Stand back, Sir Hugh! What say you, my lord of Warwick?
Ay, it is a gruesome task, but let the Welshmen out, those wounded will be well rid of their pain, and Christ have mercy on their souls.

Forget not when it is finished to gather all men that they may give thanks to God for His great mercies." Well nigh a year had gone, for once again the sun shone in the brazen August heavens.

Calais had fallen at last.

Only that day six of her noblest citizens had come forth, bearing the keys of the fortress, clad in white shirts, with ropes about their necks, and been rescued from instant death at the hands of the headsman by the prayer of Queen Philippa.
In his tent sat Hugh de Cressi, who, after so much war and hardship, looked older than his years, perhaps because of a red scar across the forehead, which he had come by during the siege.

With him was his father, Master de Cressi, who had sailed across from Dunwich with a cargo of provisions, whereof, if the truth were known, he had made no small profit.