Fighting for the King (Kennett's Campaigns Book 1)

A Soldier’s Trial in the French Revolutionary War

In 1793, as الثورة sweeps across France, Gregory Kennett is drawn from a comfortable life in England into the uncertainty of war. After the execution of his closest friend, he purchases a commission in the 136th Foot, expecting honor and clarity of purpose. Instead, he finds confusion, political tension, and a relentless enemy who may be hunting his regiment for reasons far more personal than strategic.

Marching across the battle-scarred landscapes of Europe, Gregory learns the harsh realities of soldiering—fractured alliances, shifting loyalties, and the brutal demands of survival. Under the command of a cynical and hard-drinking captain, and alongside a mysterious French servant with a dangerous past, he is forced to question who the real target is—and why.

As the campaign deteriorates and the bitter winter of 1795 closes in, survival becomes the only goal. With enemies closing from all sides and the truth about his companions emerging, Gregory must navigate duty, loyalty, and the cost of war in a conflict that reshapes both nations and men.

Fighting for the King is a richly detailed historical novel by Malcolm Archibald, blending military realism with personal drama to bring the early years of the French Revolutionary War vividly to life.

Begin the journey with Gregory Kennett and discover a story of courage, conflict, and endurance—start reading today.

Excerpt from the book

NORTH DOWNS, KENT, ENGLAND

AUGUST 1792

Gregory Kennett stood on the summit of Viewpoint Hill, looking down on Torham Manor. It was his favourite view of his home, with the house and immediate grounds nestled in the valley between Viewpoint Hill and Manor Tor.

Alan Le Gall stood beside him, gazing over the gentle green North Downs, dotted with sheep and with fertile meadows beyond. The cattle were plump and contented, flowers filled the gardens of the weather-boarded cottages, and the towers and spires of churches punctured the serene sky.

“People call Kent the Garden of England,” Gregory said.

“It is beautiful,” Alan said, smiling. “Nearly as lovely as France.”

Gregory laughed. “I am sure France is a lovely country,” he said. “I look forward to touring it with you.”

Alan nodded. “Not at present,” he said seriously. “Wait until the turmoil subsides, and we will tour together. I will show you Paris, the tower at Rouen, the vineyards of Provence and Burgundy, and best of all, fair Bretagne and the even fairer girls.”

Gregory laughed. “You’ve often spoken about the French girls,” he said. “I already have Amelia, but I will enjoy meeting some of them.”

“It’s only fair,” Alan said. “You introduced me to some English roses.”

Gregory smiled at the memories of their time together in Eton. “And got you into trouble over some of them.”

When Alan laughed, his freckles merged. “Your schoolmasters were more strict about such matters than our French masters would have been.”

“Maybe I should have gone to school in France,” Gregory said.

They looked up as a cloud passed overhead, casting a temporary shadow and dropping light rain across the verdant slopes.

“I enjoy the rain,” Gregory said. “It keeps Kent green and fertile.”

Alan shrugged. “We have rain in Bretagne as well. Your home looks old. How long has Torham Manor stood there?”

“Forever,” Gregory answered. He took his home for granted. “Do you see that grassy mound at the side?”

“Yes,” Alan said.

“That was the site of a Norman motte-and-bailey castle.”

Alan tried to look impressed. “That’s old, then. Six hundred years? Seven hundred?”

“About that, but the Norman castle was built on a Jutish settlement that was another few hundred years older.”

Alan smiled, turning up his face to the gentle rain. “Why choose this spot?”

“The original castles guarded the pass through the hills,” Gregory said. “Torham Manor is one of the most strategic sites in the North Downs.” He looked beyond his family home to the village of Swallowford on the River Swallow and, past that, across the soft fields to the distant port of Dover and the blue of the English Channel.

“Your house guards the pass from the savage French?” Alan asked innocently.

“Maybe,” Gregory said, smiling. “Or the savage Britons that the Jutes were fighting. It was all a long time ago.”

Alan laughed. “Hopefully, our two countries will never be at war again, Gregory.”

“Hopefully not, Alan,” Gregory agreed. “And if we are, I do not intend to join the army.”

“Neither do I, my friend,” Alan said, “I have lands to tend and tenants to look after.”

They began to walk down the smooth slope to Torham Manor, passing grazing sheep.