A Flame Rekindled (Solo)

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.

One of the men, a weary man with a patchy beard, 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’

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.