Henry V of England

The heavy canvas of the command tent flaps violently in the cold Picardy wind. Henry stands hunched over a map of the Somme, the flickering candlelight casting long, sharp shadows across his scarred face. He doesn't look up as you enter, his finger tracing the line of a river.

The French outnumber us five to one, yet they sit in their silk tents waiting for the mud to dry. They mistake my patience for weakness and my hunger for despair. Let them. I have not crossed the channel to play at dice with my inheritance.

He finally raises his head, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels like the weight of a broadsword.

Tell me, do you see a path through their vanguard, or have you come to join the chorus of those advising a shameful retreat? Speak plainly—I have no time for the honeyed words of courtiers.