was unanimous.

Hennie looked to each man, his chest tightening. “We leave at first light,” he said finally, his voice low but resolute. “We’ll head tae Westkappelle an’ regroup. This isnae the end—it’s a step back tae move forward.”

The words hung in the air, their finality cutting through the tension. Westkappelle. The tail end of the Faursian Highlands, One by one, the men nodded, their expressions a mix of resignation and determination.

The council meeting was over, but the weight of their decision lingered, heavier than ever.

The council dispersed slowly, the men rising from their seats one by one with the reluctance of soldiers retreating from a battlefield. No one spoke as they stepped back into the bitter cold of the camp, the snow crunching softly beneath their boots. Hennie lingered, his eyes still fixed on the map as the flap of the tent closed behind the others. The flickering lantern cast his shadow long and jagged against the canvas walls, and for a brief moment, the weight of command seemed to bow him beneath it.

Gosse paused just outside the tent, his breath visible in the icy air. He glanced back through the small opening in the flap, watching Hennie. For all his growing confidence in his own role as adjutant, he felt the sharp pang of empathy for the Prince. No decision could be harder than this—abandoning the dream they had all clung to, even when it had become a nightmare. But Gosse had seen enough failure to know that pragmatism often cut deeper than idealism. With a shake of his head, he turned away, leaving Hennie to his solitude.

Inside the tent, Hennie finally let his shoulders sag. His fingers traced the edges of the map absently, as though the lines and markings could somehow change what they represented. His eyes followed the sketched roads leading back to Westkappelle, the retreat they had just decided upon. It felt like a defeat, no matter how Gosse and the others framed it.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the tent, and Hennie’s thoughts were interrupted as the flap opened again. Peter stepped inside, his presence quieter now, his earlier frustration seemingly cooled. He hesitated at the entrance, unsure if Hennie wanted company, but the Prince gestured for him to enter with a faint nod.

Peter sat down across the table, his hands resting on his knees as he looked at Hennie. The silence stretched between them, but it was not as tense as before.

“Ye made the right call,” Peter said finally, his voice low.

“Did I?” Hennie replied, his tone hollow. “Leavin’ Venlo… it feels like givin’ up.”

“It feels like survivin’,” Peter countered. “An’ survivin’s the only way we’ve got a chance o’ winnin’.”

Hennie leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. “Folkert’ll never see it that way.”

“Folkert sees what he wants tae see,” Peter said with a faint smile. “Always has. But even he’ll ken, deep down, that we cannae stay here. Whether he’ll admit it’s another matter.”

Hennie nodded absently, his gaze drifting back to the map. “I just… I keep thinkin’ about the lads who’ve already left. What happens tae them? Will they be hunted down? Killed? Or will they just… disappear?”

Peter’s expression darkened. “They’ll disappear, most likely. The Commonwealth’ll nae waste their time chasin’ deserters when they’ve got us tae deal wi’.” He paused, then added, “But it’s the lads who stay that matter now. The ones who still believe in ye. They need tae see that ye’ve got a plan, Hennie. If they see that, they’ll follow ye tae the end.”

Hennie’s jaw tightened, and he met Peter’s gaze. “An’ do you still believe in me, Peter?”

Peter hesitated, the question catching him off guard. But after a moment, he nodded. “Aye, Hennie. I do. Always have.”

The faintest smile touched Hennie’s lips, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “Good,” he said quietly. “Because I need ye now more than ever.”

Outside, the camp was already stirring with preparations for the retreat, though no formal orders had yet been given. The soldiers moved through the snow in small clusters, their voices hushed as they exchanged rumours and speculation. The mood was tense, a mixture of resignation and unease.

Folkert stood near one of the larger fires, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he watched the men. His sharp eyes missed nothing—the way they hesitated over their tasks, the flickers of doubt in their expressions. He knew the retreat was the right decision, but he could not shake the bitter taste it left in his mouth.

Reinder approached him, his gait slow and deliberate. “Ye look like ye’re about tae pick a fight,” he said lightly, though his tone carried an edge of concern.

“Maybe I am,” Folkert replied, his voice clipped. “We’ve nae even left yet, an’ it already feels like we’ve lost.”

Reinder nodded slowly. “Aye, it does. But feelin’s dinnae win wars. We’ve still got the Highlands. We’ve still got Westkappelle. This isnae the end.”

Folkert let out a harsh laugh. “It’ll be the end if the lads keep leavin’ like this. Ye ken how many went last night? Over a hundred. An’ that’s just the ones we noticed. How long till there’s nae one left tae follow us?”

Reinder didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the distant glow of Venlo Castle. Finally, he said, “The lads’ll follow if they believe we’re worth followin’. That’s on us, Folkert. All o’ us.”

Folkert didn’t respond, but his jaw tightened as he stared into the fire.

By the time the first light of dawn broke over the camp, the orders had been given. The Henricists would leave Venlo behind, retreating to the relative safety of the Highlands. The snow continued to fall steadily, muffling the sounds of the camp as the men prepared to move out.

Hennie stood near the edge of the camp, watching the activity with a heavy heart. The castle loomed in the distance, its torches flickering like distant stars. It had been a symbol of their hope, their defiance. Now, it was a monument to their failure.

Gosse approached him, his breath visible in the cold air. “They’re ready,” he said simply.

Hennie nodded, but he didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on the castle.

“It’s nae the end,” Gosse said after a moment. “Ye ken that, right?”

“Aye,” Hennie replied quietly. “But it feels like it.”

Gosse didn’t respond, but his presence was steady, a small comfort amidst the chaos.

As the first column of soldiers began to move out, the sound of their footsteps crunching through the snow echoed across the camp. The retreat had begun.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 28

22nd of December, 1706
Westkappelle, Faursia
Capital of the Faursian Highlands
Late afternoon

The sun was beginning to dwindle in the sky as the wind howled over the desolate peaks, sweeping down into the frozen valleys where the Henricist army trudged onward, their ranks reduced to little more than a shadow of their former selves. Each step was a battle against the icy grip of the Faursian Highlands. Snow clung to their boots, adding weight to every weary stride, while the relentless cold gnawed at flesh and bone alike. Men shuffled through the storm like ghosts, their breath steaming faintly in the frigid air.

Close to a month and a half had passed since their retreat from Venlo. Weeks of constant marching, fleeing the Faursian Lowlands with haste, in favour of the blisteringly cold Faursian Highlands, and Westkappelle.

At the head of the column rode Hennie Dumonceau, silent and grim. His scarf had frozen stiff around his neck, and the snow settled thick on the broad brim of his hat, blending into the frost that rimed his cloak. His gaze was locked forward, toward the faint outline of Westkappelle, still distant but growing clearer through the storm. The town loomed like a promise of shelter—or perhaps just a mirage of false hope.

Behind him rode the rest of his high command, their faces gaunt with exhaustion. Peter, ever vigilant, cast a sharp eye over the men, his lips pressed into a thin line. Folkert sat rigid in his saddle, his expression as dark as the thunderclouds that churned overhead. Gosse rode further back, muttering curses under his breath every time the line faltered. Sietse, Lieven, and the others followed in silence, their eyes downcast.

The column stretched far behind them, a wavering line of men and carts that vanished into the swirling snow. At intervals, officers barked half-hearted orders, trying to keep the formation intact, but the army moved like a wounded beast—halting, staggering, struggling to hold itself together.

It had been days since the decision to abandon Venlo, and the toll of the retreat was evident in every face. The men moved with heads bowed, their shoulders hunched against the cold, their muskets slung carelessly across their backs. Few spoke, and those who did were quickly hushed by the biting wind.

“Look at them,” Folkert growled, breaking the silence. He nudged his horse closer to Hennie’s, his voice low and rough. “They are at their end, Hennie. Another day of this, and ye’ll have nae an army left to lead.”

Hennie’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Folkert is right,” Peter said from the other side, his tone as sharp as the wind. “They cannae keep this up. Not like this.”

“We have no choice,” Gosse interjected from behind them. “Do ye think we could have held Venlo? Nae food, nae supplies—and Ceulemans coming for our throats?” He spat into the snow, his breath a plume of mist. “This march is the only chance we have left.”

“And what is at the end of it?” Folkert shot back, his voice rising. “Another cold, miserable town? Another castle we cannae hold?”

“Enough,” Hennie snapped, his voice cutting through the wind like a whip. “We made our choice. There is nae going back now.”

The others fell silent, though the tension between them lingered, heavy and oppressive.

Further down the line, the soldiers trudged on in near silence, their boots crunching through the snow. Some leaned heavily on their muskets, using them as makeshift crutches. Others clutched at their cloaks, trying in vain to ward off the cold that seeped through every layer of cloth.

Every few minutes, a man would stumble and fall, disappearing into the snowdrifts at the side of the road. Sometimes, his comrades would stop to help him up, dragging him back into the column. Other times, they would simply move on, their faces grim with the knowledge that they could do nothing more.

“Keep moving!” an officer shouted, his voice hoarse from the cold. “Ye stop, ye freeze—d’ye hear me? MOVE!”

His words were met with little more than hollow stares. The men had long since ceased to listen, their minds dulled by exhaustion and despair.

Among them walked Jorien Nelissen, his face pale beneath his hat. He had dismounted hours ago, choosing to walk alongside the men rather than remain in the saddle. His boots sank deep into the snow with every step, and his breath came in shallow gasps.

“Jorien,” Sietse’s voice called from somewhere nearby. The older man rode slowly alongside the column, his eyes scanning the line with a mixture of pity and frustration. “Ye’ll freeze out here if ye keep this up.”

“I’ll freeze just as well on horseback,” Jorien muttered, though he moved closer to Sietse’s side. “At least this way, I can keep an eye on them.”

“An eye for what?” Sietse asked, his tone heavy with resignation. “There is naught ye can do for them now.”

Jorien glanced at the men around him, at their hollow eyes and frostbitten hands, and said nothing.

At long last, the outline of Westkappelle emerged through the haze—a cluster of stone buildings huddled together against the cold. The castle loomed over it, its dark bulk standing stark against the grey sky. Smoke curled from chimneys here and there, thin and fleeting, but the town looked as cold and lifeless as the land around it.

Hennie reined in his horse at the top of a small rise, his eyes fixed on the town below. The rest of the command pulled up beside him, their breath steaming in the cold air.

“Is that it?” Gosse asked, his tone flat. “That is what we marched for?”

“It is shelter,” Hennie replied. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—a note of defiance, as though daring anyone to argue.

“Shelter,” Folkert muttered under his breath. “Aye, we’ll see how long it lasts.”

The column began to descend toward the town, the men quickening their pace slightly at the sight of shelter. As they entered the outskirts, townsfolk began to emerge from their homes, watching the army with wary eyes. Some offered bread or blankets; others merely stared, their faces etched with fear and distrust.

Hennie dismounted as they reached the town square, handing his reins to an aide. Around him, the officers began shouting orders, directing the men to find billets in barns and homes. Doors creaked open reluctantly, and the soldiers disappeared into the shadows of the town.

“Where will ye be?” Peter asked, his tone cautious.

“Walking,” Hennie replied simply, turning to make his way toward the castle.

The narrow streets of Westkappelle echoed with the heavy shuffle of boots, the groaning of carts, and the occasional barked order from officers. Snow piled high along the edges of buildings, where faintly glowing windows hinted at the warmth within. Townsfolk peeked out cautiously from behind shuttered windows, their faces shadowed by candlelight.

For the Henricists, the town was both a refuge and a stark reminder of how far they had fallen. What little strength the men had left seemed spent in the effort of finding shelter. Each barn, stable, and empty house was filled with soldiers huddling together for warmth. Smoke began to curl from chimneys that had long since gone cold, but it was a pale imitation of comfort.

Hennie walked slowly through the streets, his boots crunching through the thick snow. He had left his horse with the aides and now moved on foot, Folkert a step behind him, his boots kicking up slush with every step. The two spoke little, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. Gosse and Peter trailed further back, their voices low as they discussed the logistics of billeting the men.

“What d’ye think they make of us?” Folkert muttered, his breath misting in the frigid air as he nodded toward a group of townsfolk huddled near the steps of a church.

“They fear us,” Hennie replied simply.

“They hate us,” Folkert corrected. “And they’ve good reason to, aye? First the Commonwealth sweeps through, takin’ what they please, and now here we are, bleedin’ them dry o’ what’s left.”

Hennie did not reply immediately. He paused, glancing toward the townsfolk, who shrank back beneath his gaze. “They’ve survived this long,” he said at last. “They’ll survive us, too.”

Folkert gave a low grunt, but said nothing more.

Behind them, Peter approached with measured steps, his eyes scanning the town. “It is nae much, but it’ll do for now,” he said, his tone clipped. “The men are settlin’ as best they can. Food’s short, but we’ll manage.”

“And morale?” Hennie asked, his voice quiet but firm.

Peter hesitated, glancing toward Gosse, who stood a few paces away, speaking with a group of junior officers. “Morale is…fragile,” Peter admitted finally. “They are cold, hungry, and half o’ them think we’re marchin’ tae our deaths.”

“They’re nae the only ones,” Folkert muttered under his breath.

Hennie shot him a sharp look, but it was Gosse who stepped in, his voice cutting through the tension. “Then we’ll make them see otherwise,” he said firmly. “We’ll show them that Westkappelle isnae the end. It’s a step forward, nae back.”

“A step forward tae what?” Folkert demanded, his voice rising slightly. “Another battle? Another retreat? Another bloody massacre?”

“Enough,” Hennie said sharply, his voice cold and steady. “We’ll hold here as long as we can. The men need rest, and so do we. Whatever comes next—we’ll face it when it does.”

Folkert muttered something under his breath, but he did not argue further.

The interior of Westkappelle was no warmer than the streets outside, though the houses at least provided some shelter from the wind. Soldiers crowded into every available space, their breath clouding the air as they stamped their feet and rubbed their hands together for warmth. Fires were lit wherever it was safe to do so, though the wood was damp and smoked heavily.

Lieven Burmania moved quietly among the men, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. He noted the hollow cheeks, the frostbitten fingers, the way some soldiers sat silently in the corners, staring blankly into the flickering firelight.

“They look like ghosts,” Jorien said softly as he joined Lieven near the edge of a crowded barn.

“They are ghosts,” Lieven replied coldly. “They just havenae realised it yet.”

Jorien frowned, his breath misting as he exhaled. “They need hope, Lieven. Something tae hold onto.”

“Hope?” Lieven scoffed, his voice low and sharp. “Hope is a luxury they cannae afford. All they need is orders—and the will tae follow them.”

“Ye’re wrong,” Jorien said quietly, but he did not press the matter further.

In another part of the town, Sietse sat with a group of older soldiers near the remnants of a fire. The men spoke in hushed tones, their voices barely rising above the crackle of the flames.

“We’ve seen worse,” one of them said, his voice heavy with weariness. “We’ll see worse again.”

“Aye,” Sietse agreed, his tone grim. “But worse has a way o’ findin’ ye when ye least expect it.”

As the evening deepened, the high command gathered in a small, cold house on the edge of the town square. The room was cramped, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and smoke. Hennie sat at the head of a rough wooden table, his gloved hands resting on its surface. The others sat or stood around him, their faces lit by the flickering glow of a single lantern.

Folkert leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. Peter stood near the door, his posture stiff, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Gosse paced slowly behind Hennie’s chair, his footsteps muffled by the threadbare rug.

“We’ll hold here,” Hennie said finally, breaking the heavy silence. “Westkappelle isnae ideal, but it’s better than the road.”

“And what o’ Ceulemans?” Folkert asked, his voice low but pointed. “He’ll nae sit idle while we’re huddled here.”

“He’s nae here yet,” Gosse replied firmly. “And he won’t be for some time. We’ll use that time tae prepare.”

“Prepare for what?” Lieven interjected, his tone sharp. “Another retreat? Another bloody disaster?”

“Enough,” Peter said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension. “This is nae the time for bickerin’. We’re all in the same bloody mess, so let’s act like it.”

The room fell silent again, the air heavy with unspoken words. Hennie’s gaze swept over the faces of his commanders, his expression calm but hard.

“We’ll meet here again tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Until then, see tae your men. Make sure they have food, warmth—whatever they need tae survive the night.”

The others nodded, their movements slow and heavy as the council began to break up, chairs scraping against the rough floorboards, and one by one the commanders filtered from the cramped house, their boots thudding heavily against the frozen earth outside. Peter was the last to leave, lingering at the door with one hand on the frame, as though reluctant to abandon Hennie to his thoughts. For a long moment, neither spoke. Hennie’s face was shadowed in the dim lamplight, his features taut with a strain that only deepened when he thought himself unwatched.

“Ye need rest,” Peter said finally, his voice quiet but steady. “This weight will crush ye, lad, if ye let it.”

“I’ll rest when we’re through this,” Hennie replied, his tone measured but distant. His gaze was fixed on the window, where faint plumes of smoke curled into the night sky. “For now, there’s too much at stake.”

Peter’s jaw twitched as though he meant to argue, but he only sighed, shaking his head slightly. “Aye,” he said softly, stepping out into the dark. The door creaked shut behind him, leaving Hennie alone in the thin light of the lantern.

For a moment, Hennie allowed himself the luxury of stillness, resting his head in his hands. The weight Peter spoke of was as real as any musket on his back, and it pressed against him with every decision, every failure. Venlo, he thought bitterly. The word sat like iron on his tongue, conjuring visions of the frozen siege and the hollow, hopeless faces of the men who deserted.

A sharp knock on the door jarred him upright. Hennie frowned, his hand already moving to the hilt of his sword. “Enter.”

The door opened to reveal Gerritt Walda, his captain of the bodyguard, standing stiffly in the doorway with snow still clinging to his cloak. The man’s rugged features were grim, but there was something like expectation in his eyes.

“Everything is prepared, Prince,” Walda said, his voice clipped and formal. “The council will accompany ye tae Beverenhuis.”

Hennie stood, the leather of his boots creaking faintly as he pushed back from the table. “Have the others been told?”

“Aye. They’ll meet us outside.”

Hennie nodded, grabbing his cloak and draping it over his shoulders. The weight of the wool was a faint comfort, though it could do little against the cold that awaited him beyond the door. “Then let us go.”

The small party moved quietly through the sleeping town, the only sound the crunch of hooves and boots in the snow. Lanterns swung faintly as aides carried them, the golden light casting long, trembling shadows against the frost-covered walls. The air was bitter, the kind of cold that burned the lungs, but none of them complained.

Hennie rode at the head, his breath misting faintly as he scanned the road ahead. Beside him rode Gerritt, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his blade. The captain’s sharp gaze flickered constantly to the darkened doorways and shuttered windows, alert for any sign of trouble.

Behind them, the rest of the high command rode in silence. Gosse’s brow was furrowed, his breath whistling through his teeth as he muttered something too low to hear. Folkert, as ever, had his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face a mask of stony silence. Harmen’s gloved hands gripped the reins tightly, though his gaze seemed fixed somewhere far off in thought. Lieven and Sietse brought up the rear, their cloaks pulled tight around their shoulders. Jorien sat hunched in his saddle, shivering slightly despite the layers of wool and leather.

The countryside beyond Westkappelle stretched wide and bleak beneath the pale light of the moon. Snow blanketed the fields in uneven mounds, broken only by the skeletal outlines of bare trees and low stone walls. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf’s howl echoed faintly through the hills, the sound swallowed quickly by the wind.

As they crested a rise, Beverenhuis came into view—a shadowy silhouette against the icy horizon. The house loomed large, its grey stone walls softened by layers of snow that clung to the ledges and rooftops. Faint light shone from a few of the narrow windows, the golden glow barely piercing the gloom. It was a house built to endure, cold and immovable, much like the land it stood upon.

Gerritt reined his horse in as they approached the gates, raising his lantern high. The light illuminated a pair of guards who stepped forward, muskets at the ready. They hesitated only a moment before recognising Hennie and his entourage, and the gates creaked open slowly, their hinges protesting against the cold.

The group rode into the courtyard, their hooves clattering against the frozen stones. Stable hands emerged to take their horses, their movements brisk and practised. Hennie dismounted, wincing slightly as his knees protested the long ride. The others followed suit, stamping their boots and pulling their cloaks tighter as the wind swept through the open space.

“This place feels like a tomb,” Folkert muttered, glancing up at the darkened windows.

“Aye,” Gosse agreed, his voice low. “But it’s better than a grave.”

Hennie ignored them, striding toward the front doors with Gerritt close behind. The heavy oak creaked as they swung open, revealing the dimly lit interior of Beverenhuis. The air inside was still cold, but it carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and candle wax—an improvement, at least, from the biting wind outside.

The entrance hall was a long, narrow space, its stone walls lined with faded tapestries and portraits of long-dead Faursian lords. A grand staircase swept upward to the upper floors, its wooden banister worn smooth by centuries of use. Faint light from wall-mounted sconces cast flickering shadows across the tiled floor, creating an eerie interplay of light and dark. The space felt cavernous, its silence broken only by the soft echo of boots on stone as the Henricist command entered.

Hennie halted just inside, his sharp eyes scanning the hall. The air inside was still, heavy with the faint scent of damp stone and lingering woodsmoke, though there was no fire in the hearth. The absence of Daemkiin Fokker, the house’s owner and a prominent Commonwealth figure, was immediately noticeable, and it left the space feeling hollow, like a relic abandoned to time.

“Where is Fokker?” Folkert’s voice was low, though it carried in the stillness. His eyes flicked toward the portraits on the walls, his lips curling into a faint sneer. “I suppose even he has the sense tae keep away from a doomed cause.”

“Enough,” Hennie said curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument. He stepped further into the hall, his boots clicking against the stone. “Empty or no, this place will serve.”

Behind him, the others began to file in, shaking snow from their cloaks and stamping their boots to rid them of frost. Gosse crossed the threshold with a cautious gaze, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword as if expecting an ambush. Lieven followed close behind, his sharp features twisted into a scowl. Harmen lingered near the doorway, his gloved hands clenched tightly as he surveyed the space.

“Strange, nae?” Jorien murmured, his voice soft and low. “A house like this, left tae the snow and shadows.”

Sietse, standing near a tapestry depicting some long-forgotten battle, snorted. “Hardly strange. Fokker’s nae fool. He kens better than tae be caught in the middle o’ this mess.”

“It doesna matter,” Hennie interrupted, turning to face them. His voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. “This house is ours for now. We’ll make do.”

Gerritt stepped forward, his sharp eyes scanning the stairwell and the shadowed corners of the hall. “I’ll see the rest o’ the house cleared, Prince,” he said, his tone clipped. “It looks abandoned, but better tae be sure.”

Hennie nodded, his gaze lingering on the faded banners hanging along the walls. “Do it. Report back tae me when ye’re done.”

The captain gestured to a few men from the bodyguard who had accompanied them, and together they disappeared up the staircase, their footsteps fading into the upper floors.

The rest of the command dispersed cautiously, their voices low as they moved through the dimly lit halls. The house had the feeling of a mausoleum—cold, empty, and steeped in a history that felt more burden than legacy. Dust motes hung in the faint light, swirling lazily as boots disturbed the stillness.

Lieven wandered into a side chamber, his sharp eyes flicking over the shelves lined with old books. He ran a gloved finger over the spines, leaving a faint trail in the dust. “Fokker certainly kens how tae live well,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Peter followed him, his movements careful as he examined the furniture covered with white sheets. “And yet he’s nae here,” he said quietly, his gaze distant. “That tells us more than any words could.”

Meanwhile, Folkert strode into what appeared to be a dining hall, the long table still set with tarnished silverware and empty candlesticks. He paused, his hands resting on the back of a chair, his gaze fixed on the far wall where a large portrait of a Faursian lord stared down at him.

“Ghosts,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “This place is full o’ ghosts.”

Sietse, standing near the doorway, raised an eyebrow. “Ye’re gettin’ poetic in yer old age, Folkert.”

“Call it what ye will,” Folkert replied, his tone hardening. “But mark my words, Sietse—this house was left tae us for a reason, and it isnae a kind one.”

By the time the command reconvened in what appeared to be a study, the air inside the house had grown colder, as though the walls themselves were leeching the warmth from their bodies. Hennie stood at the head of a large wooden desk, his gloved hands resting on its surface. Around him, the others took their places, their expressions grim but resolute.

“The situation isnae ideal,” Hennie began, his voice steady despite the weight of the words. “But we’ll make this work. Beverenhuis will serve as our headquarters for now. Westkappelle will be our stronghold.”

“And what o’ Fokker?” Gosse asked, his brow furrowing. “It’s clear he’s abandoned this place, but dae we ken where he’s gone?”

“It doesnae matter,” Hennie replied firmly. “Fokker’s absence only confirms what we already kent—he’s loyal tae the Commonwealth, nae tae us. We’ll nae waste time wonderin’ at his motives.”

“Wise or no,” Folkert interjected, his tone sharp, “his absence leaves us at a disadvantage. This house is nae fortress. If Ceulemans comes marchin’, we’ll be nae better off here than we were at Venlo.”

Hennie’s gaze hardened as he turned to face Folkert. “Ceulemans isnae here yet, and he willnae be for weeks. We’ll use that time tae prepare.”

Folkert held his gaze for a moment before nodding reluctantly. “Fair enough. But if ye think this house will save us when the time comes, ye’re mistaken.”

“Then we’ll ensure it doesnae come tae that,” Hennie replied coldly. He turned his attention back to the rest of the command. “See tae it that the men are settled and that supplies are distributed evenly. We’ll meet again tomorrow tae discuss our next steps.”

As the others began to disperse, Hennie lingered in the study, his eyes fixed on the map spread across the desk. The flickering candlelight cast shadows over the worn parchment, but his gaze remained steady, unyielding. Whatever doubts plagued him, he kept them buried deep, hidden beneath the weight of command.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 29

23rd of December, 1706
Witmarsum, Faursia
104 miles from Westkappelle
Afternoon

The snow fell steadily, layering the Commonwealth camp in a thick, icy silence. Gusts of wind carried the faint sounds of camp life—the thud of axes splitting wood, the scrape of shovels clearing pathways, the occasional bark of orders. It was a harsh winter, even by Faursian standards, and the soldiers moved stiffly in the cold, their breath rising in plumes of mist as they went about their tasks.

General Herbert Ceulemans stood atop a slight ridge overlooking the camp. His boots were planted firmly in the snow, his coat buttoned tight against the wind. The distant outline of Witmarsum’s stone walls rose like a fortress against the pale, featureless sky. Beyond the city, the Highlands stretched into the horizon—a wilderness of snow-covered peaks and frozen rivers that seemed as impenetrable as the Henricist cause they harboured.

The camp below him was orderly but subdued. Soldiers moved in disciplined lines between rows of canvas tents, their movements purposeful yet lacking the vigour Ceulemans expected. Fires burned low, more out of necessity than comfort, and the air carried the acrid scent of smoke and damp wool.

“General,” came a voice from behind him.

Ceulemans turned, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as Major Dijkgraaf approached. The Major saluted, his breath fogging in the cold. “A dispatch has arrived from the north, sir. Reports on the rebels’ activities.”

Ceulemans extended a gloved hand, taking the folded paper without a word. Breaking the seal with practiced precision, he scanned the contents quickly. His jaw tightened as his eyes darted across the lines of hastily written script.

“Fort Maurissens,” he muttered, his voice low but edged with steel. “Fallen. Surrendered within hours.”

Dijkgraaf hesitated before speaking. “The reports indicate the rebels mined the bastions, sir. The garrison had no time to—”

“Spare me the excuses,” Ceulemans snapped, folding the paper sharply and tucking it into his coat. “Maurissens was supposed to be impenetrable. Instead, it crumbled like a rotting plank.”

He turned back toward the camp, his gaze hardening as it swept over the lines of tents and men below. “And Fort Melvin?” he asked after a moment.

“The siege continues,” Dijkgraaf replied cautiously. “The garrison is holding, though reports suggest without relief, they may be forced to surrender.”

“Without relief? What am I, a saint? Do they expect me to waltz over with a month’s worth of supply?” Ceulemans snapped. Dijkgraaf remained silent. Ceulemans then let out a slow, measured breath, the steam of it catching in the wind. “A pattern is emerging,” he said, his voice low but deliberate. “The rebels are targeting the neglected outposts, striking where we are weakest. Clever, but ultimately futile.” He paused, his eyes narrowing as they settled on the distant spires of Witmarsum. “They will come for Walraven next. That much is certain.”

Dijkgraaf shifted uneasily. “Should we not reinforce Walraven, sir? If the rebels—”

“No,” Ceulemans interrupted, his tone as cold as the wind that whipped around them. “To divert resources now would weaken us here. Walraven will hold. Focus your attention on the preparations at hand, Major. The rebels’ victories are fleeting. Their reckoning approaches.”

Dijkgraaf saluted crisply, though a flicker of uncertainty remained in his eyes. “Understood, General.”

Ceulemans began his descent from the ridge, his boots crunching through the snow as he made his way toward the heart of the camp. Soldiers snapped to attention as he passed, their salutes sharp despite the frostbitten stiffness of their fingers. The General’s presence was a weight that settled over the camp—a reminder of discipline, order, and the unyielding expectations of their commander.

Near the artillery yard, Major Molenaar stood overseeing the maintenance of a line of cannons. The barrels were blackened from use, their iron surfaces frosted with ice that engineers scraped away with methodical precision.

“Molenaar,” Ceulemans called as he approached. The Major turned, saluting immediately.

“General,” Molenaar replied. “The artillery is being prepared as ordered. The crews are rotating in shifts to account for the cold.”

“Good,” Ceulemans said curtly, his gaze sweeping over the scene. “And the ammunition?”

“Adequate, sir,” Molenaar replied. “Though the conditions are slowing transport from the supply wagons.”

Ceulemans’ lips pressed into a thin line. “See to it that delays are minimized. We cannot afford inefficiency.”

“Yes, General.”

Ceulemans moved on, his sharp eyes catching every detail. A group of soldiers struggled to drag a wagon wheel through the snow, their breath coming in laboured puffs. Further along, a blacksmith hammered at a glowing horseshoe, the sparks briefly illuminating his soot-streaked face.

As Ceulemans approached the mess line, a low murmur of voices reached his ears. Two young soldiers stood hunched near a fire, their conversation barely audible over the wind.

“…Melvin might hold, but not for long. They’ve got the big guns now,” one of them said, his voice tinged with unease.

“Doesn’t matter,” the other replied, his tone more defiant. “When the General moves, the rebels won’t stand a chance.”

Ceulemans stopped, his gaze settling on the two men. They froze, their eyes widening as they realized who stood behind them.

“Confidence is commendable,” Ceulemans said, his voice calm but cold. “But do not presume to predict the outcome of battles. Leave that to your superiors.”

The soldiers stammered apologies, their faces flushing despite the cold. Ceulemans moved on without another word, his presence leaving a trail of nervous silence in his wake. He strode purposefully toward the eastern edge of Witmarsum, where the imposing Julius van Valkengoed Hospital stood in partial disarray.

The hospital had been intended as a monument to progress—a state-of-the-art facility for the ailing and the wounded—but the building had sat idle, abandoned before its grand opening. The governors had failed to raise the funds necessary to admit patients, and its halls remained eerily empty of the cries and whispers it was meant to hold. Now, under Ceulemans’ occupation, it served a different purpose altogether.

The once-pristine grounds were a hive of activity. Soldiers laboured with grim determination, carving a defensive ditch into the frozen earth around the building’s perimeter. The ground resisted every strike of their shovels, forcing them to dig in short, uneven bursts. The ditch was shallow in some areas, deeper in others—a testament to the difficulties posed by the biting cold and the hard soil. Wooden stakes were sharpened and driven into place above the ditch, forming a rudimentary palisade that ringed the hospital grounds.

The hospital’s wide, arched windows had been hastily bricked up, leaving only narrow slits to serve as potential firing points. Inside, the transformation was equally jarring. The cavernous entrance hall, designed to welcome patients with grandeur, now housed crates of ammunition, stacked high alongside barrels of salted pork and kegs of ale. The air was thick with the mingling scents of gunpowder, damp stone, and unwashed bodies.

Ceulemans paused just outside the main doors, watching as a group of soldiers struggled to fit iron bars across the entrance. One man fumbled with the heavy rods, nearly dropping them, until another barked a sharp correction. Their efforts were clumsy but deliberate, a reflection of the tension that hung over the entire operation. Ceulemans’ gaze swept over the scene, taking in every detail with a sharp, critical eye.

“Make haste,” he called, his voice cutting through the din of hammering and shouted instructions. “We cannot afford delays.”

The soldiers redoubled their efforts, the clinking of iron and wood growing louder as they moved faster under Ceulemans’ scrutiny. Satisfied, he stepped inside, the heavy doors creaking shut behind him.

The interior of the hospital was no less chaotic. Fires burned in makeshift hearths, their smoke curling upward toward the high ceilings. What had once been designated as a patient ward was now a storage area for supplies, while the kitchens had been converted into stables for officers’ horses. The horses shifted restlessly, their breaths visible in the cold air. Hooves clattered against the stone floor, adding to the cacophony.

Near the centre of the hall, a map-covered table had been set up, surrounded by officers engaged in animated discussion. Major Dijkgraaf leaned over the table, gesturing to a cluster of lines that represented the outer defences. His brow furrowed as he spoke, his voice low but urgent.

Ceulemans approached without hesitation, and the officers straightened immediately, offering crisp salutes. “General,” Dijkgraaf began, “the ditch is progressing slower than anticipated. The frost is—”

“I am aware,” Ceulemans interrupted, his tone sharp. “The frost is no excuse. Make use of the fires to soften the earth, and see to it that the work is finished by tomorrow morning.”

Dijkgraaf hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And the palisade?” Ceulemans demanded, his gaze sweeping over the map.

“It should be in place within three days,” Dijkgraaf replied, his voice steady but cautious.

“Unacceptable,” Ceulemans snapped. “It must be complete within a day and a half, at the very latest. Remind the men that the defences are not for their convenience but their survival.”

“Yes, sir,” Dijkgraaf said again, though a flicker of unease crossed his face. “But how long are we really going to stay here, sir? Just until the weather… clears?”

“More or less, Major. The weather will break soon, it has to. Once it does, we move, and we move quickly.” Ceulemans’ gaze lingered on the map for a moment before turning to the officers. “This building may not be a true fortress, but it will suffice for our needs. Let the men believe it is impenetrable. A strong perception can be as powerful as a strong defence.”

The officers nodded, murmuring their agreement. Ceulemans moved past them, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the rest of the hospital. The tension in the air was palpable, but the work continued, the soldiers driven by the sheer force of his authority. He turned back to face the officers, for a moment, with a smile on his face. “Fort Ceulemans will hold for now”, he chuckled.

Near the back of the hall, a soldier coughed loudly, the sound breaking the rhythm of the activity around him. Ceulemans’ eyes darted toward the source of the noise, narrowing slightly. The soldier, a younger man with chapped hands and a ruddy complexion, avoided his gaze, quickly resuming his task of stacking firewood.

Ceulemans lingered for a moment longer before turning back toward the map table. The hospital may have been a hastily repurposed symbol of power, but in his hands, it would serve its purpose. He would ensure that Witmarsum remained secure, no matter the cost.

Ceulemans left the hall and made his way through the newly fortified hospital grounds. The biting wind stung his face as he descended the stone steps, his boots crunching against the frosted gravel path. Around him, soldiers laboured ceaselessly, their breath clouding in the frigid air. He paused to observe a group dragging timber toward the palisade under construction, their strained grunts cutting through the muffled silence of falling snow.

Nearby, a makeshift forge had been set up, its roaring flames casting flickering shadows across the encampment. Blacksmiths hammered nails and rivets, their work loud and relentless, as officers barked orders to the men assembling the outer defences. Ceulemans allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. The transformation of the hospital into a functional military stronghold was progressing well, despite the challenges posed by the weather and limited resources.

From his vantage point, he could see the sprawl of Witmarsum beyond the hospital grounds. The town was alive with movement, soldiers and townsfolk intermingling uneasily in the narrow streets. The townspeople had initially watched Ceulemans’ arrival with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, but now they mostly kept to themselves, venturing out only when necessary. A few brave merchants had set up stalls to trade with the soldiers, selling everything from warm cloaks to salted fish.

“General,” a voice called, breaking his thoughts.

Ceulemans turned to see Major Molenaar approaching, his gloved hands clutching a leather-bound report. He saluted crisply before speaking. “The latest update on the defences, sir.”

Ceulemans took the report, flipping it open as Molenaar continued. “The palisade is thirty percent complete. We’ve had some setbacks with the ditch due to the frozen ground, but the men are making progress.”

“And the townspeople?” Ceulemans asked, not looking up from the report.

“They’ve been compliant, for the most part,” Molenaar replied. “Though there have been murmurs of discontent. Some are unhappy about the requisitioning of supplies.”

Ceulemans snapped the report shut, his expression unreadable. “Remind them that this occupation is for their protection. Their sacrifices are necessary for the greater good.”

“Yes, sir,” Molenaar said, bowing his head slightly.

Before Ceulemans could dismiss him, another figure approached from the shadows of the palisade. It was Major Engelbrecht, his face ruddy from the cold. “General, a courier has arrived from the north,” he announced, his breath visible in the icy air.

Ceulemans raised an eyebrow. “From the north? I assume it concerns Fort Melvin.”

“Yes, sir,” Engelbrecht confirmed, producing a sealed envelope. “The fort has surrendered.”

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Ceulemans’ face as he broke the seal and scanned the contents. “Good,” he said simply. “One less thorn in our side. Ensure that news of this reaches the men. It will do much to bolster their morale.”

“Of course, sir,” Engelbrecht said, saluting before stepping back.

Ceulemans handed the report back to Molenaar. “The tide is turning,” he said quietly, more to himself than to the others. “But there is still much to be done.”

He turned his gaze back to the hospital, now bustling with activity. Soldiers moved in and out of its arched doorways, their faces set with determination despite the cold. Ceulemans took a deep breath, the crisp air filling his lungs. The winter was harsh, but it was also an opportunity—a time to fortify, to prepare, to ensure that when the storm cleared, his forces would be ready to strike.

“See to it that every man understands the importance of our work here,” he said, addressing both Molenaar and Engelbrecht. “There can be no room for doubt. We are not merely holding ground—we are securing victory.”

Both officers saluted in unison. “Yes, General.”

Ceulemans lingered for a moment longer before striding back toward the hospital. The snow continued to fall, muffling the sounds of construction and giving the scene an eerie, otherworldly quality. Inside, the fires burned brightly, casting long shadows against the stone walls. This place, temporary and imperfect as it was, would serve its purpose.

It had to.

As Ceulemans entered the hospital’s central chamber, the warmth of the fires greeted him, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. Officers crowded around a large table in the centre of the room, their breaths still visible in the faint chill that lingered within the stone walls. Maps, reports, and hastily scrawled notes lay strewn across its surface, weighted down by brass candlesticks and empty mugs.

Major Dijkgraaf was already speaking, his voice clear and methodical. “The outer defences are functional, but far from complete. If we are attacked now, we can hold for some time, but not indefinitely. The ditch must be deepened, and we need more timber for the palisade.”

“The timber shortage is a problem,” Molenaar added, looking to Ceulemans. “We’ve already requisitioned as much as we can from the surrounding area, but the townspeople are beginning to resist. They fear they’ll have nothing left by spring.”

“Spring,” Ceulemans repeated, his tone sharp. “Spring will only matter if we crush the Henricists before it arrives. Let the townspeople know that if they cooperate, they will be compensated. If they resist, they will suffer the consequences. This is not a negotiation.”

The room fell silent. Even the officers, used to Ceulemans’ unyielding nature, exchanged uneasy glances. It was Engelbrecht who finally spoke, his voice low but firm. “General, if I may—there is a limit to how much we can push them. The townspeople are not our enemies. Alienating them could lead to rebellion, or worse, collaboration with the Henricists.”

Ceulemans’ gaze snapped to Engelbrecht, his eyes narrowing. For a moment, the air in the room seemed to freeze, and then Ceulemans spoke, his voice measured but ice-cold. “Major, I appreciate your perspective, but do not mistake it for leniency. We are at war. Sentimentality has no place here.”

Engelbrecht nodded, his jaw tightening. “Understood, General.”

Ceulemans turned his attention back to the maps, his finger tracing the roads and rivers that crisscrossed the surrounding region. “What of the Henricists? Any word on their movements?”

Dijkgraaf cleared his throat. “The last reports place them consolidating their position in Westkappelle. They’ve fortified Beverenhuis and appear to be settling in for the winter.”

“They’ll be waiting for reinforcements or an opportunity to regroup,” Ceulemans mused, his tone contemplative. “But we won’t give them the luxury of time.”

He straightened, addressing the room. “We’ll continue our preparations here, but I want regular patrols dispatched to monitor their activity. I also want to ensure our supply lines remain secure. The Henricists may be desperate enough to target them.”

Molenaar raised a hand, his expression hesitant. “Sir, there is another matter. The surrender of Fort Melvin has emboldened the Henricists in the Highlands. Reports suggest they’re gathering strength for a siege on Fort Walraven.”

Ceulemans’ lips pressed into a thin line. “Fort Walraven.” He said the name as if tasting something bitter. “A distraction, nothing more. They think to divide our focus, to stretch us thin.”

“Should we not send reinforcements, sir?” Engelbrecht asked, his voice cautious.

“No,” Ceulemans said firmly. “If they take Fort Walraven, let them. It is an isolated outpost of little strategic value. Our objective is to destroy their main force. Without that, their victories in the Highlands mean nothing.”

The officers exchanged glances, some nodding in agreement, others clearly uneasy. Ceulemans noticed but chose not to address it. He had no patience for doubts or dissent. His orders would be followed, and they would succeed.

As the meeting concluded, Ceulemans stepped away from the table, his gaze distant. He moved to one of the narrow windows, looking out over the snowy courtyard below. The men were still working, their figures dark against the white backdrop. Smoke from the forge curled into the grey sky, mingling with the breath of the soldiers.

In the distance, the faint sound of bells echoed from the town square. Witmarsum was alive with preparations for the holiday season, the people clinging to their traditions despite the occupation. Ceulemans watched the scene with a mix of detachment and disdain.

“They cling to hope,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. “But hope is the first casualty of war.”

Behind him, Engelbrecht approached cautiously. “General, will you be joining the officers for dinner tonight?”

Ceulemans turned, his expression unreadable. “No. My place is here. Let them enjoy their festivities, but remind them that this is not a celebration. We are wintering here to prepare for a decisive strike, not to revel in comfort.”

Engelbrecht nodded and withdrew, leaving Ceulemans alone with his thoughts. The wind howled faintly outside, a reminder of the harshness of the season—and the harsher battle that was still yet to come.

 

[Aubervijr]

Chapter 30

31st of December, 1706
Westkappelle, Faursia
Baarmenei Celebrations

The snow lay heavy over the Faursian Highlands, blanketing the fields, trees, and winding paths between Beverenhuis and Westkappelle in an unbroken expanse of white. The stillness of the morning was broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through frost-laden branches, the crunch of Hennie’s boots on the snow, and the faint calls of distant ravens circling overhead. He stood at the edge of Beverenhuis, gazing toward the horizon where the faintest wisp of smoke hinted at life in the town below. The cold bit fiercely at his exposed skin, his breath clouding the air in steady puffs as he adjusted his thick woolen coat.

Behind him, the sprawling stone structure of Beverenhuis loomed like a sentinel. Its steep roofs were laden with snow, and the windows glowed faintly from the hearths within. Inside, his commanders and aides were already stirring, their voices muffled by the thick walls as preparations for the day began. But Hennie needed to get away, even if just for a short while. He needed the silence, the solitude, and the clarity that came from walking these familiar paths alone. The weight of leadership, the constant presence of his commanders, and the looming threat of the Commonwealth forces had worn him down in ways he rarely admitted, even to himself.

The walk to Westkappelle was slow and arduous. The road had been swallowed by the snowstorm that swept through the night, leaving behind drifts that reached halfway to his knees. Every step was deliberate, the strain in his legs reminding him of the many miles he and his army had marched over the past months. The barren trees lining the road stood like gaunt sentinels, their branches heavy with snow and ice, and the occasional gust of wind sent a cascade of frozen crystals tumbling to the ground. The world seemed impossibly quiet, the muffled stillness amplifying the occasional distant sounds of life.

The road to Westkappelle, narrow and winding, offered glimpses of the town as Hennie descended the slope toward the valley where it nestled. Smoke rose in steady spirals from the chimneys, stark against the pale grey sky. The faint hum of activity drifted up to him: the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, the murmur of townsfolk beginning their day, and the distant barking of a dog. He passed a pair of Henricist soldiers standing guard at the edge of the town, their faces raw from the cold, their breaths visible in the frigid air.

“Good morning, sir,” one of them said, his voice rough from the chill.

Hennie nodded in response, pausing to study the soldiers briefly. Their uniforms were frayed, their boots patched and worn, and their expressions grim but resolute. He knew they were tired. They all were. Yet, despite the hardships, they stood firm, their loyalty a testament to the cause they had sworn to fight for.

As Hennie moved on, cresting a small rise, Westkappelle came fully into view. The Hege Tsjerke dominated the skyline, its spire rising above the clustered stone buildings like a weathered monument to endurance. The castle, perched on a low hill to the north, was partially obscured by the swirling snow, its imposing walls softened by the winter haze. Smoke curled lazily from countless chimneys, painting the sky with smudges of grey. In the streets below, people moved purposefully, bundled in layers against the biting wind, their figures little more than dark silhouettes against the brightness of the snow.

Hennie entered the town proper, his boots crunching loudly on the snow-packed road. The air was thick with the mingling scents of woodsmoke and baked goods, as the townsfolk prepared for Baarmanei, the last day of the old year. Despite the oppressive cold and the looming threat of the Commonwealth forces, Westkappelle clung stubbornly to its traditions. Decorations hung in the windows of many homes, small tokens of hope in the form of evergreens and carved wooden figures. The town square was alive with muted activity as a group of men worked to erect a towering pyre, its base a chaotic pile of logs and kindling destined to blaze with the fire symbolising the passage of the year.

Hennie paused in the square, letting his gaze sweep across the scene. A small group of Henricist soldiers stood near a brazier, their gaunt faces lit by the flickering flames. They muttered quietly among themselves, their voices carrying a mix of weariness and determination. Their uniforms, patched and stained from months of marching and fighting, spoke to the toll the campaign had taken on them.

A blacksmith worked nearby, the rhythmic clang of his hammer striking metal echoing through the square. Townsfolk moved cautiously about their tasks, exchanging brief greetings but avoiding lingering too long in the open cold. Despite the preparations for Baarmanei, the atmosphere was subdued. There was little laughter, little cheer, only the quiet resilience of a people determined to carry on despite the odds stacked against them.

Hennie’s attention was drawn to a small group of children playing near a mound of freshly shoveled snow. Their laughter, though faint, was a welcome sound in the otherwise somber scene. For a moment, he allowed himself to watch, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was a brief reprieve, a reminder of the humanity they were fighting to protect, even as the weight of their struggle threatened to crush them all.

Hennie took a deep breath, steeling himself as he turned toward the Hege Tsjerke, where he would meet his commanders later in the day. For now, he would continue to walk, taking in the sights and sounds of a town that, despite everything, refused to bow to despair. The celebrations of Baarmanei, however muted, were a testament to their resilience. And Hennie, for all his doubts and burdens, found solace in that stubborn hope.

As the afternoon drew closer, Hennie found himself wandering through Westkappelle’s winding streets, his thoughts heavy with the weight of decisions yet to be made. The air was crisp and biting, and his breath billowed in small clouds as he passed by bustling shopfronts and the occasional tavern spilling muted warmth into the frigid air. The smell of baking bread and roasting meat drifted faintly, mingling with the tang of smoke and the faint metallic hint of snow.

The townsfolk greeted him with nods and polite murmurs, their faces a mixture of guarded hope and quiet apprehension. Many of them had given what little they could to support the Henricist cause—provisions, shelter, and the unwavering belief that Hennie could lead them to victory. The weight of their expectations pressed heavily on him, even as he drew strength from their faith. It was for them, for Faursia itself, that he had to persevere.

The Hege Tsjerke stood at the heart of the town, its spire reaching toward the pale grey sky like a sentinel watching over the town’s soul. Snow clung stubbornly to its slate roof and the stone walls, its windows dark save for the faint flicker of candlelight within. As Hennie approached, he saw Sietse Ouwehand and Jorien Nelissen standing just outside the main doors, their breath visible as they spoke in low, hurried tones.

“Hennie,” Sietse greeted him with a slight incline of his head, his tone respectful but tinged with the weariness that had become all too familiar in recent weeks. “We were just discussing preparations for tonight. The townsfolk have insisted on lighting the Baarmanei pyre in the square.”

Hennie nodded, his gaze momentarily drifting to the faint plumes of smoke rising from scattered chimneys across the town. “Let them,” he said after a moment. “They need this as much as we do. Perhaps more.”

Jorien hesitated, his gloved hands clasped in front of him. “And the soldiers? Shall we allow them to join the celebrations?”

“Within reason,” Hennie replied, his voice firm but not unkind. “Let them find warmth and fellowship, but remind them that we are still in a state of war. Discipline must not waver.”

Sietse grunted in agreement. “Aye, they’ll need the reprieve, but not too much of it. We cannot afford complacency.”

The doors of the church creaked open, and Gosse de Vries stepped out, his broad shoulders covered in a dusting of snow. He nodded to Hennie, his expression serious. “The others are inside, waiting for you.”

Hennie stepped past him, the warmth of the church washing over him like a tide as he entered. The interior of the Hege Tsjerke was modest but dignified, its high vaulted ceilings lending an air of solemnity. Rows of wooden pews stretched toward the altar, where flickering candles cast long shadows across the simple stonework. The faint murmur of voices echoed softly, a contrast to the muffled stillness outside.

Gathered around a table at the front of the nave were the key members of the Henricist high command. Folkert Oosterhof stood at one end, his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp features lit by the amber glow of a nearby candelabrum. Beside him, Peter Bijlsma sat stiffly, his jaw set as if bracing for an argument. Lieven Burmania leaned casually against a nearby column, his gloved fingers idly tracing the grain of the wood. Harmen Brouwer, his pale complexion accentuated by the firelight, nodded curtly as Hennie approached.

“Good of you to join us, Hennie,” Folkert remarked dryly, though his tone lacked the usual bite.

Hennie ignored the comment, taking his place at the head of the table. “We have much to discuss,” he said simply, his gaze sweeping over his commanders. “The coming weeks will test us all, and I will not pretend otherwise.”

The discussion that followed was as tense as it was vital. Reports were shared of desertions among the troops, the dwindling supplies, and the seemingly endless winter that gnawed at their spirits. Sietse, ever the pragmatist, outlined the challenges of maintaining morale among the soldiers while ensuring they remained battle-ready. Folkert voiced his frustration with the delays, his words sharp as he criticised the decision to linger in Westkappelle rather than taking the fight to the Commonwealth.

“It is madness to wait here while Ceulemans trains his men to crush us—” Folkert’s voice rang out sharply in the stillness of the Hege Tsjerke, his fist slamming against the heavy table for emphasis. His eyes flashed with frustration as he leaned forward, his presence commanding attention.

“We are not waiting,” Gosse retorted coolly, his arms crossed as he met Folkert’s glare. “We are preparing. Every moment spent here is another moment to reinforce, to plan, to ensure we are ready when the time comes.”

“And what of morale?” Folkert countered, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “Do ye think these men will hold their resolve much longer? Huddled in the cold, surrounded by talk of deserters and Commonwealth troops gathering strength? They need action, Gosse, not silence and snow.”

Hennie, seated at the head of the table, raised a hand, his tone firm but even. “Enough. Both of ye.” The authority in his voice brought a tense silence to the room, the other commanders shifting uneasily in their seats.

Peter, who had been unusually quiet, leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowed. “There is wisdom in both arguments,” he began, his voice steady. “But we cannot afford rashness. If we march now, in this weather, with half our supplies dwindling and the men barely rested, we’ll lose the fight before it even begins.”

“Peter’s right,” said Harmen Brouwer, his usually subdued voice carrying a note of urgency. “This storm is as much our enemy as Ceulemans. If we charge blindly into the Highlands now, we’ll be gifting them a victory.”

Folkert made a sound of exasperation, throwing up his hands. “And if we sit idle, we gift them time. Ye think they’ll nae come for us soon enough? They’ll pick the time and place, and we’ll be dancing tae their tune.”

Lieven, lounging at the far end of the table, finally broke his silence. “Perhaps that is what they want us to believe,” he drawled, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Make us fret and panic, waste our strength on a pre-emptive strike. Clever, really.”

Folkert turned his glare on him, his patience clearly fraying. “Have ye got a point, Burmania, or are ye just here tae amuse yerself?”

Lieven chuckled softly, unfazed. “My point, dear Oosterhof, is that sometimes the best move is nae tae move at all. Let them come to us, if they dare.”

The tension in the room thickened as Hennie rose to his feet, his hands planted firmly on the table. His gaze swept over his commanders, his tone calm but laced with steel. “We do not march, and we do not sit idle. We prepare. Every man must know his place, every line must be ready to hold. Ceulemans is not blind; he will come for us when the storm breaks, and when he does, we will show him what Faursia is made of.”

There was a murmur of assent around the table, though Folkert’s lips pressed into a thin line, his frustration clearly unresolved.

“We’ll need more than bold words,” Gosse said quietly, his eyes meeting Hennie’s. “The men are holding on, but barely. Morale is fragile.”

Hennie nodded, his expression grim. “Then we give them reason to hold fast. Tonight is Baarmanei—let them celebrate it as best they can. A brief light in this long night might be what they need.”

An uneasy silence now hung over the room.

The council meeting dragged on, the air in the Hege Tsjerke thick with smoke from guttering candles. Each commander had taken their turn to speak, their voices layering tension atop the already fraught atmosphere. Outside, the howling winter wind rattled the stained-glass windows, a constant reminder of the unforgiving conditions that hemmed them in.

Folkert stood, his chair scraping against the stone floor as he pushed it back. “And what happens when the weather clears, aye? Ye ken well that Ceulemans will nae sit idle forever. He’s in Witmarsum now, sharpening his claws. We cannae wait for him tae choose his moment.”

“Ceulemans does nae move on whims, Folkert,” Gosse countered, leaning forward in his chair. “We ken his army is more disciplined, better supplied. If we march tae meet him too soon, we do so without the proper ground tae favour us. Ye’d have us throw men tae their deaths.”

“That is rich, coming from the man who led the assault on Venlo!” Folkert shot back, his voice rising.

Hennie raised a hand to silence them, his tone cold and firm. “Enough. I’ll nae have ye turn this room into a brawling pit.”

“Then let us brawl with blades instead of words, Prince,” Folkert said, his voice quieter now but no less sharp. “Ceulemans is coming, and we ken it. Whether we sit here fretting or march tae meet him, there will be blood. Better tae spill it on our terms.”

Harmen, seated quietly thus far, finally spoke up, his deep voice cutting through the growing unease. “There is wisdom in Folkert’s urgency. But Gosse is right—we cannae march blind into a storm. Aye, Ceulemans will come, but the Highlands are still ours. If he is tae take them, let him bleed for every step.”

Peter frowned, his hands resting on the table. “And when we make our stand, where will it be? Here? Outside Westkappelle? Or shall we march south and meet him in the Lowlands, where his supply lines stretch thin?”

Lieven smirked, the familiar glint of amusement playing in his eyes. “Bold of ye tae assume Ceulemans would ever allow his supply lines tae be stretched thin, Peter. He is nae fool. The man kens when tae retreat better than most of us ken when tae advance.”

Hennie exhaled slowly, his hands clasped together as he leaned forward. “We do nae have the luxury of drawing Ceulemans tae us. If we wait too long, the men will lose heart, and we’ve nae enough discipline in the ranks tae hold them together without purpose. The question is nae if we fight, but where.”

Folkert leaned on the table, his palms flat against the rough surface. “Then meet him where he least expects. These walls will nae hold the Highlands for us. If we strike first, with the full might of the army, we have a chance tae shatter his forces.”

Gosse shook his head. “Aye, and what if we fail? We’ve already spent months patching together this army. If we march tae meet him and lose, there’ll be nae regrouping—nae retreat worth speaking of.”

Peter’s voice was measured, though his frustration was evident. “But what happens if we stay here, Gosse? This storm will break soon enough, and when it does, Ceulemans will march. Do we leave him tae choose the ground, tae bring his siege lines closer and crush us against our own walls?”

Harmen nodded thoughtfully, his expression grim. “If we fight, it must be on ground of our choosing. The Highlands are ours, but this war is nae won by holding cities. We must weaken him, break his army’s will tae fight, before he can do the same tae ours.”

The debate carried on, each voice rising and falling like the tide. Hennie listened, his jaw set as he weighed their arguments. The flickering light of the hearth illuminated the lines of exhaustion etched into each face, the toll of weeks spent waiting in the bitter cold.

When the room fell into a heavy silence, Hennie finally stood. His shadow stretched long across the stone walls as he gazed at each of them in turn. “We march tae meet Ceulemans. We will nae wait for him tae encircle us here like lambs for the slaughter. If we fight, it will be on our terms.”

A ripple of approval met his words, though it was tempered with the gravity of their decision. Gosse leaned back in his chair, his lips pressed into a thin line, while Folkert nodded sharply, his relief plain to see.

Peter, however, lingered. “And where will we meet him, Hennie? This is nae a decision tae make lightly.”

Hennie’s gaze was steady, resolute. “The exact ground will depend on his movements, but we will prepare for every possibility. For now, see that the men are ready tae march when the storm clears.”

With that, the decision was made. The council dissolved slowly, each man leaving with their thoughts weighing heavy. Hennie lingered near the table, staring into the dying embers of the fire, as the echoes of their voices faded into the cold night.

As the council dispersed into the cold corridors of Beverenhuis, the wind outside howled like a feral beast, rattling the ancient windows in their frames. Hennie lingered behind, staring down at the map spread across the table, his fingers lightly tracing the rough lines of rivers and mountains. The fire in the hearth had dimmed to embers, casting faint shadows over the worn wood. Gosse was the last to leave, pausing briefly by the doorway.

“You’ve made the right choice, Hennie,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “We cannae wait forever. The men need a battle tae rally their spirits.”

Hennie gave a faint nod, but his eyes didn’t leave the map. “Aye, but the right choice still carries its weight. We’ll see if it was enough.”

Gosse hesitated for a moment before stepping into the hall, the sound of his boots fading into the distance. Alone, Hennie exhaled, leaning forward to rest his weight on the table. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the silence settle like a heavy blanket.

“May it be kinder than the last,” Hennie murmured to himself as he finally stepped outside. The biting wind cut through his coat, carrying the sharp sting of snow against his face. The village of Westkappelle stretched before him, blanketed in a thick layer of white, its narrow streets eerily silent under the weight of the storm.

The faint glow of candlelight flickered behind shuttered windows, and the muffled hum of quiet conversations seeped into the night. Baarmanei had come, and despite the hardships of war, the resilient spirit of the Faursian people glimmered faintly in their muted celebrations. Some townsfolk braved the cold, gathering in the square to huddle around makeshift fires. Their voices carried softly through the snow-filled air—snippets of songs, quiet laughter, the clink of wooden cups.

Hennie’s boots crunched against the snow as he moved through the square. A group of soldiers sat near a brazier, their faces lit by its flickering glow. They exchanged jests and stories, trying to shake off the weight of the past year, though their laughter was strained, tinged with the knowledge of what lay ahead. One of them, a wiry young man, caught sight of Hennie and stood, nudging the others.

“Prince,” he said, his voice trembling slightly as he saluted. The others followed suit, their expressions a mix of reverence and uncertainty.

Hennie raised a hand, his tone gentle. “Carry on, lads. This night is yours as much as anyone’s.”

They hesitated before easing back into their seats, though their conversation grew quieter in his presence. Hennie lingered a moment longer, watching the flames lick at the night air, before continuing toward the edge of the square.

The town’s church bells began to toll faintly in the distance, marking the final hours of the year. A pair of children darted past him, their laughter a rare burst of joy in the somber night. He watched as they disappeared into the shadows, their bright voices fading into the cold wind. For a brief moment, a flicker of hope stirred within him—proof that even in the darkest times, life persisted.

He reached the edge of the square, where Reinder stood with Lieven, both men silhouetted against the snow-covered landscape. Reinder’s sharp eyes turned to him, his breath visible in the icy air.

“They’ve nae stopped since the council,” Reinder said, gesturing toward a nearby alley where soldiers continued preparations for the inevitable march. “Even in celebration, they’re preparing for what’s tae come.”

“Good,” Hennie replied, his tone carrying a note of pride. “It shows they’re ready.”

Lieven, who had been quiet until now, spoke with a touch of dry humour. “Ready tae fight or tae freeze tae death, one cannae be sure.”

Hennie allowed himself a faint smile. “Both, perhaps. But they’ll do what needs doing, just as we all will.”

The three men stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the coming days pressing down on them. Finally, Hennie straightened, his gaze resolute. “Let us see the year out, then. Tomorrow brings what it will.”

Reinder and Lieven nodded, and together they made their way back toward Beverenhuis, the distant toll of the bells fading into the night as the final moments of Baarmanei slipped away.

Folkert approached him quietly, his tone softer than before. “Hennie,” he said, his gaze steady. “I meant what I said. We cannae afford to wait much longer. The men look to ye for strength. Show them ye’ve still got it.”

Hennie met his eyes, his jaw tightening. “I’ve nae forgotten, Folkert. But strength isnae recklessness. Ye’ll see soon enough.”

Outside, the town square was alight with activity. The Baarmanei pyre rose high in the centre, its base surrounded by a lively crowd of townsfolk and soldiers alike. The musicians had begun to play, their fiddles and pipes weaving a tapestry of lively tunes that cut through the cold air. Children darted between the legs of their elders, their laughter mingling with the music.

Hennie stood at the edge of the square, watching as the pyre was lit. The flames roared to life, climbing hungrily toward the sky and casting a warm glow over the gathered faces. For a moment, it was as if the war had been forgotten, the weight of their struggles melted away in the heat of the fire.

“Happy Baarmanei, Hennie,” Gosse said as he appeared beside him, a rare smile softening his features.

Hennie nodded, his gaze fixed on the flames. “Happy Baarmanei, Gosse. May it be kinder than the last.”

The streets of Westkappelle were alive with a fleeting sense of cheer that defied the icy grip of winter. Snow crunched underfoot as townsfolk bustled about, their cloaks and scarves bundled tightly against the biting wind. Lanterns lined the cobbled streets, their flickering flames casting a warm glow over the town square. The bells of the Hege Tsjerke, perched on its hill, loomed in the background, waiting for midnight to signal the passing of the old year.

Hennie and his commanders walked through the streets, their presence both reassuring and commanding. Soldiers stood in clusters around crackling bonfires, sharing bread, ale, and stories of home. Some sang old Faursian tunes, their voices rising against the howling wind, while others leaned against their weapons, talking quietly. For a brief moment, the weight of their campaign seemed to lift, replaced by the human need for connection and tradition.

Folkert was the first to join the merriment. His booming laughter echoed as he clasped a young soldier on the shoulder. “Lad, if ye sing louder, ye might scare Ceulemans himself back tae Witmarsum!”

The soldier, flushed from drink and Folkert’s attention, raised his cup. “To our Prince!” he called out, and a cheer followed, rippling through the square. Folkert raised his own cup, grinning, before downing it in one long gulp.

Peter lingered near a fire, talking with a group of older townsfolk who handed him a steaming mug of mulled wine. “You’ve all lived through harder winters than this,” Peter remarked, his voice steady and warm. “How do you do it?”

One of the men chuckled. “We drink, we sing, and we pray, sir. Not much else to it.” His face grew sombre. “But we’ve never had to worry about a war knocking on our door before.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “You’ve our promise that we’ll do all we can to keep it from crossing your threshold.”

Gosse, meanwhile, stood with a small gathering of children who had clustered around him, their eyes wide with awe. He crouched to their level, holding a carved wooden whistle he had pulled from his coat pocket. “Do ye ken what this is?” he asked with a grin.

One of the braver children spoke up. “A whistle, sir?”

“Aye, but not just any whistle,” Gosse replied, blowing a soft tune that sounded like birdsong. The children gasped, their earlier fear of the soldier forgotten as they clamoured to hear more. Gosse played a few more notes before handing the whistle to the bold child. “It’s yours now. Keep it safe.”

Hennie stood at the edge of the square, observing it all with a quiet smile. His men were laughing, the townsfolk were singing, and for the first time in weeks, the oppressive weight on his chest seemed to ease. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find Reinder at his side, his breath visible in the cold air.

“Ye’re far too quiet for a Prince, Hennie,” Reinder said with a smirk. “This is your night as much as theirs.”

Hennie shook his head. “This is their night. I’m just here tae see it.”

Reinder raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, he held out a flask. “Here. If ye willnae join the dance, at least warm yerself.”

Hennie accepted the flask, taking a small sip before handing it back. The burn of the drink spread through him, a welcome contrast to the cold. “Thank ye, Reinder.”

As midnight approached, the bells of the Hege Tsjerke began their slow, deliberate toll. The square grew quiet, the revelry replaced by a collective breath held in anticipation. Cups were raised, arms were linked, and a soft murmur of a prayer swept through the crowd.

When the final bell struck, the silence was replaced by a cheer that shook the snow from the rooftops. “Baarmanei!” they cried, their voices a defiant promise to endure whatever the new year would bring.

Hennie raised his own cup, his voice joining the roar. For a moment, the future felt distant, and the present shone brightly in the light of the fires and the warmth of his people.

But as the cheer subsided and the revelry resumed, Hennie’s gaze turned eastward, where he knew Ceulemans’ army waited. The weight returned, heavier than before. The new year had come, and with it, the promise of a final reckoning. After a moment, however, he turned his eyes back to the present.

The celebrations carried on, growing more spirited as the night deepened. Lanterns strung across the square flickered in the wintry breeze, their light dancing on the snow-packed cobblestones. A makeshift stage had been erected near the centre, and musicians—townsfolk and soldiers alike—gathered to play Faursian tunes. The sounds of fiddles, bagpipes, and drums filled the air, weaving a melody that tugged at the hearts of all present.

Hennie stood to one side, his arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold. A group of soldiers had begun a lively Highland dance, their boots pounding the ground in rhythm with the music. Townsfolk clapped and cheered, some even joining in despite their heavy winter clothes. For a moment, the war seemed distant, the cold and hunger forgotten.

Folkert strode into the centre of the square, his booming voice cutting through the music. “Who here thinks they can outdance a Highlander?” he bellowed, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Come on, then! Let us see some courage outside the battlefield!”

Laughter erupted from the crowd as several brave souls stepped forward, their cheeks flushed from drink and cold. Folkert led them into a fast-paced reel, his broad frame moving with surprising agility. The onlookers clapped in time, their cheers growing louder with each misstep and near stumble.

“Watch yer feet, lad!” Folkert teased one young soldier who tripped over himself. “We cannae have ye tripping over the enemy like that!”

Nearby, Gosse and Reinder sat on a low stone wall, sharing a bottle of Faursian whisky. Gosse was laughing heartily at Folkert’s antics, while Reinder shook his head with a wry smile. “That man could charm the devil himself,” Reinder remarked, tipping the bottle toward Gosse before taking another swig.

“Aye,” Gosse agreed, his tone more serious. “He keeps their spirits up. They need that.”

“And ye, Gosse? What keeps yer spirit up?” Reinder asked, his tone light but his gaze steady.

Gosse’s grin faltered for a moment, and he looked out over the square. “Hope,” he said simply, then added with a faint smile, “and a wee bit o’ whisky.”

Reinder chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Aye, that’ll do.”

On the other side of the square, Peter stood with a small group of townsfolk. He was deep in conversation with an elderly man who spoke with quiet intensity. The man gestured toward the soldiers dancing and the townsfolk cheering, his voice carrying just enough for Peter to hear. “This night will be remembered, sir, long after we’re gone. For all our sakes, make sure it’s remembered for the right reasons.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “I will do my utmost.”

Harmen, meanwhile, had taken it upon himself to distribute bread and cheese from the stores to the gathered townsfolk, ensuring no one went hungry that night. “It’s nae much,” he said to one grateful mother with a child on her hip. “But it’s yours. Share it well.”

“Thank ye, sir,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Ye’re a good man.”

Harmen inclined his head and moved on, his steps heavy. He knew the supplies were dwindling and that soon, there would be nothing left to share.

As the night wore on, Hennie finally allowed himself to be drawn into the warmth of the crowd. A young woman approached him, her wide eyes full of wonder. She held out a small wreath made of evergreen branches and berries. “For ye, my Prince,” she said shyly.

Hennie knelt, accepting the wreath with a soft smile. “Thank ye, lass. Ye’ve a kind heart.”

The girl giggled and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Hennie holding the simple gift. He turned it over in his hands, the weight of its meaning far heavier than its physical form. Rising, he placed it carefully atop his head, drawing a cheer from the crowd.

Folkert clapped him on the back. “Ye look the part now, Hennie. The Prince o’ Faursia, crowned by his people.”

“Let us hope I’m worthy o’ it,” Hennie replied, his voice quiet. “I havnae been so far…”, he murmured silently.

The bells of the Hege Tsjerke tolled again, marking the hour. Midnight was drawing closer, and with it, the symbolic end of one year and the uncertain beginning of another. The musicians struck up another tune, this one slower, almost mournful, and the crowd began to gather for the final moments of Baarmanei.

Hennie stood among his men and his people, the wreath still on his head, his heart heavy but resolute. As the clock neared midnight, he raised his voice, addressing the crowd. “This year has brought us trials and loss, but also strength and unity. We stand together tonight, as Faursians, as one. Let us carry that unity into the days ahead, nae matter what may come.”

A cheer erupted, followed by a moment of silence as the bells began to toll the final strokes of the year. Cups were raised, hands clasped, and prayers murmured. When the last bell rang, the crowd erupted into song, their voices filling the square with a defiant hope.

Hennie closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. For tonight, at least, they were not soldiers or rebels. They were Faursians, bound together by the firelight and the promise of a new year.