Chapter 441: Not Enough to See

The smoke of gunpowder over the Bowe Plain has not yet cleared.

Zhu Yong stood in front of the Burgundians' Central Command Tent, watching soldiers far away sweeping the battlefield.

Prisoner squads were marched to the south, weapons piled into small hills, and grain and fodder littered everywhere.

The air was thick with the heavy scent of blood and gunpowder, mingled with the fresh smell of earth turned over by explosions.

This battle is over.

The Burgundians' twenty thousand main force suffered over three thousand dead and wounded, took just over ten thousand prisoners, and fewer than five thousand fled.

The Bretons fled quickly, but Li Wenzhong led five thousand Longxiang soldiers to catch up, cutting down over a thousand, capturing more than three thousand, and the remaining scattered troops fled west.

The allied forces of Provence and Auvergne suffered the worst, moving the slowest; Zhu Di swept in from the side, killing or wounding more than half, and the survivors all knelt.

"Prince, the battlefield sweeping is almost done," Wang Gui said as he walked over from afar, blood spattered on him, but his spirits were high.

He had fought alongside Zhu Yong for so many years that he was already accustomed to such scenes.

Zhu Yong nodded and hung the hammer back on his horse.

"How many prisoners?"

"In total over sixteen thousand: seven thousand Burgundians, four thousand Bretons, three thousand from Provence and Auvergne, and more than two thousand conscripted locals.

More than three thousand warhorses were seized, and the grain and fodder would last two months."

"The prisoners will be assigned as auxiliary troops, sent to repair roads and mine; the warhorses stay to replenish the cavalry, and the grain and fodder will be inventoried into the storehouse," Zhu Yong said calmly; he no longer needed to think about these matters, and his subordinates all knew how to handle them.

Wang Gui responded with a nod and asked, "What about those nobles! Over twenty were captured: the Duke of Burgundy, the nephew of the Duke of Brittany, the younger son of the Count of Provence, all locked over there."

Zhu Yong looked in the direction Wang Gui pointed.

In the distance, on a clearing, more than twenty prisoners in splendid robes crouched in a line, watched by Longxiang soldiers.

Some bowed their heads, some shivered, and a young one kept crying.

Wuweizhe Yuehan knelt at the front, his helmet missing, hair disheveled, his purple cloak caked in mud, a complete mess.

"The land will be confiscated, property registered, people sent to mine, placed together with Cha Li Liu Shi, and later sent back to Yingtian Prefecture."

Wang Gui nodded, turned, and left.

Zhu Di rode in from the west, his iron armor splattered with blood, but his face was clean.

He had a habit in battle: after fighting, he would wipe his face, saying the blood made it hard to see.

"Second Prince, few Bretons made it back; they probably can't muster many troops, and Provence fared even worse, the leading count was cut down, and his men all scattered."

Zhu Yong hummed, looked up at the sky.

The sun had already shifted westward; in two more hours it would be night.

"Let the brothers hurry, finish cleaning before nightfall, and set out north at first light tomorrow."

"Northward, Calais..."

"Hmm, the England fleet is arriving soon, Feng Sheng is alone over there, forces insufficient," Zhu Yong swung onto his horse, turned his mount toward the camp.

Zhu Di followed, hesitated, and asked, "Second Prince, the Duke of Burgundy—really sent to mine?"

Zhu Yong gave him a glance.

"What, do you know him?"

"I don't know him, just feel… he's still a regional lord, sending him to mine, isn't that a bit…"

"What does it matter that he's a regional lord? His people have been taxed for years; have you seen the clothes on those Burgundian soldiers? Patches upon patches, not even a decent pair of boots."

"And yet he wears a cloak edged with gold," Zhu Yong said evenly, though his meaning was clear.

Zhu Di said nothing further.

He recalled the Burgundian soldiers on the battlefield just now; indeed they wore tattered clothes, their weapons were all over the place, some had no helmets, just a cloth wrapped around their heads.

This is the European aristocracy.

They send the common folk to die in war while they dress in gold and silver, seize territory when they win, and beg for mercy when they lose.

Back at the camp, the bonfire had already been lit.

The soldiers sat around the fire, gnawing dry rations, drinking water, chatting and laughing.

"Did you hear? The Duke of Burgundy was sent to mine by the Prince."

"Mining, not beheading…"

"Beheading is too cheap for him; the Prince said, let him mine for a lifetime to return the money he plundered from the people."

"This method… is good, more satisfying than beheading."

A few veterans chatted animatedly; Zhu Yong walked past, and they quickly rose to salute.

Zhu Yong waved his hand, letting them continue eating.

He entered the Central Command Tent and sat on a chair.

On the table lay a full map of France, from Paris northward to the Calais Strait.

Calais, on the northwestern coast of France, is the England's last foothold on the continent.

Henry V's fleet will set out from Portsmouth, cross the English Channel, and land at Calais.

Feng Sheng went to Calais three days ago, bringing five thousand Longxiang troops; together with the five thousand already garrisoned, they mustered ten thousand men.

Ten thousand defenders were enough, but the England arrived this time with fifteen thousand, plus dozens of warships; merely defending would not suffice, they must strike out.

"Second Prince, General Feng has sent a letter," Zhu Di lifted the tent curtain and entered, holding a military report.

Zhu Yong took it and unfolded it.

Feng Sheng's handwriting was large, each stroke forceful, as if carved with a knife.

"Prince, the England fleet has already reached the Calais Strait, about sixty ships, fifteen thousand men, led by Henry V himself.

I have reinforced the city defenses; all cannons are in place, please arrive quickly, Prince."

After reading, Zhu Yong placed the report on the table.

"Sixty ships, fifteen thousand men, plus the remnants of Burgundy and Brittany, making twenty thousand is no problem."

"Twenty thousand versus eighty thousand, not worth watching," Zhu Di sat down beside him.

"We cannot underestimate the enemy; England's longbowmen are formidable, long‑range and fast‑shooting. Our plate armor can block them, but our warhorses cannot."

"When the cavalry charges, first take out their longbowmen," Zhu Yong tapped on the map.

Zhu Di nodded and said nothing more.

The curtain was drawn back again, and Zhu Qiong Jiong entered carrying a Wolf Fang Club, his whole body covered in blood and a smear on his face.

The twelve‑year‑old boy kills with a fierceness even harsher than his father's; in today's battle he again rushed to the front.

"Father, up north we captured a few officials, hidden under a carriage, and Uncle Wang Gui found them."

"Bring them over..."

After a short while, several Longxiang Army soldiers escorted three middle‑aged men in brocade robes into the room.

The three knelt on the ground, trembling all over, muttering something.

Wang Gui stepped forward from behind and translated, "Prince, they are Counts of Burgundy, saying they are willing to pay for their redemption."

Zhu Yong looked at the three men and fell silent for a moment.

Redemption—an old custom among European nobility: after a defeat they pay money to buy back their lives.

"Tell them, Great Ming's rule is: no redemption; the land is confiscated, property registered, and the person is sent to mine."

Wang Gui relayed it, and the three counts' faces turned pale at once.

The oldest, trembling, uttered a few words; after Wang Gui heard them, he turned and said, "Prince, he says his family has lived on this land for centuries and is willing to pay one million Jin coins for redemption."