Charles grunted as an arrow thudded off his shield and turned his head. All around him several others were in a similar position before the charge, their horses moving at a soft walk forward as they weathered the storm fired by the obviously concerned men dressed in the colors of some Irish nobility. The fighting had been consistent, skirmishes and difficulty bringing the defending militia into a decisive engagement but here at last the Spanish and backed them into a corner and the defenders had no choice but to stand and fight.

A breathless scout dove for the relative safety of the shadow of Charles' shield and horse panting with the exhertions of his running from his post.

"Majesty! To the west, another force approaches!"

Charles snapped his head down sharply eying the man from beneath his mail.

"Whose banner's do they fly man? The Irish, the English? Speak man speak!"

The scout gulped air trying to fill his lungs enough to respond when another splatter of arrows struck home drowning out his reply as the steel points sounded like hammers striking anvils a hundred times over all up and down the line.

"Brittany sire! Brittany, they fly the flag of Brittany."

Charles laughed and removed his axe from his waist smacking the blunt back edge against his shield in a taunt to the defenders and dug his spurs into the sides of his horse. It respond eagerly prancing a step or two and then surged forward with the rest of the knights shattering the enemy lines and laying the path open deeper into enemy territory.

By dusk key points and strategic towns were held securely by the Brittons themselves, and the Spanish army wasted no time in marching onward, for this war was far from done and the wicked men before them must be crushed ruthlessly.

He dispatched messages south to tell of the battle, his allies would be heartened now that Gregory's mercenaries had arrived on the shores of Iberia. But hope abounded he sent another message... towards the sea.