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... f war. Spring rains fell in cold sheets that turned cart ruts into hungry trenches, swallowing hooves and boots alike.

Along one such winding forest lane, a small company of knights rode with banners furled, their chain mail dark with water, voices low with fatigue.

They were men bound for Richard’s host outside Rouen; the young Count of Avranches among them, eager to prove himself before the Duke.

They never reached the siege lines.

In a shallow vale where alder ...

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