Our vessels stood their ground, waiting. But as soon as they were in range, grappling-irons flew, hooking English vessels to ours. Our once organised harbour now resembled a vast floating raft of entwined, fighting ships. Before we could make our move, a deadly rain fell upon us. English archers, those dreaded bowmen, were using our decks as 'sitting targets'. Their arrows pierced through the thickest of our shields and the strongest of our mail coats. I saw friends, warriors in their prime, cut down in mere moments. The cheerful, proud faces I had breakfasted with were now lifeless, piled three-deep upon our decks.

And then, just as quickly, the second wave hit. English men-at-arms, with a hunger in their eyes, clambered across the hooked vessels, joining the melee. It was pure chaos – the thrum of arrows, the clang of swords, the screams of the dying, and the slippery feeling of blood underfoot. More than once, I nearly lost my footing on our blood-soaked deck.

I remember Yves, the brave archer from Normandy, stationed beside me. He switched from his bow to his sword, trying desperately to defend our ship. The English were relentless. They pushed us, step by step, forcing many to the edge. I witnessed comrades, weighed down by their armour, plunge into the unforgiving sea. Some tried to hide, crouching behind sails, diving under booms, but there was no escaping the English onslaught.

By some stroke of luck or divine intervention, I found myself among the rear squadron of twenty-four French ships that managed to flee. The tales later spoke of Edward’s claim that 30,000 Frenchmen died, though the whispers among the survivors estimated it closer to 10,000 or 12,000. All I knew was that too many brothers-in-arms were lost that day.

The Battle of Sluys was a harsh lesson, a memory forever etched in blood and saltwater. And though I, Lucien, lived to tell the tale, the shadows of that day would haunt me forever.