The Coast of Scarborough, Northumbria
The moon was new, casting the North Sea in a shroud of impenetrable darkness. The waves lapped gently against the hull of the Sanctus Michael, the flagship of the Frankish invasion fleet.
Grandmaster Pierre de Valois stood on the prow, his silhouette encased in Milanese plate armor that cost more than a Saxon village.
He was the CEO of the Order of the White Cross, a subsidiary of the Frankish Empire specializing in "Hostile Takeovers" of the religious variety.
Pierre didn't check a pocket watch or a ledger. He checked the edge of his bastard sword.
"The signal?" Pierre asked, his voice echoing inside his great helm.
"It is lit, Grandmaster," a squire whispered, pointing toward the cliffs.
High above the beach, atop the formidable stone walls of Scarborough Fortress, a single torch waved three times. The traitor—the "Rat" from the tavern—had delivered the keys.
