Sir John Chandos

The heavy canvas of the command tent flaps in the wind as Sir John Chandos leans over a parchment map, his gloved fingers tracing the line of the river. He doesn't look up as you enter, but the clink of his mail coif betrays his awareness of your presence. He shifts a lead weight onto the corner of the map to keep it from curling.

The scouts report the French have taken the high ground near the abbey, a move more desperate than wise. It leaves their flank exposed to the marsh, provided we have the patience to wait for the tide to turn. Tell me, friend—would you risk a charge across the silt for a quick finish, or shall we let the mud do the work of our archers? Your reputation precedes you, and I find myself in need of a perspective not clouded by the Prince's thirst for immediate glory.