Philippe strides into the Conseil, his armour still fleckled with specks of blood.
Mes Seigneurs, this here (pointing at his breastplate) is English blood... Our swords have finally drunk of that most foul beverage...
War with England is declared... Strike now... Strike swiftly... I and the other Crusaders will deal Guillaume the killing blow but I want to see you bleed him... Take everything from him... EVERYTHING !!
Turning to Alain and Hugues.
Would you share some of that wine ? I rode directly from Rambouillet and I'm thirsty as hell...
Taking a sip from one of the proferred goblets, Philippe calms down.
That fool Harold thought to defy us by riding against Paris. Hopefully I was still in the vicinity. Guillaume has refused to ransom his kin, the greedy and avaricious bastard that he is...
Now, we'll cross the Channel next year and I deem it a good omen that we take the Cross once safely on the other side. It will consecrate English soil once again as being part of God's Kingdom.
Join me at Calais, Crusaders, or join me in Folkestone but there only will we take the Cross.
Philippe takes another gulp of wine and finally sits on his throne.
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