Chapter 1: The Bitter Wind

The year was 1360, and spring had come to France with a vengeance. Instead of gentle rains and budding flowers, the land was scourged by icy winds that howled through the battered villages of the Beauce. The fields lay waterlogged, the roads thick with mud—a cruel jest from the heavens, for the armies of England and France gathered near Chartres, poised for blood. For Guillaume de Mézières, a seventeen-year-old squire in the retinue of Sir Yves de Montfort, the cold was a living thing, gnawing at the edges of his resolve. He pressed his borrowed mail shirt closer to his thin tunic, shivering as he trudged behind his master’s destrier. The English banners—three golden lions on red—fluttered in the distance, encamped outside the smoking wrecks of the prior week’s skirmishes. Guillaume’s heart hammered with dread and excitement. Only three days past, rumors had swept through the French host: King Edward of England himself was here, the Black Prince at his side. Against them, the French king, Jean II, mustered his battered knights. That night, as the campfires flickered low, Sir Yves called Guillaume to his side. “Boy,” he said, his voice gruff, “you will ride with me come morning. They say the English are sending envoys to parley. We must be ready for anything—the wind, the English, or God’s own wrath.” Guillaume nodded, his mouth dry. He thought of his mother’s prayers, whispered in a chapel far from these fields, and of the stories of chivalry he’d devoured as a page. None had prepared him for this: the hungry crows circling above, the mud sucking at his boots, the scent of burning thatch on the air. He lay awake much of the night, listening to the groans of wounded men and the distant thunder of the storm. Somewhere, beneath the cold stars, the fate of France was unspooling—and he was caught in its braid. —

Chapter 2: The Pale Host

Dawn broke sullen and grey, the wind snapping at the standards along the French lines. The soldiers emerged from their tents, faces pinched and eyes rimmed red from sleeplessness. Guillaume’s fingers were stiff as he saddled Sir Yves’s horse, hands shaking as he tightened the girth. Sir Yves, a bear of a man with a streak of white in his beard, mounted with practiced ease. “Stay close,” he instructed. “You are my eyes and ears when I speak. Listen well and remember.” The two joined the column riding toward the neutral ground where the parley would be held. Guillaume’s heart thudded as he surveyed the English camp: taut rows of tents, the air heavy with the metallic tang of arms. He caught glimpses of the English knights—gaunt, mud-streaked, their eyes as wary as their French counterparts. At the center, beneath a makeshift awning, the envoys assembled. Flags of truce fluttered, white as bones. Guillaume watched as Sir Yves and the other French nobles greeted the English delegation. Among them stood a tall, broad-shouldered knight in blackened plate—no doubt Edward, the Black Prince, his reputation for ferocity echoing even here. The talk was stiff, words like swords—demands for ransom, for territory, for allegiance. As squires, Guillaume and his English counterpart, a freckle-faced youth named Hugh, stood at the edge, exchanging wary glances above the clatter of tongues. The parley ended with no peace. As the French rode back, the sky darkened once more. Guillaume felt a chill deeper than the wind. “This is not over, is it?” he ventured. Sir Yves only shook his head. “No, lad. It is only beginning.” —

Chapter 3: The Hailstorm

On the evening of April 13th, 1360, the world seemed to end. Guillaume was helping to patch a tent when the sky turned greenish-black. A hush fell over the camp, broken only by the distant roll of thunder. Men looked up, uneasy, as the first fat drops of rain spattered the earth. Then the hail began. At first, it rattled harmlessly on shields and helms—then the stones grew. They fell in fists, in hammers, in torrents that battered the tents flat and sent men scrambling for cover. Horses screamed, men cried out, and the sky unleashed a fury as if the wrath of God had descended. Guillaume darted beneath a wagon, clutching his cloak over his head as hailstones the size of apples pummeled the earth. He saw a knight fall, blood streaming from his scalp. All around, men prayed, cursed, or sobbed as the storm raged. When at last it passed, the camp was a ruin. Dead men and horses dotted the sodden ground. Even the mighty King Edward’s host had suffered grievous losses. Rumors flew: the English believed this was a sign, divine judgment for their invasion. The French, too, whispered of God’s anger. Guillaume crawled from his shelter, soaked and shaking. He found Sir Yves, who was nursing a bruised arm but alive. Together, they surveyed the wreckage. “Perhaps,” Sir Yves murmured, “God Himself wishes this war to end.” Guillaume swallowed, looking at the battered banners. For the first time, hope flickered in his chest. —

Chapter 4: Envoys of Peace

The days after the storm were filled with uneasy calm. Both armies licked their wounds, the mood transformed from defiant to chastened. Messengers darted between camps, white flags raised high. The word on every tongue was peace. Guillaume accompanied Sir Yves to the second parley, this time held in a battered chapel outside Brétigny. The air inside was damp and smelled of old stone and wet wool. English envoys, led by the Black Prince himself, met a delegation of French nobles. The talks were tense, the cost of peace high. Edward demanded vast swathes of land—Calais, Gascony, Poitou, and more. The French, desperate to halt the bleeding, haggled and pleaded. Guillaume watched as Sir Yves whispered urgently with other lords, their voices low and urgent. During a break, Guillaume found himself beside Hugh, the English squire from before. The boy was pale, a bandage peeking from under his cap. “Did you lose anyone?” Guillaume asked quietly, in awkward French. “My uncle,” Hugh said, blinking hard. “And three horses. They say the Prince himself wept.” For a moment, the lines between enemy and friend blurred. “May God grant them rest,” Guillaume whispered. When the talks resumed, both kings sent word: they would meet in person. The Treaty of Brétigny was taking shape, a fragile hope stitched from loss and exhaustion. —

Chapter 5: The Price of Kings

The day King Jean of France and King Edward of England met to seal the treaty, the world seemed to hold its breath. Guillaume stood at the edge of the assembled throng, craning to see the two monarchs as they approached beneath the ruined archway. King Jean, proud but battered by years of war and captivity, faced Edward—victorious, but chastened by God’s storm. The negotiations were long, tempers fraying as the details were hammered out. Guillaume watched as Sir Yves pleaded for leniency for local peasants, as French nobles argued over lost lands, as English lords pressed for gold and hostages. In the end, the Treaty of Brétigny was signed: England would gain vast territories, King Jean would pay a king’s ransom, and the Black Prince would return his royal prisoner. The war, at least for now, was over. As the ink dried on vellum, Guillaume felt a strange emptiness. So much blood for a few scraps of parchment. He saw Hugh among the English, his face somber. Later, as the French retinue prepared to depart, Guillaume found Sir Yves staring at the horizon. “Was it worth it, my lord?” he asked. Sir Yves sighed, his eyes haunted. “We shall see, boy. We shall see.” —

Chapter 6: The Road Home

The return to Paris was slow and muddy, the roads choked with refugees and broken men. But the fear that had haunted every step—of sudden English attack, of death by arrow or blade—had ebbed. In its place was exhaustion, and a fragile hope. Guillaume rode beside Sir Yves, helping to care for the wounded and sharing what little bread they could find. The land was scarred, fields trampled and villages burned, but the churches rang their bells in celebration of peace. At a roadside inn, Guillaume and Hugh crossed paths once more. The English were returning to Calais, their eyes already turning to the next campaign. “We go home now,” Hugh said, managing a thin smile. “Perhaps we will see each other again, in better times.” Guillaume nodded, uncertain. Yet he felt the weight in his chest lift a little. “May God keep you,” he said. “And you, Frenchman,” Hugh replied. —

Chapter 7: The Banner Lowered

Paris in early May was a city transformed. News of the treaty spread like wildfire; the bells tolled for days. Yet beneath the jubilation lingered grief for the lost and uncertainty for the future. Guillaume returned to his family’s modest house, greeted by his mother’s tears and his father’s silent embrace. He tried to describe all he had seen—the storm, the parley, the kings—but words failed him. That summer, as the banners of war were packed away, Guillaume found himself changed. He trained harder, listened more closely, and watched the sky for omens. He would serve Sir Yves until he could earn his own spurs, but the frost of 1360 and the peace of Brétigny would mark him forever. He had seen the price of war, and the fragile hope of peace. And as he watched the battered French banners lowered, Guillaume knew that whatever came next, he would face it not as a boy, but as one who had witnessed the turning of history. —