A massive thank you goes to @Tudorfan who very helpfully wrote the majority of this section for me. Thank you for rescuing me from being unable to write war!
Brandon had never liked war. He had lost his own father when he was little more than a babe suckling on his mother's breasts to a war that had created barely sustainable peace and then, ultimately, even more bloodshed before the Kingdom had finally been united. That did not, however, mean that he would not fight when his King commanded it. His wife might shout herself hoarse at the thought of him endangering himself in battle and he might be barred from her bed for a month on his return, but she was not the King, not the master of his fortunes.
At the King's command he had sailed to Calais with a thousand men and half as many archers to relieve it from the French - much to his surprise, this had been surprisingly easy. King Francis had been stunned to hear of Henry’s surge out of Cherbourg and had dropped the siege of the city in favour of marching to Normandy’s aid almost before Charles had had a chance to disembark his forces. The people of Calais had had been delighted to see their rescuers, showering Charles and his men in garlands of autumn blooms as they rode through the town.
And now, they were all reuniting, preparing for one last push before the winter truly set in. Having sailed from Hull, Henry had taken Cherbourg by force, burning and pillaging their food stocks, forcing the people to their knees in servitude to him. As he’d said he would, he’d taken a leaf out of his ancestor Edward III’s book in terms of tactics - if it was not vital for his forces and he did not need it, then it would be burned. Using the English familiarity with the autumn damp to his advantage, the King drove his force hard. They moved quickly, strategically - for his advanced age, Norfolk really was an excellent general - and they had managed to stay ahead of King Francis’s pursuit. Moreover, they’d taken town after town, as they advanced towards Rouen - every major town, city or even village they came across, from Bayeux, Longueville to Caen, from Lisieux to Brionne, and, finally, Rouen itself. No matter where they went, people valued their lives more than anything and surrendered to the King, or else paid him off with food and money, leaving the majority of his forces unharmed and prepared to fight in Rouen as they needed to.
Charles had come from Calais himself, and he hadn’t come alone – though he’d left half the soldiers behind to refresh the garrison at Calais, the other 500 and the archers had travelled with him to support their King.
As they rode up to Rouen, it became clearer by the day that the French King had underestimated the English King. He’d failed to consider that Henry might be willing to risk Calais in the hope of larger gains. In doing so, Francois had been caught unawares, and while on the defensive, lost a large measure of the trust his Norman subjects, always a fickle lot, had had for him. Henry, however, was more firmly ensconced in his soldiers’ hearts than ever. He’d thrown himself into the fight, never asking more of his men than he gave himself. Indeed, he’d been the first over the walls at Caen, and had a nasty slash across the top of his left arm to show for it. When the two armies finally clashed, on the fields within sight of Rouen, it wasn’t the difference in skill that mattered. It was the difference in loyalty. Riding high on their own confidence and trusting their King to guide them to victory, the English fought like lions, battling out of their skins to win him the city that had once been the ducal capital of his ancestors.
Stunned by the onslaught, the French lines wavered, then shattered, despite the presence of King Francis, who rode the whole length of the battlefield countless times, screaming himself hoarse as he implored his troops to hold their position.
In vain. Before the next day dawned, the Duke of Longueville found himself a prisoner of the English, Anne de Montmorency was wounded and King Francis was gravely injured by a misfired canon ball and something which the English would later term as 'a billhook that mysteriously came out of nowhere.'
Knowing when he was in desperate need of a regrouping, King Francis retreated behind the walls of Rouen, but it was only a matter of time before the town, too, yielded. After a week of constant fighting, the walls of Rouen fell.
They crashed to the ground in a cacaphony of dust and noise just as it was getting too dark to see.
Henry gave a jubilant shout.
“That’s it! England and St George!”
He spurred his horse forward and the men followed, exhaustion and the dim light forgotten in their surge of triumph.
The night was one of those that seemed to pass in both the blink of an eye yet drag on forever, as the French battled them for every inch of ground within the streets.
Yet when the morning came, as they marched into the central square, the situation proved to be very different.
Charles, Duke of Bourbon stood on the Cathedral steps, filthy and haggard with exhaustion. For all that, he was a most welcome sight for many of the Englishmen. Indeed, he sent a wave of relief and exhilaration crashing through the English ranks, for he was waving a strip of white linen above his head.
