Stories Thread

Thread for IC stories for KOTF (battle reports excluded).

No OOC posts please, and if your story involves other player's characters doing or saying things they have not in-game or in an IC post, please ask their permission.

The Ballad of Hermant Mauvoisin


My first sight of Hermant Mauvoisin was of him as a young man, standing aloof from the other new students at the seminary. I confess I was immediately drawn to him. Tall, with striking if gaunt looks, he affected a supercilious disdain of all the other recruits, huddled together and chattering nervously as they awaited the Monsignor.

I recall the Monsignor’s entrance, long thick cane in hand, flanked by two of the more officious priests. Doubtless he harangued and cajoled the new students, as was his want, aiming to intimidate and to browbeat them into submission. I remember the students gathered around the Monsignor in a semi-circle, heads down almost as if in prayer, eyes only daring to glance upwards as their new master strutted back and forth among them - the cane flashing at any student whose demeanour betrayed any foolishness or awkwardness. It did not take long for the Monsignor’s cruel eyes to fasten on Hermant, still standing apart, watching the Monsignor’s parade with an almost amused look of indifference. At 18, Hermant was several years older than most of the new recruits to the seminary and, even when leaning against a cart, he seemed to tower above their bowed forms.

“You!” the Monsignor exclaimed, pointing his cane at Hermant and marching towards him: “What are you looking at?”

With a leisurely grace, Hermant straightened and replied with a breathless fluency: “Watching the work of God, Monsignor.”

The Monsignor stopped his approach abruptly, as if confused. He eyed Hermant quizzically, and then - as if aware of a sand timer about to run dry - he turned back to the mass of new students around him and resumed his harangue. Hermant was left unmolested, although from all the new arrivals, he was only one whose face the Monsignor remembered at the close of day.

*****

Most students became accustomed to the seminary. They learnt its rules and requirements. They bended to its will and twisted themselves around its arcane protocols. In time, some would even flourish and grow, emerging as fine priests or holy men of some devout order. But not Hermant. The stone walls threatened to crush him and the monotonous rituals seemed to excite in him an almost maddened reaction. What had brought him to such a place so unsuited to his nature, I never learnt, but whatever it was, it was clearly insufficient to keep him there.

“I will be gone from this accursed place, whether on my own two feet or in a box, carried by eight others. But I will be gone!” he declared one night.

“You know the Monsignor never allows a new student to leave before they matriculate. It is a point of pride for him and many parents pay well for this chance to contain their troublesome sons.” I replied, trying elliptically to find out if his were such parents. But Hermant would not be drawn.

“It is intolerable! The English defile our lands! Petty warlords seek to rule cruel fiefdoms outside of any proper authority. And our King stands almost alone, with bickering Dukes and Counts more concerned with bolstering their fragile domains than with uniting behind him. How can I sit here in such times? Still less, how can I sign away my life to decades of inactivity and impotence?”

“You cannot leave. The gates are barred and the hounds find every runaway. Just complete your studies - matriculate and then you will have a chance to renounce your vocation.”

“I will find a way.” Hermant assured me.

I watched his gaze harden and could not doubt his words.

*****

It began the next evening. The other first years were gathered in the seminary bar, enjoying the wine and ale that were among the few material consolations of their training. Hermant sat, as usual, to one side, his eyes dully scanning the restive students. Then, he stood up abruptly, kicking back his stool and ostentatiously tipping up his mug and emptying the contents over the floor of the bar-room.

All the students turned to watch the spectacle, unsure what drama they were about to see.

“What’s the matter, Hermant?” one of the faster drinkers cried out “Our ale is not good enough for you?”

Hermant snorted: “No ale is good for anyone. It is an abomination of Satan’s handiwork!” Nonchalantly, he let the mug fall from his hand, clattering onto the ale-sodden timbers below him. Then he coolly left the bar.

Excited voices rose out mockingly behind him. “What’s gotten into him?” “Satan’s handiwork, by the sounds of it.” I left to follow Hermant, but paused outside the bar, listening for the continued reactions. There were guffaws and more comments, but then the excitement abated and the drinkers returned to their normal nightly vigils. Hermant’s outburst would soon have been forgotten.

*****

And yet, the next morning at breakfast, it continued. The students filed in on the cold winter’s morning after their first mass. Whether dulled by the cold, the mass or last night’s ale, they were a subdued bunch as they shuffled in line, bowls outstretched, to receive a welcome ladle of hot soup.

Hermant alone among them stood upright, straight as an arrow, with eyes fixed unflinchingly forward. When he reached the cook, he stared at the hot green liquid that been deposited in his bowl.

“What meat is in this?” he demanded.

The cook laughed. “Meat? You’ll be lucky if you find any meat in that, but it’s supposed to be pea and ham soup, same as always.”

Abruptly, Hermant upturned the bowl. The entire dining room hall seemed to freeze, as the hot green soup splattered over the floor.

“Swine-flesh is forbidden” Hermant declared. “The pig is unclean and we become what we eat.”

He turned and promptly marched back the way he came, past the other queuing students and left the dining hall hungry.

The cook stared red-faced as the soup sapped into the dining room hall floorboards and called after the departing Hermant: “Unclean! Unclean! What the hell do you call this mess you have made on my floor, you arrogant prig?!”

I hurried over to the cook and paid him what little coin I was carrying to soothe his annoyance, then left to look for Hermant.

*****

And so it continued, with Hermant’s confrontations with seminary life escalating more and more, until the inevitable collision came. I was not there when it happened, but I heard the Monsignor and six of the larger priests came and took Hermant away. He was locked in a small cell as a punishment and subjected to regular visits, where - rumour had it - the Monsignor alternated theological debate with physical chastisement. Some of the students even claimed that Hermant had declared himself a Mohammedan and was engaged in a nightly contest with the Monsignor over the most fundamental tenets of our faith. I did not believe these more outlandish stories, but I had to find out for myself what had become of my friend. So one night I gathered a large flagon of strong ale and, in a friendly manner, approached the student assigned to bring Hermant’s supper to his cell later that night. After a long and tedious drinking session, the student had finally succumbed to the ale, so I deftly unencumbered him of the keys to Hermant’s cell.

Careful not to be observed, I made my way to the outbuilding where Hermant was imprisoned and let myself into his room. I was shocked at what I saw. He was roped to his bed, his face sunken from hunger, and his body covered with sores and bruises.

He smiled on seeing me and beckoned me closer. He whispered conspiratorially: “You will do me a service. Pick up the knife…”

His voice was beguiling, halfway between a father’s voice and a lover’s. I picked up the knife.

*****

In the morning, they found him. The discovery shocked the seminary and for a while rendered it mute. Hermant was hustled out of the grounds in a well curtained carriage, taken back to his aristocratic family to recuperate. The local abbot was hastily summoned and the Monsignor departed to the abbey for a while, without explanation. With his going, the seminary appeared almost visibly to exhale, excited rumours and speculation flowing round its corridors.

No priest would confirm the story, but gradually it became understood that Hermant had been found at dawn in his cell in a most unnatural state. The ropes that had bound him to his bed had been undone and the bed itself broken up, its two longer sides fashioned into a crude cross and the larger nails extracted from its joints. The ropes had been reapplied, fastening Hermant to the cross and the nails cruelly inserted into his hands and feet. Clearly, these awful wounds could not be self inflicted but no one could believe the feckless student assigned to feed Hermant was responsible. (Fearing the reaction if his drunkenness was discovered, the student stayed silent over my role in the affair.) However, given his reputation, the same disbelief did not extend to the Monsignor - hence his departure.

I never saw Hermant again, although memories of the night before his release still haunt me. It is eight years since those events and the young man I once knew must now be in his prime. I wonder what became of him? His zeal and determination make me search for any rumour or information about him, but his name is never spoken of. I find it hard to believe that he would disappear from public view, after all his oft professed devotion to France and his vehement indignation at the state into which she has fallen.

”I will find a way.” he had sworn and so it had proved. But I cannot believe that his way should end in obscurity as soon as he left the hated seminary door.

Toulouse, 1080

Prosperity. Raynaud de Xaintrailles saw signs of it emerging everywhere in the city. It seemed as if the entire country was emerging from a dark age of sorts, and this southern city, the capital of Aquitaine, was no exception. All of the rich farmland surrounding Toulouse, all of the crops entering the city, all of it would naturally bring people. These people, no longer being farmers, would of course have to find something else to occupy their time, some other means of satisfying theirs and their families' basic needs.

And so the process of growth went. More crops came in and got sold, prompting a greater population in Toulouse itself. This city expansion caused even more demand, which was summarily filled. Money and people kept flowing in. Prince Louis's headquarters was getting larger.

However, Raynaud mulled to himself, was this necessarily a good thing? All of the signs of growth and prosperity were there, yes, and barring a total breakdown in French military discipline and a successful enemy sack, there was no reason to doubt that Toulouse would eventually grow into a true jewel - for a while. Unfortunately for all of Toulouse's inhabitants, the amount of illicit activities increased as the city blossomed, as it is bound to do in any growing area. Whorehouses were the most common, of course, but there was also an alarming amount of small taverns springing up as well as what Raynaud was sure were houses of gambling. None of this was helped out by the fact that surrounding them was wine country, perhaps the finest in the world. While still a more sophisticated drink than that terrifying ale that the English and German swine swore by across France's borders, wine still contained alcohol, and alcohol was the vintage of Satan.

Raynaud prowled around at night, searching for the military training facility that Prince Louis had mentioned to him, sword in hand, taking in the sights. He was not impressed. Candlelight burned in some of the windows, the silhouettes of men and women made out through them, standingand moving around. In one window, Raynaud was fairly certain he spotted a man and a woman engaging in an act that, while designed to produce children, was certainly initiated for reasons of simply pleasure. Disgusted, he turned away and continued walking.

Christ did not die for this, he thought to himself. He makes the ultimate sacrifice for us, and this is how we repay him? By continuing to form and create communities that are in danger of being as wicked and twisted as Sodom? Outside, two men began shouting at each other, having an argument that should have been trivial but was no doubt escalated by the presence of alcohol. These men should be inside, praying, Raynaud thought. Prince Louis's men are doing a good job of keeping this city in relatively good order, but it is not enough. The Lord's patience is far greater than that of us mortals, but even He has His limits.

Yes, if things were not to turn around, Raynaud knew what was in store. The Apocalypse of John made that quite clear.

Sinning is nothing more than a disease, a disease of the heart. Christ and the correct way of living is the cure. Like any other disease, sinning too is contagious. If you lock a group of sinners in a room together for several hours, when the time comes to lock them out you will have a group a terrible sinners. Such is simply the way of things. He would have to petition Prince Louis to build more churches, that was certain.

Unfortunately, for some people, Christ was not enough to cure the disease. Whether through apathy or atheism, they still failed to believe. For these people... he fingered his sword for a long while. Sometimes in order to save the tree you must cut off a few branches.

Eventually, Raynaud found the military training facility and practiced his swordplay long into the night.

Raoul de Châtillon did not consider himself a stupid man. No, not stupid. He was a man of action, that was all, not a man of words like all those that surrounded him back at home, who always planned and argued and debated and talked, talked, talked but never actually did anything. Pah. They could keep their smarts and their cunning. Raoul acted on his instincts, and he often acted without thought, but at least he acted. At least he got things done. In his experience, thinking too much tended to make his head spin and caused him to do the wrong thing anyway. Better to act on impulse.

But he was not stupid or simple, and few people dared to suggest he was, at least more than once. Having found that he could not best others in wits, Raoul decided to best them before they even had a chance to think instead. He was a big man, and muscular, and years of experience had made him a decent warrior – too slow and predictable to be truly great, but strong and aggressive.

But he was bored of home, of Châtillon, of all the thinkers who cowered before him but plotted behind his back, of being a glorfied landlord over some dirty peasants, of the whole silly, small town with its silly, small people and their silly, small problems. He felt a desperate need to get away from them, and do something, anything, and so, impulsively, he had set out for Paris. He had no doubt in his mind that this would cause problems, mainly for those back home but possibly for him, but it did not concern him now. Problems could be dealt with later.

What could be dealt with now was finding something to fight his boredom with. Surely someone in this blasted mess of a country had to have use for the kind of services he could provide. Raoul was not a man accustomed to following orders, but on the other hand he was good at doing as he was told, provided he respected the person doing the telling. The only man back home he had respected had been his father, but surely somewhere in this fine city there must be someone worthy.

Fine city indeed, he mused, as he rode through the city gate. Filth and violence and noise and blood. He smiled. It suited him just fine.

Reims, 1080

"These are my chambers?"

Gaeten de Rethel looked down upon the small servant of a man who was employed by Hugues de Champagne, Gaeten's Lord and Duke of the mansion he was in. The smaller man nodded quietly, his stern eyes gazing through Gaeten as if he was of no consequence, and it sent shivers down Gaeten's spine. He watched as the smaller man bowed politely, and lithely backed down the hall, silently vanishing behind a corner. Gaeten took a moment longer before entering his room, shaking his head clear.

The room was richly decorated, with a large canopy bed at the far wall, a large work desk with accompanying chair, several candles and a stack of parchment. At the opposite end were 2 large chests, side by side, for Gaeten's personal effects.

Throwing his cloak upon the chair and unbuckling his sword and scabbard from his side, Gaeten collapsed upon the bed, tired from the days journey on foot from Rethel. He brought his hands to his face, intent upon rubbing weary eyes, but he stopped as he felt the scars that criss-crossed his face like a lopsided X, one coming down at a slight angle over his right eye, the other perpendicular from it, and running the length of his face, from the right brow across his lips and down his chin.

Gaeten ran his fingers down the length of the scar, his mind drifting back to remember how he had unfortunately obtained them, and the others across his body. A knock upon the door shook him from his reverie. "Yes?", Gaeten inquired. A servant girl entered and bowed quickly. "My Lord Rethel, someone from an "Order of Chevaliers" wishes to speak to you in the main hall."

Gaeten considered before getting up with a grunt. As his eyes locked with the girls, she lowered her gaze and knitted her hands together, obviously anxious to be away from Gaeten. Taking a step forward, Gaeten lifted her chin so their eyes met.

"What is your name?"
"Julie my Lord."
"Julie...go and tell them man I will see him quickly for me."
"Yes my Lord..."

As Julie pulled away, Gaeten held onto her hand. She looked up, fear in her eyes. "Use it well - now, go, hurry, before he becomes impatient with us both." As Julie wriggled free, she inspected the 20 florins that Gaeten had slipped her, before quickly disappearing out the chamber door and down the hall. Gaeten took a quick look at his sword, but thought better of it, and started off at a leisurely pace after the servant girl Julie.

Reims, 1081

Hugues de Champagne stood in his armory surveying a rack of weapons. He was an amiable looking fellow, a product of a long line of French aristocracy and a scion of a Great House. Taking up a long sword, he held it before him. His eyes ran along the steel and he brought up a thumb to test the edge. Yes this would. . .

"Merde!" he swore as the blade cut his thumb. The sword dropped to the ground as he clasped his hands to his chest.

"Reeves! I say Reeves, I need you!"

A tall darked haired man suddenly appeared behind the Duc and proferred a handkerchief, "You have appeared to injure yourself Seigneur."

"Oui, oui," said Hugues a bit impatiently. He took the cloth and wrapped it around his wounded digit, "I was just trying to decide what weapon I was going to use in the Tourney."

Reeves coughed, trying to interject, but Hugues went on, "All of the great nobles of France will be there and I wish to make a striking impression."

Again Reeves tried to speak, "My lord. . ."

Hugues barrelled on, taking a battle axe from the rack. Hefting it, he continued, "Particularly with the King. One has to impress the King if anything is to get done."

Hugues swung the weapon over his head, testing the balance. Reeves ducked under the arc of the axe head without expression, "Sir. . ."

Hugues bore on, "And the Dauphin, he really seems to like weapons, very much into them. Got to have something to catch his eye!" He swung again.

Reeves ducked again, "My Duc, it would be unwise to use that axe in the Tourney."

Hugues lowered the weapon and turned to Reeves with a furrowed brow, "Why not? This is my Grandfather's axe, he killed a great deal of Vikings with it! Quite proud about it too, see there on the head, 'blood and iron', the family motto. . .well, it's a little obscured by that actual blood, but it's there!"

Reeves looked at the axe head that had been thrust an inch from his face without expression. "Yes, a proud tradition Seigneur, but only blunted weapons are to be allowed at the Tourney. It would be a shame if your lordship accidentally cut off the King's royal arm or leg."

Hugues paused, his face screwed up in concentration, "Yes, I see your point. Point. Ha! Well just have the thing blunted then." He shoved the axe at Reeves.

Reeves raised an eyebrow, "My lord wishes me to deface a priceless family artifact?"

Hugues's paused again, "When you say it like that, Reeves, no. . .just find me something blunted."

Reeves nodded, "Very good, my lord. I will make preparations for the trip to Paris."

Rennes, 1081

At twenty he was tall, slim and handsome, however, even though he was fully practiced in the martial aspects of his station, his physique he had not filled out. He seemed more boyish than manly, his personality however was the difference. It was large.

Years of weapons training had produced a smooth languid gait which took the young man/boy into the great hall of Bretagne.

His voice was commanding and strong, something that was detracted by his almost effeminate accent.

"All right you 'ethens!!

Were going to Pariee!!

Blow the 'orns, pack ze w'ores and tell ze page boy's to bring plenty of axeel grease...because zeir going to neeed it!!"

Slapping a passing serving wench on the arse he grabs her skirt pulls her to him and plants a loud wet deep kiss on her. She stumbles away blushing and entirely overwhelmed by the act of passion she just received.

Refreshed by 'his moment', he scans the great hall.

"Medoc!! You stinking 'ound, your wiz me!!"

A massive poodle the size of which is stunning to most, springs to its feet and lopes after its master. The cut and colour today, short cropped with huge tufts at its feet, mid section and tail, hot pink would be the most accurate description of its hue.

1060 AD

The baby was trying to cry, but the sound came out as little more than a wet gurgling. With his nose and upper lip broken, he could barely breathe.

Hugues de Perronne looked down at the infant. He knew he should feel anger, sadness, or some other emotion of sympathy or outrage, but all he really felt was relief.

“Which one of my sons did this?”

The midwife was dipping a cloth into a pail of hot water, constantly cleaning off the blood that continued to spill forth from the baby’s face. “It was Gervais, my Lord.”

Gervais. It was to be expected; he had the most to lose from the child’s birth. Five sons were too many for the Perronne estate. He had not married Marie to bear him more children. Hugues was nearly 60 and with four living sons, he had no more need of heirs. Marie was simply an amusement, a luxury, for his final years. He had not even bothered courting a noble family for a daughter; he could offer little to sustain a marriage of significance. Instead, he had taken the teenage daughter of an old squire as his third wife.

She had gained a better lifestyle than any other suitor she was likely to have received, and her father was given a modest stipend for his final years. In return, the old Lord of Perronne had a pretty young thing to amuse him in the evenings... on the few occasions when he found himself still capable of amusement.

The baby had spoiled the bargain. Marie was pretty and served her purpose well, but she had not been built for childbirth. It was a slow and painful affair, and she had not long survived it. Now Hugues was again without a wife, and in her place had a fifth son to consider.

Perronne was not a wealthy fief, far from it. The land was small, barely enough to fit the several peasant farms needed to feed the estate. The majority of the income came from ferry tolls imposed on merchants to cross the Somme River. Even that income was uncertain though. Wealthier nobles were building bridges, which were much more attractive to the merchants and would steal most of the ferry work that kept Perronne a going concern. One bridge was already under construction at a narrower crossing several miles to the south, at Béthencourt, and another was being planned to the west, at Bray.

The river was too wide at Perronne to hold a bridge, and Hugues could not have afforded the cost to construct one even if it had been possible. In any case, it was a situation for his eldest son, also named Hugues, to deal with. He would inherit the lands whole, as there was no point in splitting something that could barely sustain a single noble family as it was. Nearly 30 years old, born to Hugues’ first wife, he was doing his best to unite the Perronne lands with one of the neighboring Lords with a marriage of his own daughter, but it was difficult work. Guy, the second son, was serving as a Knight in the King’s army. With a bit of luck and skill, perhaps he could earn a fiefdom of his own. Thibaut, the first of Hugues’ sons born by his second wife, was already serving the local Abbot, and with sufficient work could achieve that position for himself some day.

That left Gervais. Gervais had little to look forward to. No inheritance, no position with the Church, and there was no longer enough money left to outfit him for service with the King. If he was lucky, he would be taken on as a squire to another local Lord, but Gervais was not lucky. He was the runt, and he knew it… at least until the new baby had arrived. Whatever little there was left for Gervais, he now faced losing half of that as well. At 10 years old, he was a demon of a child; stubborn, angry, and violent. He would make a good soldier if he could just find someone to employ him.

The midwife wiped more blood off the infant’s face. Gervais would have to be punished, but Hugues could not help but think that the boy had done them all a favor. With luck, the baby would die from the wound and that would be the end of it. Better for the Perronne family, and better for the baby as well. “Did Marie name the child before she expired?”

“Aye, m’lord” the midwife replied. “She held him for a few moments and called him Christophe.”

Christophe. At least Hugues knew what name to have inscribed on the grave stone.

1079, Manor of the Earl of Kent

Edward, Earl of Kent looked out across his holdings from atop the wall surrounding his manor. It had been thirteen years since he had crossed the channel with Duke William. Edward looked down at his left hand, reminiscing. His missing thumb served as a reminder of Hastings. He had fought and bled along with the best of the Norman knights that day. Yet, when Duke William set about distributing lands, it was Edward’s older brother, Edmund, who received the earldom of Kent. Edward was relegated to a small barony, a vassal of his elder brother.

But none of that mattered anymore. Two years ago he and his elder brother went hunting. His elder brother had just killed a particularily vicious boar. Then the thought came to Edward. A simple stab and Edward would receive all that he thought rightfully his. The other nobles would suspect nothing. Edmund was well known for his foolhardiness, or “bravery” as the other nobles called it. So without mercy, Edward drove his spear through Edmund’s gut.

Since Edmund’s wife had died during childbirth, Edward was made steward of Kent until Edmund’s only son, Bertin, reached the age of sixteen. However, Edward made sure that none of the other nobles would complain when he failed to pass the Earldom down to his nephew. Rumors quickly spread through the noble court of Normandy that Bertin was fathered, not by Edmund, but by a lowly fishmonger. These rumors were helped along by agents in the employ of Edward. Edward himself was rather persuasive in the matter as well. He had always had a talent for spinning a tale and making it sound believable. Despite the fact that Bertin resembled his father almost down to the last eyelash, he became a pariah in the court. No nobles would even speak with him, let alone stand up for hi. So it came to pass that when Bertin reached the age of sixteen, no one intervened when Edward refused to relinquish the Earldom to Bertin.

1080, suppressing a revolt in the countryside of Kent

Bertin looked with pity upon the rebel army arrayed in front of him. They stood no chance against the sergeant spearmen his uncle commanded, let alone the heavy cavalry that Edward had let Bertin command. For Bertin, this was to be his first battle. He felt none of the thrill that he expected. There was nothing noble in what he was about to do. This was butcher’s work, plain and simple.

Bertin’s sharp eyes spotted his uncle riding up and down the line, encouraging his men. For not the first time that day, Bertin thought about how easy it would be, in the confusion of battle, to slay his Uncle without anyone being the wiser. These thoughts must have made themselves present in his expression because the next moment Odo gave Bertin a scowl that would send shivers down the spine of even the most veteran of soldiers. Odo was Edward’s trusted lieutenant. He was tall, broad shouldered, and quite possibly the ugliest person to cross the channel with Duke William. He was also vicious, block-headed, and completely loyal to Edward.

The two lines of infantry crashed together. Surprisingly, the peasants were holding their own against their superior counterparts. Bertin saw Edward raise the standard of the boar, Bertin’s standard, into the air. Bertin lowered his helm and led his men, first at a canter, then into a full charge at the enemy’s right flank. The enemy line broke seconds after the lances found their first targets. For Bertin, their was no joy in the kill, but neither was their remorse. Quite simply, the battle had to be fought and men had to die. So it was fought. So they died. In Bertin’s mind, there was nothing more to it then that.

1080, at the manor a few weeks after the battle

Bertin cautiously entered the study of his Uncle. Nothing good had ever come from a summons by Edward. Upon entering the study, Bertin saw Edward studying a new tapestry hanging on the far wall. Bertin fingered his dagger as he wished for the hundredth time to plunge it into his Uncle’s back. The sight of Odo polishing his armor in the corner dissuaded Bertin from going through with the deed.

After a barely audible sigh, Bertin inquired, “What to do you wish of me, Uncle?”

Edward turned his attention from the tapestry to his nephew. “I wish to discuss your future. As you well know, I have no desire to let a bastard such as yourself inherit my earldom. The birth of my first son this past month has made you even more expendable. I am afraid that you have no future here. However, in the battle against those rebels, you proved yourself more capable, more disciplined, more loyal than I had expected. I have a proposal for you.”

“I suppose I do not have a choice in this proposal,” interrupted Bertin.

“There is always a choice, nephew. In this case your choices are to accept my offer or to be cast out of this manor without horse or armor. A knight without either of those is about as useful as the average peasant,” retorted Edward.

Bertin gazed steely-eyed at his Uncle. Although a grimace covered Bertin’s face, Edward’s astute eyes picked up an air of interest in his nephew’s countenance. He continued, “I wish to have a set of eyes in the kingdom of the Franks. I do not trust that pit of effeminate vipers. Vassaldom does not befit the Norman people. We are proud. We are warriors. Yet, are situation is precarious. If the Dukedoms were to unite against us, we could very well be defeated. So I have taken it upon myself to send a spy amongst their ranks. Someone to sabotage, to stir discontent, to inform me of developments. Nephew, I am sending you to France”

Bertin’s dropped his stoic attitude and looked confusedly at his Uncle. Bertin composed himself and stood silently in thought for a few seconds before asking, “Why me?”

“Perhaps,” replied Edward, “I am rewarding you for your skill at combat. Perhaps I think your calm nature is ideally suited for this line of work. You may pick any reason you wish but I have made my decision. A tournament is to be held in Paris. With your skill at arms I am sure you will make a positive impression. Integrate yourself into a Duchy. Inform me of major events. Sabotage any and all plans against Normandy. These are your orders. As to your new identity, my wife’s family is from Montsault. I have…persuaded them… to assist you in creating a credible back-story.”

For Bertin, the chance to escape his Uncle’s grasp, even though he was still in his employ, was exhilarating.

“I will do my best, Uncle.”

“One last thing,” smiled Edward, “Odo will accompany you to France, to make sure there are no…situations…”

Bertin grimaced at this restriction, but as he left Edward’s study, the notion of finally leaving this treacherous manor elicited a barely noticeable smile from the man now known as Bertin De Montsault.

French Countryside, 1080

A small band of weary militia troops and peasants proceed from a burning and ravaged keep. At the head of the column a plain looking man walks with an empty expression. He has no need to look behind, even though he is leaving behind both his past and once great future. Around them the few hundred spearmen and archers keep their wary distance, not feeling particularly threatened by this defeated huddle, but not wishing to subject themselves to the desperate charge of some forlorn soldier, who would rather die in a blaze of glory than march on.

It seems the opposing noble will keep his word and these last defenders of the now broken keep are allowed to leave with their lives. How strange that two such chivalric nobles had come to war against each other in the first place. The first, when all hope had finally failed, parlaying with the besiegers to let his people out but staying himself behind. The other, accepting and keeping to his word.

The man at the head of the column had been the master-at-arms of the keep, responsible for it's maintenance and the daily training of the handful of troops stationed there. His lord, who now alone waited for the enemy at the keeps lone tower, had raised him from a meager sergeant to command and ever brighter future after seeing his prowess and skills. Now it was all in vain. His lord had released him and all the rest of these people from their oaths and would be killed by their enemy when they entered the keep. He was again nothing, and he wasn't so young anymore.

But age had brought it's gifts too, the years of patrolling these lands had hardened him and he was a veteran of many skirmishes against the bandits and minor local lordlings. Even this final siege which had broken his lords power had it's bittersweet reward: the endless days of watching the enemy had given him a clear idea of how a siege should be ran, and how alone the defenders felt when all their contact with the outer world was broken. And these were restless times, maybe some higher lord would have a need of a minor noble without land, but some moderate skill in warfare.

And there was talk of the great Tournament in Paris, with everyone who could gathering there to either partake or watch this dangerous play of grown men. Maybe he should go there as well, the alternative was turning to brigandry and that wasn't to his tastes. He knew all too well that even the best brigand groups fell to the first trained army that happened their way.

So maybe he still had a future, if not as certain but at least still in his own hands, thought the man. Maybe he wasn't meant to stay in the countryside to the end of his days, marrying some peasant lass and raising kids.

Mysterious are the ways in which God works, thought Alphonse la Hire.



Where in France did this happen? It doesn't matter. Who were these two warring nobles? It is of no consequence. Why did they war against each other? Knowing that is of no use either. It is merely the background against which the story is told.

1080AD

As the sun began to set beyond the hills in the distance, Thomas LeFebre de Saint-Amand crept slowly towards the entranceway. The one man who might have taken notice of him was sufficiently distracted. The aroma of the evening repast wafted in the warm summer air. Thomas’ spy had done her work well, as he reached his objective undetected.

Reaching for his sword, he pulled it free with one hand, and slowly checked the security of the entranceway with the other. Unlocked! And now the moment was at hand, the hour when Metz would be liberated from rebel hands. Taking a deep breath, Thomas held it for a moment, and then…

"For the glory of France! Forward with me!"

Thomas burst through through the entrance, and at that moment a high-pitched shriek pierced the air.

Within a matter of seconds, a half-naked lad bolted from the rear of the barn.

"Thomas, you idiot! What the hell are you doing! Andre wait, it’s only my brother…"

A now highly distraught Renee LeFebre, the tender age of 17, confronted her intruder, quickly throwing her blouse back on. She knew of course that her amorous friend was long gone, scared out of his wits.

Thomas at first was quite shocked by the brief affair, he wasn’t expecting things to go quite like this. He had after all led his victorious- albeit imaginary soldiers in the capture of Metz dozens of times. Never had he encountered anything more than the occasional barn animal in all his exploits. Still, the lad recovered his senses soon enough.

"The enemies of France I give no quarter. Your accomplice was wise to run from here with his skin intact."

"I wish right now that I was an enemy of France so that I could ring that little neck of yours", retorted Renee. She was quick to replace her clothing as this incident was sure to bring about an immediate interrogation.

Thomas now pretended to chastise his older sister. "Choose your words carefully Milady. Soon enough I will be in the presence of our king, and it would be most unfortunate if he were to hear my words of your evil intentions."

Renee was becoming rather amused by such ramblings. "You? Do you really think the King of France will even notice a sixteen year old boy in the council chambers? He’ll probably mistake you for a page or serving boy… "

"Thomas! Renee! What the devil is going on here?" Philippe LeFebre looked sternly at his two teenage children with a deep look of suspicion on his brow.

"Oh father, forgive me. I was, um, taking care of the animals when Thomas broke in and startled me. "

Thomas although only 16 years old, recognized that discretion in this case was surely the better part of valor.

"Yes, I’m very sorry Renee, normally I practice these sort of things earlier in the day. I can help you finish up here."

The elder LeFebre, age 48, still had considerable doubts as to what had truly transpired just then, but had little time to press his children further. "Well the evening meal has been on the table for some time. Both of you leave the animals and get in the house at once. But close the rear door of this barn, we don’t want any of the animals escaping in the night. This is a special night after all. It is our final meal together before Thomas is off to Paris in the morning."

Prior to evening supper, the traditional evening prayers were made, including the usual request to God in Heaven to look after their departed son Robert, two years deceased. All realized that were not for the accident, it would have been a 20-year old Robert making the journey to Paris instead of younger son Thomas.

It had been local peasant farmers who had found the body of the boy, his head cracked open by a large boulder at the edge of the River Cher. The general conclusion everyone agreed upon was that Robert had been thrown from his horse during a particularly violent evening storm on the river’s edge and died almost instantly. It was a terrible blow to the family and to the larger community as Robert had been looked upon by the young man as one with potential for greatness, much as the namesake of the town, Saint Amand. But it was God’s work, and people assumed there was a purpose to all of this. Thus it fell to Thomas to live up to a greater expectation.

The supper meal was an enjoyable one, but there were mixed feelings naturally. Philippe and his wife Julienne were of course feeling some sadness that their one son would soon be far from home. Their daughters Renee and 10-year old Lucie would continue to be with their parents in the coming days. That thought at least provided some solace.

Later that evening, Philippe had some final words for Thomas.

"My son, I will ask of you three things as you begin your journey into manhood. First and most importantly, honor your heritage. That is, do honor to your king, your country, and to your own name. You are not Robert. Do not try to be Robert. You have qualities that will hold you in good stead in the Parisian court. Let those qualities lead you to your own success. Second, be wary of the many temptations that lurk outside. Enjoy life, a sip of wine on occasion, pleasant company, but avoid excess. Third, listen and learn first, and speak second. You will make true friends among some of those in positions of power. Others may speak of friendship, but will try to do you and others harm. Men have their own motives and weaknesses which will be exploited. If you remember the first two things I mention, you will not be so vulnerable. Indeed, you will stand out among the finest men of France."

"Oh, and one thing more. I needn’t remind you that you will be the youngest man in attendance of the council. There is only one other of age among all the generals and nobility that is of your age, and that is Princess Constance. Steer clear of her. There will be many vying for her hand in marriage, and that will be an unwanted distraction for many. The King in particular will be looking for an ideal suitor for his daughter to marry and the simple fact is that you are not one of them. Do not let that thought disappoint you, there are ample paths to success if you heed my words."

With that, father and son rose. "I have heard what you say, father. I will not disappoint you."

Philippe smiled. "I know you won’t. Now, kiss your mother good night and off to bed with you. A new life awaits you come morning."

French countryside, 1080

Their luck had held and the defeated band hadn't been attacked by the watching troops. One by one, family by family, the peasants peeled off to see what had become of their little homesteads and villages. In the end there was only a score of more veteran troops left.
"So, what do we do now", asked one of them as they were having a break.
"I was planning on continuing all the way to Paris to take part in the Kings Tourney", replied Alphonse.
"It's a long way to walk, and the roads aren't safe for a lone traveller."
"The news of lord's abdication couldn't have reached very far yet. With luck we could get ourselves horses from one his steadings... it is only our right since we weren't allowed to take our warhorses from the keep. That is... if you want to keep following me. I might have been the master of the castle but alone in the woods we are all equal."
"But what about after the tourney, it ain't cheap living in the capital."

Slowly a consensus was reached: they would form up a company, with Alphonse leading, and offer their services as free lances to a noble that would have them. If they were succesful in the Tourney, maybe even the king would notice them...

Outside of Paris, 1080

Gerome rolled over and groaned. Would he find no rest tonight? He deserved rest that was sure.

He was an important man after all, responsible for manning the toll station of his Lord. The sturdy stone building and its outhouse supported the iron chain that crossed the road at this point, which made sure that every passing carriage paid the required tolls to pay for eventual repairs to the road. And also for Gerome, if you took it exactly. While the main building had a spacious common room and also some lodging hardly anyone ever stayed here.

Some said it was due to Gerome, who wasn't a beacon of hospitality, but the more likely reason was that Paris, capital of the Realm, only lay a short distance from the toll station. Short enough that most people moved on to enjoy the adventures of the city rather than stay at the dull toll station.
All the more irksome that the young nobles had stayed for the night since their destination clearly was Paris. For hours now Gerome had to listen to their talking through the night.

They had arrived late the evening before, five young Knights by the looks of them, who had met from half across France if their stories were to be believed.
Said they had an audience with the King himself, as if that wasn't clearly a lie. Gerome was good at spotting those kind of things. Apparently they had some things to discuss before they wanted to move on, to meet the King, and had decided to stay. And they had discussed at great length and often volume. They had laid out parchments on the tables and talked about some Charter and some Oath. For hours they were talking now, quite animated too.

It seemed less that they disagreed, they were just quite fervent at agreeing with each other. And then the topic of their conversation. Chivalry, pah! Those virtues were all very well if you didn't have to worry about putting food on the table for a family of five. Not that Gerome had to worry about that. He couldn't believe his bad luck as suddenly the voices rose once again.

"Now speak after me! I, am a Knight of France! And hereby swear! To fear God and maintain His Church! To serve my liege and..."

Gerome groaned again, he could only hope that they did indeed travel on to Paris as they promised for he was not sure he would survive another night with them staying!

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Coop with AussieGiant

Outskirts of Paris, 1080

It was a midsummer day, a cloudy midsummer day. Foul weather was surely coming, but no such thing would dampen the spirits in Paris and all around the city. In a few days time a grand tournament, the likes of which had never been seen in France, would be taking place. Lords ranging from far and wide throughout the kingdom had already arrived at the capital in droves to attend. For many of the nobility, these were days of festivities, but for Constance each day was unbearable. She felt as if all the eyes of France were suddenly upon her, an unpleasant reminder that she was now of age to marry. At least, with all the commotion in the city she was able to escape the oppressive environment of the court.

Riding her powerful destrier and clad in a coarse brown cloak with a bliaud of the same tone, Constance made her way to a nearby forest at a gallop. Once more, she had eluded her escorts, but they were fast becoming more than a match for her. She needed to be cautious today in particular, because for all his love, she was certain her father would approve of the illicit meeting she had planned. Once in the forest, hopefully safe from prying eyes, the wayward princess pulled on the reins of her mount to bring him to a slower pace. In these thick woods, a gallop would be ill-advised and while Constance was not one to shy away from risks, she still possessed some measure of common sense.

Her thoughts drifted to the man she had arranged to meet in secrecy; Alan de Rohan, Duke of Bretagne. Years ago they had met on more than one occasion, as children. Last she had seen him, he had been chasing her through the gardens at her mother's behest. Constance remembered vividly those moments, she had found some of Louis' old clothes and had changed into them. Dressed as a boy, she had fled her protesting mother, only to be tackled down by a young Alan. Those were the times she cherished, old enough to wander about, young enough to remain a child. Now, she was a princess and he was a Duke. Being only four years her senior, Constance was impressed with him and when she had heard he was coming to Paris, she had decided he would be a key to her future.

After a short while, she finally reached the clearing where he would be waiting. With a practiced hop, Constance dismounted and tied the horse to a nearby tree before making her way to the center of the small glade.

Alan was leaning on a tree as she approached, at twenty he was tall, slim and certainly handsome, however he had not filled out physically even though he was fully practiced in the martial aspects of his station. He still seemed more boyish than manly, his personality however was the difference. It was large.

He momentarily thought about her. At sixteen she was already a woman, the young girl he had known was rapidly disappearing both physically and in personality. She was certainly turning out exactly as he had dreamed she would. The rough exterior and tomboy looks did not fool him as it had fooled others. Their physical contact and “rough housing” had receded over the last few years as her developing figure had lead to far fewer places to “rough house” with.

Smiling broadly as she approached, he pushed himself off the tree and, with a practiced flourish of a courtesan, bowed.

“Your Highness, it is most excellent to see you. Your radiance is a sight to behold as always.”

His grin gave the words overly exaggerated formality, something she was familiar with.

Constance smiled warmly upon seeing him and flushed slightly at his compliment, she still wasn't accustomed to those kind of compliments, especially with Louis reminding her what an inappropriate woman she was.

"Duke de Rohan." She said in a mock formal tone while nodding. "The title fits you nicely." The princess added as she appraised him, head to toe.

Noticing the scrutiny he spread his arms wide and look down at himself. His riding clothes were an easy fit on his long frame, the exceptional quality hidden by the plain cut and colors.

“Do I pass?”

She chuckled. "What do you think?"

Laughing at her quick reply he winked at her.

"I'd say I've smashed the pass mark and are making excellent progress towards a distinction by the look I'm getting!!

You're such a charmer my dear, I really need to keep that in mind. Plus the scraps and scratches all over you just add to the look."

Glancing at her figure.

"You could pick up the dress code a little though, this whole peasant revival things being a little over done don't you think?"

"Its more practical for what I have in mind." Constance shrugged.

Tilting his head like a dog unsure of what is going on Alan replied.

"And what may that be my dear?"

From the folds of her bliaud, she revealed a long knife with a jewel encrusted gold hilt.

"My father gave me this, for my protection. I'd like to actually be able to use it."

Alan's face turned serious for a moment, before slipping back into his usual humorous expression.

"If you're serious Constance, then I have to ask. Are you prepared to kill someone? Because if you cannot commit to that then there is no point. Keep in mind this is all about your intent and nothing to do with skills I may teach you."

He was more than earnest in his tone.

"I... Am I prepared to defend myself? Yes. Am I ready to kill a man?... I don't know. Even if I said yes, I don't think I would truly know that answer until I was face to face with that decision."

The young Duke held her gaze for a moment, clearly assessing her response. After a long pause his green eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Fair enough, your brother and father will skin me alive for this you know."

His grin indicated he was not particularly concerned.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Alain began to teach Constance how to fight with a blade, or at least tried to. The girl was as much a menace to herself as she was to her opponent. Using fallen tree branches to spar, she took her branch in a tight two-handed grip and immediately started flailing about wildly, never even coming close to land a blow. It was obvious she was trying to compensate her lack of skill with sheer aggressiveness. As expected, she tired after a time and Alain had little trouble passing through her meager defense to tap her shoulder with his stick.

The other attempts followed a similar pattern, but slowly the young Duke was teaching Constance the proper grip and more importantly, control. By the end of the afternoon, the girl was still largely inept with a blade, but she had caught onto the basics and could probably become at least competent if she practiced more than occasionally. Despite all the effort involved and her repeated failures, Constance was beaming. With a dirty hand she wiped some sweat from her brow and addressed Alain, still panting from the exertion.

"That..." She paused to catch her breath. "That was harder than I expected."

Smiling broadly he replied; "Next time we are going to take a few lessons on footwork and balance. Something you might be more familiar with in these initial stages. A good bladesman or woman must first practice poise and foot positioning before the rest. It will be more like dancing than swinging at a gate with a stick. We will focus on speed and technique rather than strength.

Is that to your liking Your Highness?"

"I think I can manage that." Looking at the fading sun, she added. "I should be leaving now, lest my presence be overly missed. I take it you will be participating in the tournament?"

"Indeed Your Highness, I'm looking forward to see the nobility of France gathered to compete and then begin the first of the new formalized Council meetings.

Your father and brother are making excellent in roads towards ending the petty squabbling and fighting that has held back this kingdom for too long."

Pausing, Alain's face grows more serious.

"Be careful you are not drawn into issues as a method of leverage or power Constance. If you truly wish to have some influence over who you marry I would recommend you be proactive with your father lest he starts to listen to those who whisper in his ear as to their recommendations.

Whether you like it or not, you are of marrying age now, and therefore as daughter to the King, you represent a direct passage to favor and power."

Constance grimaced at the mention of "marriage", but nodded nonetheless at the Duke's words.

"Take care also and I wish you well in the tournament."

She then turned to leave the clearing.

Paris 1081

It was a modest estate by the standards of the young Duke, forty rooms, council chambers for his private business, a training ground and established gardens to ease the eye.

The Duchy's Paris quarters would have to do for the tournament however his trained eye did catch something through a window as he dismounted.

"Pierre Yves, is zat a w'ite sheet in the window or do I see ze 'ead groundmans' arse?"

Pierre Yves, the Duke's man servant, gazed at the second floor window in question.

Clear for all to see was plainly clothed man's very white backside, his trousers were around is ankles and clearly engaged in an act of procreation.

A pause followed by a very dry response.

"I do believe that is a white sheet blowing in the wind my lord. Someone must have left the window open."

A completely nonplussed look etches itself across the Duke face as the rest of his retinue wait to see if the answer will be accepted or not.

Glancing back up at the rapidly moving rear end the Duke says.

"Well w'at are you wait for man? Get up zere and close ze window!! You know I can't stand a drafty bedroom."

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

This is a co-operative story between YLC and econ21

Lending dignity to a vulgar brawl

Reims, 1080

“Mauvoisin - what kind of dumb @*!^& name is that?” the large knight sneered. “You from Switzerland, you @*!^&ing pansy? Or did your mother do the dirty with some visiting Swiss @*!^&?”

Hermant stood by the side of the tavern, watching the drunken knight gesticulate at him - only a few yards away. Hermant was a tall, fine figure of a man but had a kind of sickly pallor which together with his elegant manner of dress suggested a strange, almost consumptive vulnerability. His tormentor - the large knight - was as tall as Hermant, but had a ruddy complexion encouraged by drink and his dominant body language signalled a man capable of great violence.

The large knight was enjoying himself, cheered on by a score of brawny retainers. Only one of Hermant’s men was with him, his squire - a timid looking youngster of only sixteen, who seemed to be clinging to Hermant. Whether Hermant was shielding the squire or the squire was restraining Hermant, it was hard to tell. The rest of the tavern watched the scene warily, but without much interest - obviously, they had seen the large knight hold sway in this fashion before.

The large knight laughed at the approval he was receiving from his men and buoyed on by Hermant’s lack of response, continued his invective: “Lake Mauvoisin in Switzerland, isn’t it? I bet you used to piss in that when you were a kid, did you, you little @*!^&? And then I wager you let your mother drink from the Lake too, eh? You dirty little Swiss @*!^&.”

Hermant waved his hand casually to the side, as if brushing off a lazy fly. The large knight laughed again and turned to receive more applause from his retainers about his great wit. He was only dimly aware of an incoming rush of sound and from the corner of his eye, caught a blur of motion. Hermant had leapt across and grabbed his tormentor, the violence of the attack sending them both hurtling through the tavern, scattering tables, stools and patrons in all directions.

The large knight’s retainers were on their feet. One pinned the Hermant’s young squire and the rest moved menacingly towards the duo that was now rolling round the floor, fists and legs flying.

Suddenly a third knight emerged from the gloom at the back of the tavern to intercept the retainers. He was younger than either of the two brawlers, but had scars on his face that revealed no lack of experience with combat. The scarred knight moved confidently, holding up his hand to the large knight’s retainers.

“Steady lads, let’s not do anything too hasty…” the scarred knight warned.

“Gaeten.” one of the retainers said with a mix of irritation and respect: “This is not your fight - stand aside.”

Gaeten’s face was relaxed and he gestured lightly to the two combatants still rolling round the tavern behind him, locked in a struggle that showed no signs of being quickly resolved: “Lieutenant, it looks like your liege does not need your help. It’s a fair fight. What say you, I buy you all another round?”

The large knight’s lieutenant looked unsure - he had a score of armed men behind him; Gaeten seemed to be alone. There was a crash behind Gaeten and a woman screamed. Gaeten looked at the lieutenant earnestly, gesturing down with his hands: “Wait” and then ran to the back of the bar.

The two brawlers had somehow become separated and the large knight had drawn his sword and was whirling it around the tavern in a rampage. Hermant - unable to draw his blade in time - tried to fend off the blows with whatever furniture was to hand. A serving maid was cowering in fear, the large knight’s twirling blade sending air blowing through her hair.

Gaeten ran to the maid, and pulled her safely behind him. The rampaging large knight strode past and almost imperceptibly Gaeten stuck out his leg to trip up the marauder. For the second time that evening, the large knight was sent sprawling across the tavern. Gaeten moved quickly to bring the maid to safety behind the bar.

In his absence, the large knight’s retainers had been released from their quandary and now were surrounding Hermant, lifting him up and pinning his arms while others helped the large knight get to his feet and retrieve his sword. The belligerent knight ignored Gaeten - his eyes had only been on Hermant and he had been unaware of any of Gaeten’s subtle interventions. He strode towards the captured Hermant.

“Now you @*!^&ing Swiss @*!^&, we’re going to show you some real French hospitality.” Helpless, Hermant looked at the knight with a kind of bemused contempt and then spat a large gobbet of phlegm into his enemy's face. The large knight roared in anger and drew back his sword arm, about to strike.

Gaeten seized the sword arm and spun the large knight round - “Steady, Sir Pierre - you’ve had a little too much to drink. Let’s not do anything we will regret in the morning.”

Pierre, the large knight, took a few moments to understand that the situation had changed. “Gaeten - you know this @*!^&?”

Gaeten looked at Hermant. He had never seen the outsider before and his identity was completely unknown. “Of course, he’s an old friend of the Duc’s - here on some official business or other. You probably don’t want to annoy the Duc by running through his official guest.”

Pierre seemed visibly to deflate. His tensed sword arm dropped. He fired a vicious look at Hermant, who cast back a sickly smile. “You @*!^&!” Pierre spat at Hermant. “Better hope your business goes well with the Duc or you’ll be all mine when you leave.”

Pierre’s retainers released Hermant, who looked casually at Pierre. “When my business with the Duc is over, do look me up. By then you might have sobered enough to be able to take me without needing twenty of your men.”

Pierre seemed to grow larger and started to move, but felt Gaeten’s arm on his shoulder.“Sir Pierre, I offered your men the next round. Please see that they get it and put it on my tab. I need to talk urgently with our guest.”

At that Gaeten quickly hurried Hermant out of the tavern. When they had reached a safe distance, Gaeten stopped. “Please forgive Sir Pierre, his manners are deplorable but he fights well and France needs every blade at this hour.”

Hermant looked impassively and said coldly: “No, France is in the state she is precisely because of men such as Sir Pierre.” Then he managed to break free from his reverie and a semblance of humanity entered into his voice: “I am sorry, kind knight, I have not thanked you for your aid in there. I am Hermant Mauvoisin and I am in your debt.”

“Hermant Mauvoisin?” Gaeten asked with surprise. “I am Gaeten de Rethel - you wrote to me about joining a company of knights.”

Hermant’s eyes lit up: “Ah, brother knight! It is well met indeed!”

“But why are you in Reims?”

“Well, you said that you needed to consult your Duc for permission to join the company. I wanted to make sure the consultations went in my, err, our, favour. I am so glad your Duc agreed to be a patron of the Order and that you will be joining us. After tonight’s display, I cannot think of a man I would rather have at my side!”

Provence, 1020 A.D.

It was a cold day, unusual for the mild weather of the Mediterranean. Raymond's father Charles had suddenly insisted that he and his older brother Roland go out for a ride with him. It was an odd command, but they naturally complied. They followed their father, who was moving with an unusual amount of speed and deliberation, to the top of a nearby hill some distance away from their castle.

Raymond's eyes widened at what lay below them. It was an honest-to-the-Lord battle, which he recognized as being fought between two of his father's vassals. This was as close as he had every been to battle before, he could see the two forces forming a line of battle and advancing.

"Father," Roland spoke. "What is this? Why are the lords of Nice and Forcalqueir engaged in battle?"

"Their reasons are not your concern." Their father said flatly.

"But why do you not act? Surely as their liege you could-"

"You are wrong." Charles cut him off sharply. "I am their liege, but I am not their master. My vassals are free men, and it is not my place to dictate how they interact with each other."

Roland harumphed. "This is about Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, isn't it? To think that lords of our realm would enage their fellow frenchmen in such a pointless batt-"

"You are wrong!" Charles interrupted again, this time more forcibly. "There is no such thing as pointless battle. Shut up and watch."

And so Roland did, and they watched the battle. In his later years Raymond learned that it was not anything special, but at the time it was all so new and exciting. On both sides the knights immediately advanced ahead of the foot soldiers, and sought each other out as the most suitable foes. They fought for a while, then when one side tired or was losing too badly they would withdraw behind the infantry. This repeated as the infantry closed in, archers firing at everything they could.

"Look at the men who are fighting. What do you see, Roland?"

"Knights and peasants."

"Not who they are. What are they doing? What does that tell you?"

"...They're just fighting. It's their duty."

"It's more than that. Regardless of what has lead them there, on the battlefield each man operates in the same fundamental way. To go to war is a momentous, unsure thing. As a result they are all marching with their hopes, their dreams and their fears. With their lives on the line, they have no choice but to put their immortal souls into their actions. By throwing themselves whole-heartedly in battle, they reveal who they are through their open actions. It is in battle that a man finds himself, and can be recognized."

Roland was silent, and Raymond remembered thinking that his brother didn't quite believe what their father was telling them. Thus it was Raymond who spoke up, even knowing that this outing was primarily for his brother's sake.

"But father, what of the people who die in battle? It seems like a terrible shame for them to be tempered in such a way, only to perish."

Their father allowed himself a bit of a smile at Raymond's question.

"That's true. In war, one's real enemies are those who raise and command the armies that stand in opposition to you. The vast majority of the men you see before you are not enemies to either side. In any war, there will be men who stand opposed to you as a result of their virtues, such as loyalty and duty. It is a terrible shame when such men die, and it should be avoided. Make sure you save your wrath for your true enemies, those you oppose you out of greed and sin."

They were mostly silent for the rest of the battle, and afterwards Raymond took the lesson to heart better than Roland. Perhaps that is why Roland left Provence to seek his fortune elsewhere, and Raymond finds himself where he is today...

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Coop with Tristan de Castelreng, Ramses II CP, mini and Ibn-Khaldun

Paris, 1080. One day before the tournament.

Prince Louis, sixth of that name, son of King Philip the Magnificent and heir to the legacy of Charlemagne belched loudly as he dismounted his horse, hurling his riding crop in the groomsman's face as the poor man struggled to get out of Louis' way and keep a good grip on the reins. Groomsmen had been flogged for tripping the Prince before, but much to Louis' amusement the latest chap assigned to him was wire thin and quick as a snake. Louis grinned into the air momentarily at the thought that the head groomsman was trying to keep the peace, then spun about and swung his arms wide to give his horse a start. The creature responded perfectly, jerking it's head into the air resulting in the diminutive groom being drawn right off his feet in his unwillingness to let go the reins.

The horse lowered it's head quickly to reduce the strain on it's neck but even before the groom's toes returned to the hay strewn floor Louis had barked out a laugh and turned to continue on his way. A servant soon arrived with a pitcher of cool spiced wine and took up station walking behind the Prince, but Louis' thoughts were far away. He'd been distracted during the hunt today and returned early with no game, leaving a scattering of royal huntsmen berated and abandoned in his wake. The English were what troubled him. Their Prince Rufus huddled at Anger and sent villains and robbers out to trouble the French countryside, leading to an atmosphere of lawlessness which persisted through much of France.

It was much to be borne, but the nobles of France were not yet unified or mighty enough to right the situation, and even at his young age the Prince had begun to wonder if they could ever manage to reverse that trend.

At least I'll be in time for dinner, Louis thought as he finally noticed the wine... and the serving girl who'd brought it. Louis drank deeply and eyed the girl as she gazed at the floor. Looking around he realized there was a wardrobe room just up the hall he'd used before. A glimpse at the shadows suggested he had enough time before the table was set. With a gleam in his eye the Prince took the girl by the arm and found that she came willingly enough.

A few minutes later the Prince entered the dining hall still wearing a wide smile and wiping his brow. The King had yet to arrive so Louis strode over to stand behind the chair to the right of Philip's seat.

------------------------------

Perched on a balcony high above the courtyard, unseen to those below, King Philippe watched the arrival of his son and heir Louis. Watching his antics with the grooms, Philippe couldn't help but wonder where he had failed in the education of his son.

Sure, he was a fearsome fighter on the fields of battle but for the rest, the man was a boar, always wenching and looking for fights, taking out his anger on his lessers. People respected him more out of dread than awe.

Philippe knew that Louis longed to fight the English that encroached on French lands. Restraining him was becoming harder and harder by the day.

Philippe himself longed for such a fight. Day by day, the burden of bearing the Kingdom on his shoulders became heavier and heavier. Between quarrelsome nobles and marauding bands of soldiers, the French countryside was in shambles.

But kicking the English out of France was not the first priority. First, Philippe had to unify the nobles and create a feeling of belonging to the same destiny. That is why in the days to come he had summoned every single French nobleman to appear before the Conseil du Royaume.

This was a first, never before had the noblemen gathered at the same time, in the same place to decide with the King the fate of France.

Watching his son grab hold of a serving girl and leading her to a quiet corner, Philippe wondered how much he could achieve when working with men such as Louis.

------------------------------

Henri looked up from his study books to peek at all the fuzz out on the courtyard. It was a bright, sunny day and birds were twittering to their hearts content. Henri wished he could share their enthusiasm.

He had reached the age of twelve, and thereby the end of his childhood.

He was now preparing himself for manhood, his current state a transition zone, where he was supposed to learn all the skills and knowledge that would make him a man. Glancing at his teacher, he doubted that knowledge alone could make a man a man. Watching his older brother Louis in the courtyard, he remarked that lack of knowledge surely didn't fail to make a man.

At first sight, Louis was everything a man and the heir of the Frankish king should be. He was tall and robust, a real warrior brave as they come. A lion on the battlefield, is what their father called him.

Though Henri had never heard his father say it, he somehow suspected that that sentence had another ending, somewhere near "..but a pig everywhere else".

Henri smiled with glee. Louis lacked refinery, lacked manners. If his behavior was any indication, the man would lack the subtlety, diplomacy and cunning that make a ruler.

Not that Henri dreamed of being picked as heir before his brother. Henri was a sober lad, and knew his place.

His place was between the oldest son, heir to the throne, and the youngest son, always a totting dads favorite.

To the outside world, of the three boys Henri always seemed the loner. He was always reserved, and always kept his own council. Surely he had friends, but he never did anything rash or foolish. He certainly earned the respect from the castle staff, as he never teased or bullied anyone.

To his teachers, he was a blessing. He picked up everything at first glance, from literature to mathematics to military history.

He was slender of build and average of height, so he lacked the brute strength that Louis had at his age. Everything about Henri seemed to be expressing speed. He was as quick with a blade as he was quick of thought. His raven black short hair and dark clothes made him seem gloomy - though those close to him knew he was not. Louis had called him a snake.

Snakes lie hidden in the grass, observing, learning. When they attack, it is lightning fast and they could vanish into nothing before you knew it.

What provoked the comment from Louis however, where the eyes.

Henri had eyes as dark as his hair, and his stare therefore unnerving, entrancing and never giving you the slightest clue of what went on beyond them.


Henri startled when his teacher snapped shut a book in front of his nose. He looked at him with his dark eyes and said not a word. Though used to the stare, his teacher nevertheless got uncomfortable and dismissed him for today.

With all the noblemen gathering, boys would be too restless to learn anyway.

Somewhat later, Henri crossed the courtyard which had settled down. He got friendly, respectful nods left and right, which he answered according to his status, a barely noticeable acknowledgment.
He did not radiate anything that provoked outright love in people, though his kindness and ability certainly earned him their respect. Which was fine by him.

Henri figured the main action would go down in the dining hall, and started heading in that direction.

A boy ran across the courtyard. Too young to bother himself with troubles of adults. He waved his wooden sword and occasionally yelling "en garde" when getting close to someone. Charles was loved by all and brought smile on everyone face. Dads little favorite...

Henri saw his brother running at him with a wooden sword, all soldierly-like.

"Au secours, Au secours!!" Henri called to some lowly onlookers, who grinned. "Will no one save me from this dangerous knight?!" he smiled at his younger brother.
"You know Charles, you should be getting ready for dinner"

As the young boy drew a disgusted face at the thought of getting all dressed up, Henri pointed out that today there were many great knights from all of France present, so they must do their best to look like princes.

The boy instantly cheered up and made way to his quarters. Henri himself continued onward.

-----------------------------

Postponing to the last possible moment the moment of presiding over the assembly of nobles, with the bickering, lick-spitting and downright obnoxious nobles that Philippe had rule over, he remained at the balcony a moment longer, taking in the last rays of the sun over the countryside, marveling at the beauty of God's creation.

"Dieu," he prayed "may you bless this day as the first of France' rebirth from her troubled times."

Watching fondly the playful games of his two younger sons, Charles the little soldier and Henri still young (just look at him play with his little brother) but already smart beyond his years.

"If only..." the thought didn't pass Philippe's lips.

Watching Charles chasing his brother with his sword reminded Philippe of the announcement he wanted to make before the "Seigneurs de France", "Pairs du Royaume". In the next few days, a tournament would be held on the fields around Paris, at a place called Vincennes. Already, the workers were hard at work, in secrecy, erecting the grandstands and constructing the lice.

Philippe had wanted to create this event so that bonds of friendship could be born among the nobles, who were so often at odds with each others. Fighting alongside or against their peers, Philippe hoped they would learn to respect their neighbors and would from then on fight the good of France rather than for their own selfish benefits... Though, in truth, he had scant hopes that this would come to pass...

Nevertheless, Philippe felt the burden of governance lift from his shoulders just thinking of the tourney. It brought him so many years back just after his "adoubement" as a knight, before his coronation... Ever since the idea had birthed in his head, the longing for the charge of the destrier, the shock of lances and the cries of the audience were always in his mind. Already, he had selected a grand prize for the winner of the day... Fervently wishing he wouldn't have to part with it, having proven his valor on the field by conquering all of his opponents. For he would ride into the fray, free of the crown and its burden... Or almost...

Lost in his thoughts, Philippe had not noticed that the night had begun to fall. After the heat of day, a brisk wind was rising, harbinger of a storm to come... A shiver ran down his spine and taking his hands of the stone of the battlements, Philippe crossed his arms on his chest, tightening the rich fur mantle that he had thrown on his shoulders. Beneath it, he wore a silken short tunic of a deep blue with lilies stitched in golden thread over white stockings and intricately-worked leather boots that reached up to his knees. A heavy belt of gold and precious stones tightened around his belt. All that was missing to mark him as the King of the Franks was the elaborate crown that his own father had had commissioned to the best goldsmiths of the Realm. "That will wait until the last moment" thought Philippe, already hating having to wear that heavy burden on his head.

As he was preparing to turn and go down the tower to his apartments and then the dining room, Philippe heard the noise of hooves on the portcullis and saw with a bit of annoyance that it was Constance, once more back from one of her forays into the wild. Once again, she seemed to have lost her escort. "There is boy's soul into that girl" muttered Philippe.

Too often, Philippe and his daughter had gotten into arguments of what was expected of a Royal Princess... Too often, Constance had made amends, asked forgiveness and pretended for a few days to have learned her lesson... Only to go marauding once again, as soon as she thought her father had forgotten about her or had other matters pressing on him...

"I'll have to talk to her once more" Philippe thought. He had plans for his daughter. Not marriage, though she was old enough for it but he knew in his deepest heart that if he forced marriage upon her, she would be lost to him forever. Nevertheless, she would have to accept that being a daughter of Royal blood meant more than being able to order her way around so that she could go gallivanting. She had wits and good looks and that could work wonder for what Philippe had in store for her.

Watching her cross the courtyard towards her rooms, Philippe turned and began his slow descent down the stairs to his own rooms, the men-at-arms that had stood as statues the whole time turning on their heels and following him down the stairs.

-----------------------------

It was already dusk when Constance dismounted her large chestnut stallion, leaving it in the capable hands of the stable master. At first she started to rush to room, but she halted mid step. Every moment she tarried would most certainly aggravate Louis' annoyance in regard to her already late hour of arrival. Then again, she did not wish to cause undue alarm or anger in her father and as such decided upon a brisk pace. Once in her quarters, she disrobed hastily, first removing her worn brown cloak and her cross-gartered soft leather stocking. Finally, she replaced her gray knee-lenght bliaud with something more fitting her station; a long white bliaud with finely embroidered trim and a double girdle of jeweled leather with silk ties circling the outfit.

Satisfied she was presentable, Constance then hurried to the dining room and without delay a servant announced her. As she stepped in the room, she realized she had forgotten something, but could not recall. Brushing off the thought, she took care to offer a pleasant smile to her father. Nevertheless, the first thing all present could notice was not her beauty, but the cuts and scrapes on her reddish cheeks and forehead, marring her features. Then there was her brown hair; tied in a hasty chignon and laced with a few twigs. Less noticeable but also present was the damp musky odor of the forest. She bowed lightly before addressing her father, the King of the Franks, in a respectful tone.

"My apologies father for my unwarranted tardiness."

------------------------------

Striding into the dining hall into his full regalia (crown and scepter of worked gold and precious stones, Philippe noticed the presence of his eldest, Louis, standing behind the Throne.

Philippe loved his son, even with his failings. The man was cunning rather than intelligent, though his temper sometimes took precedence.

Noticing that no one had arrived yet and that only serving maids were in attendance, Philippe clasped a hand on Louis' shoulder before asking in a low voice "So how have your fighting and whoring been these days ?"

Without leaving time for an answer, Philippe sat upon the heavy wooden chair that presided over the table. He caught appetizing whiffs coming from the kitchens.

Little by little, noblemen from the French began filing in the dining hall. Philippe paid them little heed, acknowledging some with a little nod of the head or slight wave of the hand.

After a time, he noticed his daughter coming in, all prim and proper. Or the most prim and proper she could achieve... Her cheeks were still ruddy from the wind that lashed at them.

She bowed to him and saluted him in a respectful tone.

Philippe rose and took her to lead to the chair to his right next to her older brother Louis.

Queen Bertrade was still not present, certainly occupied with Henri and Charles.

As the King entered the room Prince Louis bowed his head in genuine respect for the one man in all the world whom he acknowledged as his superior. Philip had strode through the world like a lion during his rise to power, and had brought strength back to France despite the squabbling of petty nobles and the failings of the pathetic peasantry. Louis worked always to emulate the lessons he had taken from watching his father's work.

Despite that there was an essential difference between the two men, a difference of temperament and approach that Louis was too smart to miss, and at times all the family could feel the strain. The King and the Prince wanted the same things, worked towards the same ends for France, and yet simply were not much alike.

Still, when the King took him by the shoulder Louis felt a warm glow of love, and grinned broadly at Philips' jest. The fighting had been most unsatisfactory today, but the whoring had only just begun, and rather promisingly at that...

Louis' good mood was immediately spoiled by the late arrival of Constance. The girl did not comprehend her place. In fact Louis sometimes suspected she acted so merely to annoy him, but to truly think that would credit her with more intellect than he believed she had. Father would not show her the firm hand she so clearly required either. Well, if the King won't... though Louis before he spoke,

"Constance! You are late and you look frightful! Have you no regard for the reputation of France? No comprehension of the nature of the men we will meet this eve? One of them may be presented your hand in due course, and what would be said of France if a jumped up castle warden rejected our land's princess merely because you cannot understand promptness and propriety?"

Turning to the King, Louis continued,

"My King I have high hopes for some among this crop of nobles. We'll need this sort and their men to expand our control of the countryside. If they will but unify under your guidance France's potential is limitless."

Constance snickered all the while he elder brother addressed the king. When he was done, she executed an overly flippant bow and stared pointedly at Louis' hastily donned trousers, her blue gray eyes brimming with contempt. "I am sorry I cannot care for France's reputation the way you do."

Louis' face remained impassive on hearing his little sister's jibe, unable to believe she grasped it's full import, and replied in a stern tone,

"I am sorry you cannot as well. Perhaps dignity will come to you with age, though I suspect if we wait that long what charm your form possess will surely be eroded by those unladylike habits of yours."

Louis then paused to drink from his wine cup, his eyes following his now errant thoughts to the mousy little serving girl lined up with several other house servants along the wall.

------------------------------

Charles sat on the bed and poked the floor with his wooden sword. He was bored. He wanted to be outside playing with his friends and doing stuff that is interesting. A dinner with all these nobles wasn't that at all!!

"Don't do that!" said Bertrade to him and took away his sword. "Let's go! Let's go! People are waiting!"

He stood up and they went through narrow corridors towards the dining hall. Seeing the Queen approaching servant opened the door and announced them.

Constance was relieved to hear her mother announced, giving her ample excuse to ignore Louis' latest comment. He was such a pig and a hypocrite, her mounting anger was unavoidable as she kept thinking about him; about what he had said. Did he really wanted her father to marry her off now? She certainly was of age, but her father had never shown much inclination to discuss a potential wedding. Would Louis sway him? For a moment she feared it was so. Was this very evening meant for giving her away to some noble she never had heard of? Anxiety settled in, her heart raced and her vision fluttered. Constance stumbled only for a step before calming herself with a deep breath. No matter what happened, she would not give any satisfaction to Louis, or at the very least, she would do her best to avoid disappointing her father.

Brushing unpleasant thoughts aside as she neared her mother, Constance bowed and smiled. Acknowledging her only by saying "Mother" before she moved to kneel in front of Charles. With a broad smile she placed her hands on his shoulders and held him at arm's length.

"How is my fearless knight doing today?" She queried in a playful manner.

"Things would be better if I could just go outside instead of coming here. All these weird looking men and women just can't get their hands off of my cheeks!! I'm not a little boy anymore!! I am a Knight!! Almost..." answered Charles putting his hands on his belt.

"If you left, who would protect me?" She teased him. Right then she heard Henri arrive. "Come on Charles, we should be getting to our seats."

-------------------------------

Henri's outfit was colored in his father's coat of arms. He wore a sword by his side, as instructed by his swordmaster. To get used to the feel and weight of the thing.

Henri's swordmaster was an odd fellow. He spoke with a funny accent and claimed to be an Italian, though when drunk swore like only a Frank could.

Yet the man was skilled with a blade. Besides learning how to wield various swords in various manners, the man seemed intent on learning Henri all sorts of protocol-like matters. Sometimes Henri suspected him of having been a noble himself. But the manner codes his swordmaster was teaching him, suited Henri's style, so he adhered to them.

Finally having reached the dining hall (he had delayed intentionally, just to be able to enter on his own instead of with his mother) he directed himself to the announcer.

After that, he strode into the dining hall, head high towards his father's seat.

There, he laid his right hand on the swords pommel, put his left foot back and bowed slightly. Then he waited for a nod of his father, to join his side.

------------------------------

Philippe watched with a bemused smile tinged with irritation the exchange between Louis and Constance...

Louis acted just like he was Constance's father, and she, stubborn and free-minded couldn't bear her brother's constant reprimands about how a lady of royal blood should be like...

"Pity on her husband", thought Philippe, "he'll need either a strong hand or a strong heart"

But the bickering between his two eldest faded away as Bertrade, his queen, made her entrance with Charles, their youngest son... Although older than him, Philippe had grown fond of Bertrade through the years... She was loving, caring and had given him three beautiful and strong sons and a daughter that was equally strong and beautiful... Their first years of marriage had been somewhat awkward, Philippe was only seventeen and her already twenty-nine but the marriage had secured Brittany to France and they had both learned to respect the other and out of that respect love had grown between them.

Philippe rose from his seat to greet his lady, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek with a whispered compliment. He then dropped to his knees and tousled Charles' hair, smiling as he watched his son try to look older than his eight years and look all knightly.

Philippe then led Bertrade to her seat and resumed his place.

Surveying the dining hall, Philippe could see already that several of the lesser nobles were in attendance, most of the wealthier burghers were there as well, all conversing in low tones and casting towards the raised dais quick glances, trying to sound what was to happen tonight by watching the facial expressions of their King.

With a flick of his hand, Philippe summoned the head butler and ordered him to formally open the doors to the dining hall and announce the Pairs du Royaume that still had to make their entry.

"Now the wolves are let loose", Philippe mused "and France may well be their prey"

Watching as the first of the nobles made their apparition between the great gates of the hall, Philippe considered the choices he had made over the last years that had led to this very day and the few next...

Invariably, his thoughts returned to the tournament that would be held soon, hoping it would create a sense of unity among these men... Philippe imagined himself as a smith tried to match ill fitting pieces of armor together before going into battle.

"But that will be for tomorrow, now let's see how they make their "homage" to their King"

Bourgogne, 1080

With dogged determination, Gaspard vainly tried to catch up with the deer. He could only watch in digust as the swift-footed animal disappeared into the depths of the forest.

Pulling his horse to halt, Gaspard glanced towards the sun. Already its resplendent light was beginning to fade, and it was five miles back to his keep. He'd be hard pressed to make it back before nightfall.

Sighing as he slowly turned around, he quickly brightened when he though of the next day. Tomorrow he would ride to Dijon, and pay homage to Raymond, Duc d' Bourgogne.

For the past six years, he had maintained his independence and refrained from swearing fealty to anyone. His father, Philippe de Neufville, had held his fief independently for years, and his death six years ago had been a terrible blow to Gaspard.

Since then, Gaspard had managed to stay out of the petty disputes of the region, instead spending his time campaigning in other parts of France and the German Duchies.

Recently, however, Gaspard's position had become less secure. With greater lawlessness falling upon Francia, he came to the decision that an overlord was a necessary and beneficial thing. One thing was certain, however, he would not follow a cruel master.

With the sun setting an alarming rate, Gaspard spurred his horse on as he raced through the forest path.

South-Eastern France, 1079

As the moon managed to pierce the cloud covering it illuminated the shilouette of a little castle that sat on the outcrop of the surrounding hills. The moon shone brightly through the gap between the castle proper and the small village of Mont-Fierra that hugged the mouintainside. The drawbridge was up and there was no way to get in or out of the castle, or so it seemed.

Simon was a little worried that the moon would glint off the armour of his men and give his position away. He had waited a long time for this overcast sky. The days of siege had dragged on and as eldest son to the Count of Mont Pierre he had been responsible for coordinating the defences. Like the castle it was all a rather small affair. He had thirty five men under him, not counting those that would pick up anything should it come to a last stand. Made up of Archers and Knights they were just slightly outnumbered by their enemy. They were led by Gerhardt Manconi. In these mountains where the allegiance often changed with each valley it was easy to get pulled in to some conflict or another. Manconi had been sent to secure provisions for his uncle the Count of Bardonechia, who was fighting against the German Count of Cesana. Simon had met Gerhardt one year ago at a tournament near Torino and knew the man to be a fair fighter.

That's why the siege had been a bloodless affair so far. Gerhardt had set up his command in the middle of Mont-Fierra and was confident to starve Simon and his men. That's what Simon wanted to prevent with his nightly sally. The drawbridge was not the only access to the castle. There was a hidden door that led to a narrow path that wound down the steep slope of the rock the castle stood upon. Simon had selected his best men as it took courage to scale that path at night.
They had made it safely to the bottom though and had circled around the town and were now coming up on Gerhardts forces from behind. All his sentries had been placed towards the castle it seemed and they could now see the small inn that Gerhardt had chosen for his command.

Simon raised his hand to give the signal. His men drew their swords and stormed forward their shoes clattering on the asphalt has they stormed towards the inn. Bracing himself Simon slams his whole weight into the door which gives way immediatelly. Instead of crashing to the ground Simon lands softly and hears a grunt from below him. Gerhardt's men had been sleeping on the floor of the common room and were slowly coming to their senses.

Not wasting any time Simon hurries on up the stairs. He knows the inn has he has spent many times here drinking. And once when he was too drunk to walk back the few paces to the castle the landlord had insisted he stay in his largest room overlooking the little town square. That's where Simon was headed now, sword in hand. As he burst open the door, a surprised looking Gerhardt was sitting on the bed and just pulling on his right stocking. Beside the door, right next to Simon the swordbelt lay propped up on a table. Only hesitating a short moment Simon grabs the sword and throws it at Gerhardt.

Abandoning his stocking Gerhardt catches the sword midair and begins to draw, acknowledging the gesture with a small nod. Simon was already locked in concenctration, sword half-raised. He knew from Torino that Gerhardt had a tendency to drift towards the left and so he concentrated his attacks on the right, dealing his first forceful blow. The movement was restricted, as the room was quite small despite being the largest room available. Twice the opponents tripped on the furniture and there was a small pause as each fighter gave the other time to take up their position again. Finally Simon breached the defence of his opponent and a nasty gash appeared on the right shoulder of Gerhardt, he wouldn't hold out much longer.

Lowering his sword slightly Simon steps back a little. "It doesn't have to end here. Take your men and leave Mont-Fierra and never come back again!" Gerhardt leaped forward in response but his blow was weak and easily parried by Simon. The exertion seemed to have convinced Gerhardt of the extent of his injury, as more blood began seeping out of the gash. Dropping his sword he nods grimly.

Simon had not paid attention to anything besides his duel with Gerhardt and so was surprised to see his men standing over twenty prisoners as he made his way back to the common room Gerhardt close behind him. Apparently the defenders had been too surprised to put up much of a fight let alone warn the archers stationed throughout the town.

And so it came to be known that Simon de Montpierre had ended a siege by one strike of his sword, dealt in the middle of the night in a Fair Fight between two Knights.

Near Rochefort - 1079.

Thierry looked at the group of peasants in the distance.

"About 200 men, seigneur. Peasants, carrying tools. Just charge them and they'll start running."

"While the spearmen attack, the 4 horsemen go with me," Thierry said, ignoring the advice the senior officer had given him.

"But seigneur, it are just peasants. We don't need to..."

"Ta gueule!" Thierry shouted. "My father has put me in command and you'll do as you're told, understood, you imbécile!"

"Oui seigneur," the older man said.

Thierry turned towards his cavalry and shouted: "Infanterie! Attaque! Cavalérie! Suivez-moi!"

***

Near Rochefort 1079 - later that day.

Thierry looked at the men hanging in the oak trees. "Do we have all of them?" he asked.

The officer nodded. "All are dead, except this one."

A peasant was brought forward.

"Why is he still alive."

"It's a girl, seigneur. I assumed a chevalier as yourself doesn't want us to kill women."

Thierry started to take off his trousers while he gave the order: "Undress her."

"But, seigneur."

Thierry grinned.

"Don't worry, you can go after me. The rest of the men can go after you."

Hours later, the army of Rochefort left the horrible sight of a girl, bleeding to death, under a wood of oak trees decorated with rotting corpses.

***

Rochefort - 1080

Thierry was practicing with his sword in the courtyard, when his father came down, an outrageous look on his face.

To his surprise, his father planted his fist in his face.

"You imbécile! You moron!"

His father kicked his youngest son in the belly, on his back and gave him some more punches with his fists. When he was done, he sat down, next to Thierry, who was in aggony and pain.

"First you disgrace us with your behaviour on the field that is supposed to be the field of honor. And now, this!" he said, pionting at a basket with a little baby in it.

"It were just peasants. And that over there is not mine." Thierry groaned.

"Shut up, you fool! Appparently, you don't wish to learn chivarly from me and you don't want to learn that that sword between your legs is not there to be put in peasant girls."

His father stood up.

"I'm sending you away. To Paris. You get some bodyguards and one letter of recommendation and that will be it. Maybe they will teach you chivarly over there, maybe they won't. Whatever happens, I don't want to see your face again, you scumbag. Within three days, you're out of here. And as for this child... The smith's wife lost her youngest, she'll be happy to raise this one as her own."

***

Paris - 1080

Thierry looked over his shoulder when going through the southern city gate of Paris.

"Je suis libre, finalement!"

He looked at the letter in his hand and he wondered what would be in it. Unfortunately, it was sealed. He gave it to one of his bodyguards.

"Make sure this gets delivered. I'll go to my quarters and once I'm installed, I'll head directly for the tavern. Oh, and make sure my name is on the list of those participating in the tournament on your way back, will you?"

1069 AD

The blow landed heavily on his left temple, spinning him around and dropping him to the ground. The manure-encrusted straw cushioned the fall, but Christophe’s head was ringing with blinding pain and he was too incoherent to notice. The third kick to the ribs brought him back to his senses, and he curled up in a ball to protect himself.

“Useless, pig-faced ingrate!” Arnoul spat on him. “Perhaps next time you will cut the wood properly!” One final kick was delivered to emphasize the point, before the merchant walked out of the barn.

Christophe lay where he had fallen for several minutes, waiting for the pain to pass. He was used to beatings, and had come to take a small amount of enjoyment in the inevitable isolation that was allowed him for a short period after the blows had stopped falling. For those brief moments, no one would order him around or expect him to do anything except lay still.

The blows themselves no longer frightened him, indeed no longer had any impact on him. He could not remember a time in which someone, be it Gervais, Arnoul, or Arnoul’s son Godin, was not beating him for some reason or other. Their sheer predictability removed any deterrent effect they might otherwise have had on Christophe. If he did his work, he would be beaten. If he didn’t do his work, he would be beaten. So, Christophe did as he pleased and accepted what followed.

That morning, he had worked hard to cut the logs for firewood, but the axe was too heavy for a nine year old boy to swing well. After the first few, his arms were burning and unable to deliver enough of an impact to do more than chip away at the bark of the fallen tree. He had grown much stronger in the three years he had been with Arnoul, but he was still a child.

Lord Hugues de Perronne had allowed his fifth son to remain at the manor until the age of six. He was fed, clothed, and had a place to sleep, and that had been enough. Christophe had quickly learned to avoid Gervais, who was seven years older and hated him for reasons Christophe did not understand. During those years, he would often go out to the forest to play, enjoying the quiet sounds of nature. Christophe would pretend that he was a glorious knight, riding a powerful horse and slaying all who opposed him, which typically meant Gervais and one of the stable boys who mocked his deformed nose.

Without the means to provide for a fifth son’s future, Hugues simply ordered Arnaud to take him on as an apprentice. As one of Lord de Perronne’s subjects, he had no choice in the matter. Arnaud was part blacksmith, part travelling merchant. Perronne was too small to support his business exclusively, so he took regular trips to other local towns and villages to ply his wares. Christophe was nothing but an inconvenience to him. Without support from Lord de Perronne, Arnaud paid out of his own pocket to feed Christophe and he had no need of an apprentice anyway. Godin had been training in his father’s art for many years, and the teenager was the true apprentice. Arnaud taught Christophe nothing, and instead used him for the most disagreeable and menial chores. The young de Perronne did not know enough of life to resent it.

Christophe finally arose from the floor of the barn, moving slowly to keep the pounding in his head to a minimum. He took a few deep breaths, then started walking towards the fallen tree to resume chopping some more. It seemed like the best thing to do. He worked at it for hours until exhaustion overcame him and he crawled back to the barn to sleep in the dirty straw. In the morning, the day would repeat itself all over again, just as it always had, and just as it always would.

Saint Amand, 1080AD

Pere Jules Foucault, priest of the church of Saint-Amand, was entertaining another member of the clergy that beautiful Sunday afternoon. The two chatted amiably and the subject had been the inspiring sermon during mass earlier in the day. The collection plate at the conclusion of the service was particularly full as a result of Pere Jules’ work.

"Yes, the people of Saint-Amand are most giving people. I am truly blessed to be here. Now, what do you say to a leisurely walk through the town, so we may take in the fine air?"

Pere Guy was looking forward to the offer. "Yes, I would like that very much."

As Pere Jules began to make his way towards the door, Pere Guy became rather inquisitive. "Excuse me, but should you not secure your day’s harvest before we go? What if some thief comes here to steal…"

"Oh that’s right, you don’t know the story, do you? beamed Pere Jules. Did you not notice the two candlesticks?"

"Why no, I’m afraid I didn’t. We were having such an engaging conversation, I scarcely noticed." Pere Guy made his way over to the objects of their discussion. They were both of heavy bronze, with a uniquely distinguishing characteristic.

"Mother Mary, is that blood on both these candlesticks?"

Pere Jules became quite animated. "Yes indeed. Those two candlesticks are named Robert and Thomas, after the LeFebre boys. Come have a seat once more, and I will tell you the tale."

"It was almost four years ago that I had had an even better Sunday than most. The plate was more full that day than you see it now. The two sons of Philippe LeFebre, Robert who was 16, and brother Thomas who was 12 at the time, assisted me every Sunday after mass with putting things in order. Thomas was quite a fine altar boy, I will tell you. Anyways, on an afternoon much like this one, I was accosted in this very room by two brigands demanding that days donations. Meanwhile, the LeFebre boys were in the outer room, doing the sort of chores that typically needed doing. What could I do? I was one against their two. At first I thought about fighting for the church money, but then I was afraid that if something went wrong, these wayward souls might do harm to the boys."

"So, I reached for the plate and prepared to hand over the collection, when through that very door come Robert and Thomas, armed with those two candlesticks. The whole thing was over in a short moment. I scuffled with one of the intruders while the boys bludgeoned the other one. You could see the fury in their eyes, Pere Guy, Philippe raised his children well. It didn’t take long as I said before the affair was over. The bloodied one cried out, no more, no more, I beg you! The other would-be thief simply lost his nerve and stopped struggling with me, and it was ended."

"Now, the weapons that defended this house on that day stand where you see them, still with the blood of one of the assailants on them. They stand as a reminder of God watching over us. I must tell you Pere Guy, it was the worst day of my life when we held services for Robert two years ago. He died as a result of the accident which everyone knows about. And now Thomas is in Paris…"

"And the two transgressors, what became of them?" Interrupted Pere Guy. "I imagine no one has ever seen them again."

Pere Jules burst out in laughter. "That IS the best part of my story. Quite the contrary, they have attended mass here every Sunday now since that fateful day, and have never missed one! Truthfully, I don’t think their hearts were in the thing to begin with. They said if the house of the Lord is protected in such ways, then they hoped to be looked after in the same manner!"

"And you know, we’ve not had another robbery attempt made since that time. Thomas is now far from here, but his act and that of his brother in defending the church are things that people remember for a long time. I do wish him well..."

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Coop with TheFlax

Paris, 1080

Gaspard de Neufville had just finished donning his coat of mail. The tournament wasn't due to start for another couple of hours, but he preferred to get used to the added wait before it started.

As he buckled his sword by his side, he decided to take a walk around. There was no need for practice - he'd spent enough time yesterday warming up.

Not far from there, wandering the tournament field lazily on her stallion, Constance was searching for a good vantage point to observe the fighting when it would begin. It was custom that women should not be present during contests of arms, but she never had been one to yield before rules and expectations. It seemed all so exciting, from what little she had gleaned it would be something song in ballads for years to come. No, she would make a point not to miss it, but she would have to be discreet.

The gaggle of armed men following her appeared nonplussed as Constance lead them on what seemed to be an aimless trip. Dressed in a strikingly white embroidered bliaud with jeweled leather and having one of the men carrying her colors, it was obvious she was making no attempt to hide her identity.

Suddenly, while he was walking, Gaspard spotted a body of men at the far end of the field. Wishing to inquire about the whereabouts of the Duc d' Bourgogne, he hurried as fast as he could to catch up with them.

As got closer he suddenly noticed Constance. Unable to conceal his surprise, he called out."Your highness!"

She halted and turned, more to notice who had called than to acknowledge him.

Walking up to her, Gaspard paid her a short bow before addressing her.

"I did not expect to see you here, princess. I have heard that it is custom for women not to attend the melees? Of course, you are a princess of the blood, and that would explain your presence."

Surprise and annoyance played on her face. Could he know that she would sneak off to watch the tournament? Constance decided it would be best if she tried to go along with the cover story she had hastily invented earlier.

"I simply wished to see where my father would fight, that is all... And you are?" Her expression was clumsy attempt at haughtiness.

"Forgive me for not introducing myself." began Gaspard, "My name is Gaspard de Neufville, a chevalier of Bourgogne and a vassal of Duc Raymond."

Suddenly his tone changed, into one more thoughtful, more caring.

"Your highness, I would consider it an honor and a privilege if you would permit me to wear your colors at the tournament today."

While she had returned to a more placid expression, seemingly almost bored, it was still possible to see a hint of relief on her features. She was thoughtful for an instant before giving her intentions away with a mischievous smile.

"Very well." She leaned closer to him and continued in a conspiratorial tone. "But, if by chance you do happen to find yourself on the opposite side of my brother, it would please me greatly for you capture him in my name."

Smiling, Gaspard nodded.

"Thank you, your highness, I shall wear them with pride. I pray to God that I do not disappoint you tomorrow. You have my word of honour that it shall be done as you say."

Gaspard glanced at the sun before continuing, "I must ask your leave, your highness, for the morning is wearing on, and I must finish preparing for the tournament. However, I am sure we shall meet again."

As Gaspard began to walk back to his tent he spoke softly to himself, "We shall meet again."

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Written by Rowan with couple of changes by me in the end.

Paris, 1080

Alphonse was walking back towards their lodgings but his mind was elsewhere.
It was still weeks before the start of tournament and even the cheap and dirty stable on the outskirts of one of the seedier parts of town was quickly eating into the modest amount of money they had.

Suddenly there was a commotion from the alley, a wild band of beggar children in rags rushing towards Alphonse, with two winded guards chasing them. "Stop'em, 'ey stole the ladies purse", one of them tried to yell, but out of breath.

Visions of gold offered by a beautiful noble lady handed as prize filled Alphonses mind as he spurted after the band almost by instinct. Unencumbered by heavy armor or arms he quickly outpaced the guards.

The children were even quicker, though, and knew this twisting maze of alleys and side streets better than their own hands. Soon Alphonse had lost the sight of them and was forced to stop at a narrow intersection of two deserted alleys. Luckily there came a shout from one direction and he headed that way. Across the turn the alley seemed to end in a cul-de-sac.

Alphonse saw three persons there. Two seedy looking adult men seemed to be threatening a boy of about 10 years. The boy might have been one of the band that had rushed past him just as the guard had yelled.

"Now, hand us the purse and we'll let you go home to mommy and daddy"
"But I told you already! The bigger boys had it and they didn't wait for me an..."
"Shut up!" As the man backhanded the child across the mouth Alphonse felt his blood boil and before he could even realize it he was rushing the two ruffians. There was something not quite right in the situation, something was nagging Alphonse but now he didn't have time to think about it. Two against one and grown men against a kid. That wasn't a fair fight!

The two heard his charge and were turning towards him as he collided with the nearer one and sent both of them flying against the stone wall. Luckily the ruffian softened his impact. From the corner of his eye Alphonse saw the other man drawing an evil looking dagger and tried to roll away from the lunge but succeeded only partially. He felt the blade slice across his bliaud and scrape across his ribs. The wound didn't hurt, or slow him down, at the moment but he needed to end this fight quickly. Getting up he scans the environs for anything that he can use to counter the assailants knife. The ruffian he had checked against the wall doesn't seem to be moving anytime soon, but doesn't have any obvious weapons on him either.

The assailant lunges again and Alphonse, again almost by instinct, uses his cloak to catch the other mans arm as he dances away and puts all of his strength on a hammer of a blow towards the mans temple. The blow connects. The ruffian seems to stop mid-motion, twitches a bit and drop to the ground. Alphonse untangles his cloak and approaches the kid who has retreated into the corner.

"I thank you, kind ser, for saving me from these two villains."

Now Alphonse realized what had been bothering him. The boys accent wasn't that of a common street urchin, but of a noble, and under the accumulating filth his clothes weren't raggy tatters, they were fine cotton and supple leather.

"I had... escaped from my home, I wanted some adventure but got in over my head... It seems those beggar boys weren't my friends after all..."

"But you are hurt, let me take you to my fathers place and his people will take care of you. He is an important man and I can assure you that you got yourself a powerful friend" said boy with a smile on his face.

1080, Town of Burlats in the area of Tarns, Manor of Lacaze Family

Yvon looked down on His families villa. He sneered at the buildings decaying glory..... At the rot that had been growing there for the past 30 years...... Ever since his father had gained the Lacaze families land, and Fief.

He looked back at his friend Adam "He does it in spite of me you know......"

Adam's eyebrow arched "Does what?"

Yvon sighs, his eyes glinting wickedly "Undermines me, ruins every attempt I make to get out of here. My father knows that I will turn out better than him. He can tell it already. And so he does this, bars me from the tournament. Idiocy like that, He thinks that if I never accomplish anything then his own failures wont be his fault. Well, I would hate for him to think that.... He has failed at everything he has attempted, failed as a knight, and failed as a lord. Why the Dukes allow him anything is beyond me." Yvon sighed and Looked at the fields around their little piece of Tarn.

Adam smiled slightly, "You are overreacting Yvon.... Your father has at least kept the fief together. Your people have just fallen on hard times is all. Things will turn around."

"That may be, but I dont plan on being here to find out. A man from the duchy of Aquitaine sent me a letter and I am sure that I can find my fortune there. I will always remember Burlats, but I do not plan on returning home until I have more wealth then this entire fief combined. Thats partly why I called you from home Adam. I realize that it may be asking to much of you to come with me, you are your fathers only heir, but I thought it would be worth a shot."

Adam leaned against a tree, deep in thought. It was many moments before he got back up. "Yvon, you are right about one things, you are going to turn out better than your father. And if you do I might as well be along for the ride." He smiled and they both began walking towards the villa. "But what are you going to tell your father?"


Yvon laughed slightly at the thought "Nothing. We leave tomorrow to the house of Aquitaine. By the time he finds out we will already be gone. After that only Our Lord knows where the wind will take us"

It was during the tournament, right before the herald's cry signified that both sides were to begin. Duc Raymond had just finished speaking to his teammates with exagerated motions when he turns to where the Red Team is standing and shouts, loud enough for both combatants and spectators to hear:

Hey, Gespard! What's say you and I charge each other head on and make this interesting?

Having charged forward full speed, Raymond stops just short of Gaspard when he sees him advance slowly with the rest of the red team. He points a mailed finger at his vassal, and once again calls out for all to hear.

All right! Gaspard, I must request that you and I fight right now! I want to see what you're made of, so consider this a challenge! Sir Hermant, Sir Loup, I beg for your non-interference!

Looking at his Duc, Gaspard grasps his reigns and shouts out.

Certainly, my Duc! It will be an honour.

Paris 1080 shortly before the tournament

Alain spread his arms wide as Pierre-Yves pulled his scale mail hauberk into place.

"You know Yves, I would much ra'zer be thrashing young maidens zan doing all zis marshal bollocks."

"Thrashing my lord, why would you want to be thrashing maidens, isn't that a bit cruel?" Pierre Yves raised a sardonic brow as he fetch his lords gauntlets.

"Oh for god sake Yves you know ze type of zrashing I'm talking about.

I mean what ze bloody point of all zis? 'as ze King actually pointed out w'at ze reward is?"

"Well no...'

"Oh shut up Yves zat is a bloody r'etorical question. You know 'e 'as not and so do I."

The Duke scans the weapons rack, speaking to his man servant behind while never taking his eyes from the selection of fine weapons before him.

"We are surround by ze god damn English and we should be planning for war, instead we are strutting around ze tourney field showing off like a bunch of startled gazelles."

Running a hand over his fathers sword, his eyes then scan a large lead weighted mace viscous spikes protruding from the top and sides. It was his preferred weapon if this was a real fight, but alas it was just a tournament so his hand finally rested on a shortened lance used by knights while on foot.

He took it and in his left hand hefted his Ducal shield.

Turning and pacing from the room Alain begins to absentmindedly spin the lance over and over in rapid succession, the weapon blurring with the blinding speed of its masters skill.

Alain disappears outside of the tent, Pierre-Yves following, under his breath he says to no one.

"God help us if you actually put you mind to anything serious, you might be rather terrifying."

"Keep up Yves, I can't 'ave you lagging be'ind me all ze time. You really must concentrate on being a better servant, I can't 'ave your attitude becoming public, it just wouldn't be good form.

As they head towards the tournament field the Duke voice bellows once more.

"Madoc!! You stinking 'ound, stop shagging ze small shild and come 'ere!!"

Paris, 1081

He was far removed from the splendor of the Tournament, the spectacle that was all that King Phillipe and his aims stood for. What was he trying to do, anyway? Show off? Well, he had certainly achieved that particular goal. Unite the nobility of France? Have them place greater faith in each other? Good luck with that, Raynaud thought. If the King's aims were truly that which he had spoken of, then he was far off the mark. After all, men, as a rule, were wicked folk and eventually, placing trust in them would prove to be a fatal mistake.

No, Raynaud de Xaintrailles was doing the real work for France, the work that needed to be done. He was placing his trust in the one figure where trust truly mattered. If all of the Conseil de Royaume simply followed his path, then France was guaranteed to prosper. Alas, of course, it was not to be. Raynaud knew better than that. The wicked and unknowing would always outnumber the God-fearing.

Still, though, Raynaud tried. While the rest of the nobles were off committing the sin of pride, he made up for it by touring the city and trying to spread the Word. When he was tired, he made his way to the nearest church and prayed.

"Lord, give me strength for the trials I face ahead. Give me strength to triumph against the world's numerous sinners and unfaithful. Give me strength to face the Conseil de Royaume and steer them in thy holy direction. I am weak, Lord. Give me the strength to do your bidding, and do your bidding I shall, with as much zeal and energy as I can possibly muster; now and later, as always. Amen."

Figuring that it was almost time to get back and get some rest before the Conseil, Raynaud prepared to depart the deserted church, but not before he saw a female figure in the doorway.

Her hesitant steps, conveying uncertainty rather than fear, brought her closer to him and into the light. She was dressed simply, yet her fine white bliaud easily marked her as nobility. Her loose curly brown hair encased her youthful visage, fraught with conflicting emotions. Biting absently on her lower lip, she glanced nervously around the church, failing to notice Raynaud.

Raynaud, however, quickly made his presence known. Somewhat grateful and relieved to see a second figure in the church, he immediately started walking towards her. Noticing her dress but not recognizing her for her exact title, Raynaud bowed and began speaking to her as an equal.

"My lady," he said, "I must admit that this is a pleasant surprise. It is not often enough that the upper class finds themselves in here after hours, humble and repentant. If I may be so bold, if only France had more God-fearing women such as yourself, then maybe the country would finally be fit to see His favor."

Bowing once more, Raynaud began to take his leave, eager for one of such a rank to begin getting divinely inspired in solitude.

"Wait!" She blurted out. "Do not leave." After a paused, she added with an imploring murmur "Please."

Raynaud turned, slightly annoyed. He had other places to be, and he wasn't sure that this woman's pleas were so he could further enlighten her on matters of religion. However, he kept this completely out of his voice. "You request something, my lady?"

"I have... I have never done this before." She seemed genuinely embarrassed, though it was hard to say if it was because of her plea or her lack of knowledge in religious matter.

Raynaud raised one eyebrow. He didn't know whether to be amused at this woman, who clearly had been brought up in a heretical family, having not educated her in the matters of religion, or happy that she was seeking salvation on her own.

"Well, my lady," he said, "As you know, this is a House of God. You can do several things here. The first one is praying, and I hope for your sake you know what that is. All you do to pray is kneel down and begin speaking, whether out loud or silently, to the Lord. You may discuss your wishes, your fears, your emotions... anything. For He will listen, and He is a benevolent listener. There is also the matter of confessing your sins, but you cannot do that without a priest to take your confession. Unfortunately, this church is sadly bereft of priests for the moment."

"Yes, I know of this, but..." She looked down, avoiding his gaze. "I have never done it alone and never have I prayed for someone else. It is because there are no priests that I turn to you."

Raynaud sighed and looked thoughtful for a moment before his expression finally changed. "Very well," he said, "I will take your confession, so long as you should keep in mind that this is no substitute for confessing to a true ordained priest. Clearly you have something pressing on your mind, and I will help you through it. After all, sinning is nothing but a disease of the heart, and I would hate for the infection to spread any further. Come, inside one of these private booths, and say what is on your mind."

Constance gave him a puzzled look, but followed him nonetheless. Once in the booth, she took a moment of silence to bolster her resolve before speaking up hesitantly.

"I wanted to go see the tournament, even if father forbade me. I was just... worried... about a... a... friend... and then... well then I came here to pray and..." With a sharp intake of breath she stopped babbling and calmed down. "I guess that, truthfully, what bothers me most is that I hate my brother and I know I shouldn't."

Raynaud considered this for a while, still unaware of the true identity of whom he was speaking to. Here was a simple girl with the standard teenage issues, nothing more, it seemed. He would have to steer this back to the Lord somehow.

"Well," he said, "You should always honor your mother and father; the Ten Commandments order us as much. Follow the Lord's commands and you will be inherently happy. And for what it's worth, the tournament is overrated and nothing more than a boastfest. I myself was invited to participate but declined because of its very nature."

He paused, considering the final part of the girl's admittance. "As for your brother, family, no matter how much we care for them, can put us off sometimes. Has there been anything in particular he has done to anger you so?"

"Every time he looks at me, every time he speaks to me, I can tell he thinks only of me as a nuisance or on the best of days, as no more than a simple animal." Her words flowed in a cool measured tone layered in resentment.

Behind the confessional screen, the girl could tell that Raynaud was staring straight at her. Clearly, the man had his opinions, that much was certain if he was who he said he was and consciously blew off the Tournament. However, here it was again, that certainty. In an age and a culture of subtlety, his clearness was both refreshing and terrifying.

"Then do something about it," he said. "Come into your own, one way or another. Just because you are a woman and do not have as much control over your destiny as I does not mean you exist at anyone's whim aside from your father's, the King's, and the Lord's."

Without a doubt, the words jolted something in her. Silence permeated the church, punctuated only by rhythmic breathing, as she tried to fully grasp what Raynaud had said. The words were not complicated, but what they proposed went contrary to her upbringing, they went contrary to what her brother expected of her. She clung to that thought, the thought of being the opposite of what her brother. Unconsciously, she realized she had already taken the first steps in her recent encounter with Alain, but she needed more. She needed to find some purpose to her life, a purpose other than being the family pawn.

Raynaud, sensing that he had struck a nerve, left the woman to her pondering and departed the church.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Co-op between myself and TheFlax.

1070 AD

The squirrel’s hind legs twitched slightly as the body slowly accepted the reality of death. Christophe lifted the large stone which had crushed the animal’s upper body and set it down next to the trunk of the tree. He licked the few streaks of warm blood off his fingers, then picked up the squirrel and brushed off the crushed acorns which had attracted it into the trap in the first place. In the crook of a tree above him, several more killing rocks were stored and waiting. It took patience to lie still in the tree above, but with the seasons turning the squirrels were out in force and a meal was almost guaranteed if he simply waited long enough.

Food was a strong motivator and Christophe desperately wanted to avoid the hunger he had endured for the first several weeks in the forest. He had regained part of the weight he had lost since then, but not all of it. With winter approaching, the prospects of starvation weighed heavily on his mind. Christophe had run away from Arnoul in mid-spring when the air was warm and the plants were bearing fruit. He had barely survived then, and the prospect of winter in the woods truly frightened him.

He looped some twine around one of the squirrel’s feet, tethering it along with the other victim he had caught earlier in the morning. Christophe tossed the animals over his shoulder and began walking back to his shelter. It was a pleasantly warm day and the tranquility of the forest put him at ease. As he walked, his mind returned inevitably to the impending difficulties of winter.

Thus far he had avoided theft from the local farms whenever he could. His first attempt, made in during the depths of his spring hunger, had almost been his last. The farmer who had caught him had beaten him badly and likely would have killed him, had the man’s wife not forced him to stop. Since then, he had managed to steal a small pig and two chickens, but he knew his luck would run out soon enough. The next farmer who caught him would not likely have such a forgiving wife. Yet, when winter came, what choice would he have?

Winter also posted another serious threat: cold. Thus far his clothing had been sufficient to keep him warm during the day, and fire had served him at night. When the temperature dropped, it would not be enough. The depths of night were already starting to achieve a biting level of cold that made sleep difficult. Another month and he would begin having serious problems, and warmth was not something that could be stolen. To survive, he would have to find a building to live in, and that almost certainly meant people. Where there were people, there were questions, and that would inevitably lead him back to Arnoul.

Through the air came the sound of voices. Christophe froze in his tracks, tilting his head to locate where the intrusion had come from. Ahead of him. Directly ahead of him. The blood drained from Christophe’s face as the realization of what that meant sank in; they were at his camp.

He knew he should flee, but with the exception of the old dagger he had stolen from Arnoul, all of his possessions were there. Meager though they were, they were all that stood between survival and death; he could not simply abandon them. Slowly, he sank into a crouch and began moving forward, one step at a time, towards the camp. He dropped the dead squirrels at the base of the first tree he passed, freeing his right arm for use. After a few minutes of slow movement, he began to see glimpses of the site through the trees.

It was even worse than he had feared. There weren’t just a few men, there were dozens of them; sitting by his fire circle, leaning against nearby trees, and more he could sense but not see. One even appeared to be lying under the lean-to Christophe had erected to provide shelter at night. The few possessions he had left at the camp had either been kicked about, or were missing altogether.

In his growing panic, Christophe became careless. Straining to see better, he leaned forward on a dead branch, and it collapsed under his weight with a loud snap. Every head swiveled to look directly at him. He jumped to his feet and turned to run, only to find a giant bearded man towering over him. Christophe drew his worn dagger and swung it wildly at the man, but his opponent simply stepped out of the way, laughing heartily. With a single hand, he first knocked Christophe over, then picked him up by the neck. The other hand grabbed the dagger and slipped it through a rope belt at his waist.

Christophe clawed feebly at the man’s hand, desperately trying to get free. This only amused him more, and he strode into the middle of the camp, with a huge grin on his face. He tossed the boy onto the ground in the middle of the group. Christophe immediately sprang back to his feet and ran directly at the bearded man, desperately trying to get his dagger back. Each time he was swatted away with a heavy palm. By this point, the entire camp was rolling with laughter. The man lying under the lean-to arose and walked forward.

“What have you caught for us today, Gobert?”

“I think it is some kind of skinny, hairless dog,” the bearded man replied. “Shall we eat it?”

The other man grinned and drew a long blade. “Mostly skin and bone, but perhaps there’s some meat on there somewhere, ”

The words only made Christophe intensify his attack. With a quick jab, he punched the bearded man in the testicles, ending the man’s latest bout of laughter with a muted, “Oop…” Gobert stumbled back a few steps, wincing in pain. Christophe swiped the dagger from his belt and swung around, waving it wildly at the men around him. With the exception of Gobert, they were all laughing even harder now.

“Well, well, well… looks like this one has some spirit in him.” The lean-to man gestured to one of the men who was sitting near the fire. The man reached forward and grabbed something from one of the rocks and tossed it on the ground next to Christophe. It was a chunk of smoking meat. Like a true dog, the boy dropped to his feet and began tearing into the food. All thought of escape vanished and for a while he knew nothing except the food. After several minutes of gorging himself, he finally looked up, to see that the men were once again relaxing around the campsite.

The man under the lean-to smiled at him. “Do you know this area, little dog?”

Christophe stared blankly at him, then nodded.

“Truly? You know the towns, the merchant roads, the militia posts?”

The boy nodded again.

“Then we shall be good friends, little dog. I am Dreux and these,” he gestured at the group of men lounging around the campsite, “are my friends. Show us what we ask for, and I promise you will never go hungry again.”

The Socratic approach to dueling - Paris, tournament grounds, 1081

During the final minutes of the tournament, Gaetan seized the opportunity and shouted out to Hermant. "Hermant, a final duel, between you and I, if you will do me the honor?”

Hermant quickly surveyed the tournament grounds. He was alone on the left flank; the nearby red knights all captured. Most of the victorious blue knights were moving off to engage the group of surviving red knights far to his right.

"Why not, brother knight? I could use some company."

Gaetan smiled and nodded in agreement. "Good, let us make this the fight of the tourney - at me with your best, give me no less!" With that, Gaetan's sword lashed out with incredible speed in an upward crosscut, nearly connecting with Hermant's chin, who managed to dart out of the way just in time.

Hermant countered, swinging his mace up and into Gaetan's gut while his guard is down. Gaetan swiftly blocked the blow, but he underestimated Hermant's strength, and it followed through, knocking the wind out of Gaetan and sending him tumbling to the ground. Pain shot through Gaetan's head and his vision blurred for a second.

"Get up boy!" A sudden crack echoes as a ruler was brought down upon Gaetan's desk.

Startled, Gaetan sat up straight and whipped the drool from his mouth. "Oh, um..." The instructor looked down upon Gatean with a dour look. "I will ask again - why did Socrates choose to die?"

Gaetan puzzled over the question, and finally answered after an awkward moment. "Because the State had decreed it?"

The instructor chuckled: "Ah, so you do pay attention Little Count. Yes and no, he did die because the State did decree it, but that is only half the answer."

Gaetan was about to object, but the sudden thud of a mace next to his head upon the ground caused him to reflexively kickout, causing Hermant to stumble backwards. Now on his feet, Gaetan swung again, but Hermant brushed the blow aside and nailed Gaetan upon the leg. Gaetan winced in pain as he rushed Hermant and sent him flying to the ground.

"But why did he not run then, if he could? Is it not better to run away, and fight another day? To retreat and reorganize?" Gaetan's puzzlement continued.

The Instructor, who seemed finally happy to have a student who seemed genuinely interested in his lessons, shook his head and continued. "But to do so would have been to disobey the State, and to harm the community. Socrates was faced with the ultimate test - to sacrifice his self interest, nay sacrifice himself, in order to do what he believed was right. He passed the test and in so doing, ensured that his beliefs and teaching would endure for an eternity.”

Gaetan looked down at Hermant, lying on the ground, struggling to get to his feet in the mud of the tournament floor. He looked at his own sword and smiled. He sheafed the sword and hobbled over to Hermant, offering him his hand to raise him up.

“Another round perchance?”

Hermant bowed in thanks and readied himself again for combat.

As the two knights circled and parried, their long training allowing them to fight instinctively, Gaetan’s mind started to drift off again to his childhood. The memories returned, more vivid than ever. The smell of the musty parchments, the hum of the other children whispering in the class room and the face of his instructor keenly assessing his best pupil. “I think I understand, Sir. Socrates’ death teaches us that one wins by being true to oneself and the principles one abides by, which grant true victory.”

“Precisely, my boy!” said the instructor. Gaetan smiled like a triumphant school boy as a heavy blow from Hermant’s mace sent him hurtling to the ground and consciousness escaped him.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Oops :sweatdrop: - co-op done with econ21. Sorry econ, thought this was here...

An Audience with the King, Paris 1081


The eight young knights entered the great hall of the King. Anxious guards approached them and demanded their swords - ever mindful of the threat of assassination by agents of England or France’s other enemies. Hermant surrendered his sword with casual disdain, eyes firmly fixed forwards.

The company came on. From all sides, courtiers and nobles watched the eight young men approaching the throne. They were too young, too bold, too many, too insignificant, too uncouth, too impertinent, too … everything. But the King had indulged them with an audience and so they came on.

As they approached the King seated on his throne, they stopped and, in unison, went down on one knee, heads bowed in deference.

The King looked down upon the knights and eyed them severely, as if trying to take their measure from their protestations.

“Arise.” he intoned and with a wave of his hand, he beckoned them to speak.

Hermant stood up boldly and took one step forward. “Your majesty, my name is Hermant Mauvoisin and these are my brother knights - Simon de Montpierre, Gaspard de Neufville, Eloi de Montferrat, Gaetan de Rethel, Alexandre le Sueur, Loup de Gisors and Robert Bouchart. We are indebted to you for this audience.”

The King looked on, inscrutable.

“My Lord, have formed a brotherhood - sworn to fight for France and for you, in accordance with the standards of chivalry, and humbly petition for your patronage. My Lord, let me speak frankly - France is bleeding. The English occupy our lands and even dare to claim your throne. Rebel barons hold sway in the provinces of Burgundy, Acquitaine and Lorraine, leaving the true Dukes almost as exiles. Only the Duke of Bretagne resides in his province’s true capital and even then, he is cut off from the Kingdom, surrounded by English and the sea. Our people cry out for deliverance and trust to you to answer their call. We have come to serve you in this quest.”

Mauvoisin paused, wondering if he had presumed too much - painted too bleak a picture of France and caused the King to take offence.

The King frowned: “A touch melodramatic, young knight, but I am not one to refuse offers of service. Continue.”

"My Lord!" The voice of Simon de Montpierre hesitant at first grows louder with every sentence until an otherworldly shine can be seen in his eyes. "You are known to be a Fair Fighter and have upheld the virtues of Chivalry throughout your rule. You are a shining beacon of the ideals a French Knight should follow. Before we came here we all swore an Oath to uphold the virtues of Chivalry at all times. This Oath of Chivalry binds us together, binds us to you as our King!"

The King inclined his head gravely: “I have read the Oath, young Chevalier, and it is well said.”

Mauvoisin continued: “My Lord, I know we are young men of little distinction, but we aspire for great things for France and would be weapons in your hands as you fight to restore her to what she once was. At this moment, there are few of us and we bring only our personal retainers. But we are enough to form the vanguard of your army in battle. You have need of men-at-arms while Toulouse is still incapable of training companies of knights - let us fill that need. Under your command, or that of your Seneschal, we will strike the flanks of your enemies in battle and pursue them from the field. We will be the edge you need to cut through those who oppose you and pierce their defences.”

Gaspard de Neufville rose slowly to his feet and stood beside Mauvoisin. "Your majesty, do not be afraid to trust us. All of us would willingly die for such an honourable and faithful master as yourself. Grant us the little that we require, and you will have a body of faithful knights to maintain your kingdom"

The King nodded at Gaspard, preferring his plain expression of devotion to Hermant’s presumptuous circumlocutions. “As I said, I am not one to refuse offers of service. But what is it precisely that you require me to grant?”

Hermant responded: “My Lord, we require only your endorsement and that you consider us first when composing France’s armies in the field.”

The King replied: “I have heard of your Order and it seems an admirable venture. As for you being considered first when composing France’s armies, that is more a matter for the Seneschal but we are not so blessed with companies that you may fear being unemployed.”

“We are grateful for your endorsement, your Majesty." Hermant bowed and then paused, somewhat awkwardly: "If I may presume to go further - would you consider being one of the patrons of the Order?”

The King narrowed his eyes: “You have four patrons already - the Dukes. That is an achievement for so new an enterprise. Tell me this - what are the long term aims of your Order? You speak of France, but you are young men with hopefully long lives ahead of you. What are your ambitions for your Order? What would you see it become?”

Hermant replied quickly, as if this question was never far from his mind: “My Lord, we would not presume to foresee the future. Our aspiration is that one day, the Order be given an independent command - perhaps with some foot and archers - to serve you and your Seneschal. However, until that day, we desire only to ride into battle in your service.”

“You want the Order to become an independent army?! Ha! You have some nerve. Well, I asked for ambitions and so cannot claim to be disappointed. The day may come when a reliable standing army, devoted to France, may be useful to the Seneschal and to France. After all, the Seneschal cannot be in two places at once. But while the Kingdom remains as it is, I think the four Ducal armies and my own will be more than enough commands to cover our frontiers.”

The King stopped and then spoke with an air of finality. “Your Order has my endorsement, young knights. And yes, I agree to be its patron.” He laughed: “… all the better to keep an eye on your ambitions…”

The eight knights bowed and the King turned to other business, barely pausing to acknowledge their departure with a casual wave of his left hand. When the eight were out of earshot, the King muttered to his courtiers: “Young men dedicated to France and to chivalry, rather hard to say no to, really. I suppose, it could be worse. But I wonder where it will all lead? They say the road to hell … “

The King did not finish his sentence, but let the thought hang around the palace until all memory of the eight young knights had vanished.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

This is a co-op story with Ituralde, Ignoramus and Tristan.

Paris, just outside of the first Conceil

Having spoken briefly to his nobles in the Bretagne chambers, the young Duke was now huddled in conversation just outside the Council Hall with a number of his minor vassels. Discussions were intense as he was about to make his first speech.

Glancing up briefly he noticed the Duke of Bourgogne approaching and quickly brushed away his men to turn fully and greet him.

"My Lord, bad luck zere in ze tournament. It is mostly luck of course.

Are you going to make your presence known to ze king inside?"

Raymond smiled at the Duke's greeting.

"Well met, Duc de Rohan. Indeed, I am on my way to present myself to the Conseil. Though I must say, I fear you are being too modest when you say the tournement was mostly luck. I confess that in the middle of things I worried the winner was going to be decided by who would be present in the most lopsided fights; I am glad to see that the man who emerged victorious did so without ever ganging up on an opponent!"

Bowing his head slightly at the compliment Alain replies:

"Ser Raymond, I am not so sure about zat. At ze end zere I was guilty of trying to take out a wounded man like ze rest of ze blue team. My competative spirit got ze better of me for a moment."

"Maybe so, but I am still appreciative. I was beginning to worry that I would suffer an ignominious defeat while all the rest marched forward, lock-step and uniform to fight a boring battle. I was relieved to see someone else charging forward!"

"Yes well in ze end it is very simple. You have to engage your enemy face to face and best him.

I am pleased to see we 'ave a similar opinion on ze matter."

"I quite agree. Now then, if you'll excuse me. Here's to a succesful session of the Conceil."

"Indeed and good luck to your Duchy."

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Coop story with AussieGiant

Outside Bruges, 1081

Lessons in Humility

A page boy quickly enters your command tent, a look of hurry upon his face as he begin to announce the name of Gaetan de Rethel, who gives him no chance before he enters and bows before King Philippe with the utmost reverence. The page stands off to the side and gulps, obviously having been slow and Gaetan having grown impatient.

Gaetan waits for King Philippe to allow him to speak, continuing to kneel.

"Rise and speak, de Rethel" Philippe intones, the toneof his voice hardly hiding his discontent.

Gaetan de Rethel rises and holds his chin nobly, although not staring directly at Philippe.

"I ask forgiveness for charging ahead an laying siege to Bruges, but it was the best of intentions and with tactical assessment. The Order is entirely composed of cavalry, and Bruges his own to a potent defense and large stores. In a normal siege we could not hope to take the city, and thus I saw one of two ways - either I force the commander of Bruges hand by causing him to underestimate me, or to wait the entire city out with you."

"The first could be done, but would force our armies to be split, with one or the other of us acting as reinforcements. I chose the Order as it is fleet of foot and the defenders would be unable to outpace them before our armies combined."

"The second I could not bring myself to - their are thousands of innocent people in Bruges, and to force them to starve because their military commanders are selfish and would refuse to relinquish power to their rightful lord disturbed me."

"I will take whatever punishment you see fit to give me, but I will not have this become a protracted siege and let hundreds die, even if it were to mean you would execute me for insolence and disobedience."

"So, to sum it up, you think you have a better grasp of the situation than I have. That your "tactical assessment" is better than mine ? But do you think you have knowledge of the whole situation ? Do you think there might not have been some planning ahead that you have almost ruined ? "Tactical assessment" ? Pfah.

Why do you think I stopped within sight of the city walls when I could have lain siege myself ? Did you think I was afraid, like an old lady ? Or did it cross your mud-addled brain that there was something to it ?

And I should not bear a grudge that you're also almost calling me a tyrant, considering I have no heart and will gladly cause the death of countless innocents by laying siege to that city. But that is not so. I was in parley until now with some of the inhabitants of the city so that we could have it fall more easily into our lap. But you had to step in with your "soft touch" and ruin this.

If you want to serve the Royaume, you will first have to serve its King. And my orders were quite clear. You and your company were to meet me on the road to Bruges, never did I mention laying siege to the city, no ?

As for killing you for disobedience, I admit I am tempted. But France has need of its knights in these dire times.

So I will ask you to lift that siege immediately or I will ask your company to relieve you of your command and see that its next captain learns to follow orders.

And what kind of military operation is it anyway ? You have not even started building any kind of siege engines. Do you think that Artois is such a fool that he will sally out of his city when his walls are protection against us and that he's gaining time to negociate German or English help ?"

Gaetan listens intently to King Philippes words.

"I imply neither that you are coward, nor Tyrant. I had not received any orders from you to join with your army from any messenger until I was alerted that I had over stepped by a royal page coming into the camp."

"My first concern was for the people of Bruges - if I implied you were a tyrant, it was not so. I am more concerned with how Artois will treat the people - I know him personally. That man is a tyrant, and a coward - my father's people suffered from him, from raids and brigandry."

"My second concern was to show that I was not disloyal - I did not know of your position, and so pushed forward to Bruges to insure not only would camp be set up when you arrived, but that the infantry and yourself would be able to rest knowing the Order had already begun the siege."

"As you request, I will withdraw the order, and will do so with haste."

Philippe seemed hardly mollified by Gaetan' s reply.

"Then, everything is for the best... I trust we will not see anything of the kind anymore.

I would hate to see the trust I put in your Company be misplaced.

And be assured that I do not question your loyalty nor that of your fellow knights, for if such were the case, you wouldn't be here talking with me but you'd hang from the nearest tree.

Send your orders and have your men join my camp.

You're dismissed."

Philippe watched the knight bow and slowly exit the tent, wondering if he hadn't been too harsh or too lenient.

"If only handling men was as easy as handling your destrier or your épée..."

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Co-Op done with Tristan over the debacle :sweatdrop:

Co-op between Tristan and Ignoramus

Bruges - 1081

Gaspard tried to brush the mud off his mail as he dismounted. Flandres, true to its reputation, had showered the Order with a drenching torrent, turning the poorly cut road to mud.

Muttering under his breath, Gaspard looked around for the royal pavilion. He had requested an audience with the roi as soon as he had arrived.

Enquiring of one of the men-at-arms, he soon wound his way through the camp. The pavilion was similar to the other tents scattered across the field, though of a finer weave and make of its counterparts. Noticeable was the royal coat of arms flying fiercely in the stiff breeze that had just sprung up to add to the miserable weather.

Walking boldly past the two men-at-arms on guard outside, Gaspard made his way inside.

Immediately upon entering, Gaspard paid the roi a short bow before resuming a respectful stance.

Seeing the young knight, utterly drenched, enter the pavilion, Philippe could bearely repress a smile.

"De Neufville, how was the ride ? A bit humid, I suppose..."

Going to a sidetable with silverware, Philippe turned to Gaspard with a goblet in his hand.

"Un verre de vin chaud, to take the bite of the cold out of your bones?"

"Merci, mon Roi." replied Gaspard gratefully.

After taking a couple of long sips, Gaspard looked at Philippe and began.

"Mon Roi, how long do you think we will have to spend before the walls of Bruges? From what I've heard, an assault would be extraordinarily costly in men."

"Truly, Robert d'Artois, Comte de Flandres, is a formidable adversary. His men are well-trained and disciplined and he has the benefit of the walls.

For now, I was content letting his men come and go. It served our purpose.

Why the query, de Neufville? You have something better to do in the next few seasons?"

Shaking his head, Gaspard fingered his sword.

"Non, I am content to fulfill the Roi's business. Only, I trust it is not too long before I can face the enemy in the field. I prefer the chaos of the melee to the cool, calculated plans of a siege."

"I would tend to agree but the question should be put to your "Captain". He is the one who has lain siege against my orders. I have summoned him to tell him my mind but he hasn't arrived yet. I thought the Order would be more thankful of the honour done by joining me in this campaign."

Looking shocked, Gaspard stared at Philippe.

"Sieur de Rethel has lain siege to Bruges against your orders? I am appalled! He never told me what your orders were. I trust the situation can be salvaged somewhat."

"We'll see what explanations he can come up with for his actions. I am willing to forgive him if he's willing to make amends but I'm not sure everyone in the Royaume will be as generous. Some already think it shows the Order's true agenda."

Gaspard looked the roi straight in the eye and said slowly, "Mon Roi, whatever happens, you may trust moi with your life. I would rather die than fail in mon duty to your majesty."

"You'll soon have opportunities to prove your point, Neufville... Now go and see where your Captain may be and remind him I'm expecting him rather sooner than later... If he wants to salvage this merde he put us all in..."

Mildly shocked at the expletive, Gaspard quickly bowed and left with a "Oui, votre Majesté".

Horrible Timing:

Yvon awoke with the largest headache of his life, his temples pounding like drums.... He rose from the bed he was seated in and looked around at the room he was in.... Definitely a tavern, the rats told him that. He could hardly put together a coherent thought, but he realized he was missing something important...
"Wait a minute...... The council....... My lord...... :furious3: I am late!"
Yvon rummaged around the room frantically looking for his gear and other things, And found them soon enough stacked neatly in one corner. He gathered it all up and was just running out the door when a women entered with a bowl of soup.
She looked startled to see Yvon standing and the bowl clattered onto the floor, spilling the steaming liquid across the floorboards

"oohhhhh! Well sir, I was not expecting you to be up so early.” She smiled a bit and laughed, “Quite a few of the Physicians were not expecting you to get up at all! But I am delighted to see they were wrong.” She looked at Yvon’s equipment “but where could you be off to after your ordeal?”

“I have to go! I am late for the council! If I am not careful, I could miss EVERYTHING! I already missed the Tournement, I will not lose the chance to gain some prestige in the council!” Yvon was frantic “tell me, how much was I drinking…. How long was I out…….”

The lady shifted from foot to foot “well, you were out from the wine for a day….. You were drinking some of my husbands best stock……”

Yvon let out a cry of relief “then there is still time! Thank you Milady! I…”
The woman cut in “but then you caught a fever from some of the food you ate…. You were out for another week. The council is already over with.” Her face scrunched up waiting for the explosion.
“over….” Yvon’s face went blank, his eyes widening. “oh.”

The Woman snapped her fingers “Also, the Prince sent a message, he wishes you to know he is marching from the city to begin campaigning. I told the messenger I would tell you, but as I said you have been out cold…..”

“The prince is on campaign……” Yvon snapped from his stupor.
“Then I have to leave right now!!!!!” He rushed from the inn saddling his horse and making to the gates in what must have been record breaking time.

It was hours of riding before he slowed down, and started thinking “ahhhh, I believe I forgot to pay the tavern keeper for saving my life….. I only payed for a night in the Inn…..” He reached down to his coin purse, and hit only empty air. He looked down and grimaced to see it was missing. He sighed “just my luck…. Well, I think that should be enough to placate the inn keeper…. Wait a second. Did she say I caught the fever from food they gave me?” Another sigh, this one deeper. He almost turned around, heading back into the city to give the women a piece of his mind. Instead he headed south, hoping to catch up to his lord as soon as possible.

Metz, 1084

Bertin sat at the table he had positioned in the center of his chamber facing the door. To his right was situated his bed, which currently contained the sleeping naked form of the curvy blonde serving girl he had spent the night with.

An expected knock emanated from the door. Bertin whispered “enter” just loud enough for the man on the other side to hear, so as not to disturb the sleeping beauty on the bed.

Odo entered the room and cast a blasé look at the girl. This had become all too usual for Bertin since they had come to France. Looking back towards Bertin, Odo growled, “You wish to see me, boy?”

The girl in the bed shifted at the sound of Odo’s voice. Bertin shot a furtive glance in her direction. He was relieved to see that she remained sleeping. Turning back to Odo he angrily whispered back, “If she had heard you call me ‘boy’ our ruse would be uncovered. You will address me as chevalier when in the presence of others, even slumbering serving girls.”

Resuming a calm demeanor, Bertin casually continued, “I called you here to offer a gift for your valor during the assault on Metz. I have managed to procure some ale in this settlement. I know you have been yearning for it since we left Kent.”

Bertin gestured towards two goblets laid out on the table. Bertin picked up the cup closest to him and took a swig. Odo smiled and picked up the other goblet.

“Perhaps I have been a bit harsh on you, chevalier,” Odo quietly said back. With that Odo downed the goblet’s contents in one gulp.

The two sat across from each other for several moments, neither uttering a word. Bertin was writing a letter to Edward, informing him of the capture of Metz. Odo was helping himself to more ale. Finally, Odo looked into Bertin’s eyes with a panicked look of realization etched across his brutish face. “The cup…Poison,” was all Odo could say before he fell off his chair, dead, with a loud thump.

Bertin nonchalantly finished his letter to Edward. “Uncle, I regret to inform you that Odo died during the assault on Metz. May he rest in peace.”

On the bed, the now awake serving girl looked silently in shock at the dead body lying on the floor, which she certainly did not remember being there when she fell asleep.

“Gisela,” Bertin calmly said to the woman while indicating the remaining ale, “Dispose of zis swill. It is embarrassing to even ‘ave it around.”

Gisela hastily threw on her chemise and ran over to the ale. Bertin smiled and then waved her out of the room. With much bowing she quickly backed up to the door and then darted out of the room without even bothering to grab her bliaud.

Bertin dragged the body into a large chest he would use until he could dispose of the body that night. He felt confident that Gisela was too frightened to say anything about what she had seen. Even if she did, it would not matter. The delightful little thing spoke nothing but German.

Bruges, 1083

The man who was ushered in the royal pavilion bore upon him all the marks of the wealth that made him what he was : one of the leading merchants of Bruges, the Venice of the North.

Clad in a heavy fur coat, with heavy chain of gold studded in gems hanging from his neck, his hands coming out of his deep sleeves in a respectful bow allowed the King to get a glimpse of several gems that could almost put those of the King to shame. But even more than the jewels, it was the girth of the man that spoke of his wealth. Philippe estimated it would take the arms of three man to circle the man at his widest.

“Nicholas van Donkkers, at your service, your Majesty”, the man intoned. “You have sent for me, I believe ?”

“Yes, Monsieur Van Donkkers… Please, join me by the fire and warm yourself…”

“Thank you, your Majesty” The man warmed his hands by the fire, clearly wanting for the King to speak first.

“I have asked you here as the leading merchant in that guild of yours. You and I have some impotant matters to discuss for the future of your city. How do you like having Artois as your souverain, van Donkkers ?”

Not knowing where the discussion would lead, the merchant chose to speak his mind truthfully.

“Robert d’Artois is a fool, a dangerous fool… But to be frank, your Majesty, I’d prefer having him as my overlord and suffer his foolishness than having him removed at the risk of seeing my city sacked and my riches and those of my fellow merchants spilt down the streets.”

“To be frank myself, I’d prefer Robert removed but I do not want to see your “riches” go anywhere else than the coffers where they belong. Nous, les Français are not thieves like those English fiends. So you see your views are not irreconcilable. I want Flanders to be part of France and to accomplish this, I’ll need Bruges to surrender to me. A siege is a lengthy and costly business, one I do not relish… And neither should you…”

“No, your Majesty, but it is not as if I or any other of the citizens have any choice in the matter. You either lay siege to the city or you don’t… And seeing the massing of forces and that lightning raid by some of your knights, I expect the siege will come soon… Preparations have already been made… Artois is a fool in all things but not in matters of war… Truly, it may cost you dearly to storm our walls…” Nicholas wondered if he hadn’t gone too far, his words had come out of his mouth faster than he wanted to speak them… now it was too late to take them back.

Philippe immediately picked up on the unease of the man.
“You are right… The siege will come. And if it lasts, it will mean the end of your guild and your precious privileges… Other cities will fill the vacuum left when your port and gates close up. You will never be able to recover. Ruin is what awaits you if I siege the city.”

Nicholas managed to stand his ground though the commitment of the King frightened him.

“Only if you win, Votre Majesté… Artois is right now negotiating with the English to come and help, if they do, you’ll be caught between the rock and the hard place.”

“And I will win that I can guarantee you… If not now, then one day, and when that day comes, you will wish you are on my side, van Donkkers”

“And what can I do to be on your side ? Bruges is my city… I live there, as did my father and his father before him…”

“So be true to her and have her join one of the greatest Royaume of our age… Help me overthrow Artois…”

Van Donkkers was taken aback, never had he expected such an offer. But he now saw the uncertainty that beset the French king. Bruges was heavily defended and France was at the mercy of the English and the Germans. If he could not get a swift resolution here, leaving the French army tied up in a lengthy siege, that mercy could very well end suddenly and violently. Nicholas suddenly sensed he had the higher ground, an opportunity that could well turn in his favour.

“What would you require of me and the guild then, your Majesty ?”

“To help this man get in and out of the city unnoticed…” Philippe made a small gesture with his hand and suddenly a man dressed in a black tunic and cloak stood by his side. “He must have been hiding in the shadows of the tent all this time” thought van Donkkers, a thought that chilled him to the bone despite the fire. His face was totally common, the kind of face you would forget immediately once you had him out of your sight.

“Nicholas vanDonkkers, meet Aubry Fevre, a loyal servant of the Couronne Française”

The man gave van Donkkers a parody of a bow, his eyes never leaving Nicholas’ face.

“I want you to help him acquire knowledge of Artois’ forces in the city, their patrols, anything… And when the time comes, I want you to help him have the gates opened for us…” A look of worry crossed van Donkkers’ face “Don’t worry, he’ll know how to proceed, all you have to do is make sure he can relay to us anything he discovers and make sure he can bribe, kill or otherwise subdue the gates’ guards when the time come…”

Van Donkkers balked at the enormity of the plan. Nevertheless the opportunity was still there, otherwise why would the king bother to ask him ? He could have sent the man, unbeknown to anybody in the city.

“Your Majesty, you want me to betray my city but I see nothing in it for me or my fellow citizens. Once your forces are in the city, they’ll be free to prey upon our women and our riches, such is the law of war. What assurances do I have that anything like this will not happen ?”

“You’ll have my word, van Donkkers… Surely the word of the French king carries some weight..”

Out of pure boldness, Nicholas went on “Yes, you Majesty… But what would there be in it for me, personally ? What of the Guild ?”

“So we’re down to haggling, van Donkkers… Speak… What would you ask for your service ?”

“Your promise that the town will be left untouched when it falls…”

“Granted.”

“…and your promise that you will take steps to make Bruges the major trading city of France.”

“Granted.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” Nicholas fought hard not to let as igh pass his lips.

“Do not thank me yet… The city has not fallen… And should you fail in helping us resolve this siege in due time, you’d prefer your pact was with the Devil rather than with me. Now, go and take Aubry with you. Next time I’ll see you will be on the other side of those walls.”

With a quick bow, Nicholas retreated, the man Aubry in his wake.

Walking back to his carriage, Nicholas was trying to find how to explain the new servant he had acquired in his retinue.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

OOC: Coop with GH, CDF, TC, and Vlad

On Campaign

Prince Louis, heir to the throne of France, leaned back in his saddle so that he had room to reach into his breeches and adjust himself. Riding down out of the Pyrenees was giving him quite a case of chafing, and the new saddle he'd been presented as a consolation prize after his failure at the Tournament was no small part of the cause. Almost he suspected Constance had arranged that somehow, but it was surely far too subtle a gambit for the girl. No, more likely it was the castle grooms at Paris wreaking their revenge for all his little games. They'll pay when I ride back, he thought, oh how they'll pay.

Raynaud de Xaintrailles rode on up ahead of the Prince, constantly checking for signs of ambush and advance warning of any enemy activity. Unlike some of his fellows of Aquitaine, his mind was focused solely on the task at hand. Nobody on the trip could remember him saying anything that wasn't strictly related to the campaign.

No matter the discomfort the Prince thought it was glorious to be out on campaign again. Prancing through the countryside south of Toulouse had been wonderful, and the late summer weather had held back it's cool promise of rain most days. Best of all several of the vineyards they'd passed were holding stocks for the Prince, having heard (Because he sent messengers ahead, of course) that he would be passing, so the baggage train seemed to grow daily.

Even word from his father that negotiations had begun with the Spanish over a marriage alliance hadn't dampened his mood. What matter if some court girl were given to him, when all these lovely peasant lasses out in the countryside were so welcoming?

One of the scouts returned to report smoke rising above the trees a few miles ahead in their direct line of march. Louis personally instructed him to make a cautious approach, and at a gesture ordered the column to a halt. If the Prince's latest page had any sense he was already on his way back from the baggage train with a carafe of wine.

While waiting Louis' thoughts turned to his sworn vassals,

Raynaud de Xaintrailles seems a very intense chap. Dedicated to his goals, which happen to match well with my own. A valuable asset and a well spoken nobleman, above reproach even. Have to think up a good nickname for him, 'Ray' is a rather too common name for a man of such bearing and Sir de Xaintrailles is not something I look forward to shouting across a battlefield. I expect he'd object to being called 'Abbot,' but I might just pin it on him anyway.

Christophe de Perronne is more of my own heart and spirit. Ready to engage in a spot of fun where ever it can be found, but there's a core of steel in him which suggests he won't lack the will for dark work when it's needed either. A man with clear ambitions, vocal and visible loyalty, and by all accounts a reliable commander of soldiers. Think I'll try out 'Hawk' as a nick for the lad, he seems like a hunter, though perhaps not of small game.

Gontran de Linars is a reliable type. At my side throughout the Tournament. Attentive in the Council, always ready with a suggestion, but he volunteered to stay behind from the campaign. Has to make a man wonder. Still, he's right, he is a good match to run things in Toulouse and he has, frankly, a better head for administration than I do. Maybe I'll call him 'Scholar.'

Yvon Lacaze has been quiet, but reports peg him a man of good taste when it comes to wine and women. Follows orders without complaint so far, and if he was a bit tardy on the march he's made it up since. Yvon, now there's a name I can roar across a battlefield easily, but he'll need another all the same. Suppose I'll wait 'til after I've seen him in action. P'raps he'll impress me at the walls of Zaragosa.

And then there's my fifth. Hard to know what to make of him except that he's been absolutely reliable thus far. Loyalty like that will command a high price in due course, but is surely worth it all the same. Too bad he couldn't join us on the road south, but that would've been a touch too obvious and I'm sure his own campaign will carry through just as well. I think I'll call him 'Elephant.'

The scout had returned now, and he reported that there was a sturdy looking stone inn ahead at the edge of a pretty little Spanish village. Louis smiled and licked his lips. A roof over his head, a chance to buy some wine and not deplete his good French stores, and a gaggle of peasant girls to impress, most of whom hopefully spoke nary a word of French. Louis thought merrily, God is good, God is great, now let's all go celebrate!

Aloud he said,

"Forward the column! Lodgings for the captains tonight! The rest of the lads will put their tents up on the south end of town, it'll make a better impression for us if they march through 'fore they set up, yes?"

Well behind the main force, bringing along the spearmen, Yvon had a grin on his face, staring out at the beautiful Spanish countryside. He looked back to the rows upon rows of mercenaries riding behind his back, all of there faces a mixture of greed, joy, and fear.

They were a mixed lot, thought Yvon, here almost to the man simply for money. Among them Yvon's retinue lurked, keeping order and making sure they stayed in line on the trip to rejoin Prince Louis down at Zaragosa, where word had reached him the siege had begun. It was an important job, and Yvon was glad Louis had looked past his….. uhhhhh…. unexpected tardiness on the trail and given it to him. He was happy to do it, of that there was no doubt. The girls were pretty and the wine, when he could find any that is for it seemed his lord had already taken quite a good bit of the local stores, was good. His lord had fine tastes, that was for sure.

He hoped he would reach Zaragosa soon, as the spearmen would be quite necessary in the upcoming siege…..

1078 AD

The first volley of arrows struck both of the leading guards. The one on the left took an arrow to the neck, tumbled out of his saddle, and quickly bleed to death on the ground. The one on the right stayed on his mount, but with three shafts sprouting from his chest, he could do little more than gasp for breath and die slightly slower.

The two remaining guards were in the rear of the procession and this saved them from the main volley, but Dreux was experienced at ambush and had placed two of his archers to fire from behind. An arrow took one of the guards in the back, but the other spun in his saddle with his shield raised. The shaft meant for him was stopped by the layered wood. The guard kicked his heels into his horse and charged towards the rearmost archers. The distance was short, and the archers were some of the newer men. One got off a second shot, but in his haste it went wide. The second saw the horsed guard bearing down on him and fumbled his arrow.

As the guard rode by, Christophe spun from behind the large tree trunk where he had been hiding, swinging his sword low with both hands for extra power. The blade sliced clean through the left foreleg of the horse, and the mount collapsed in a screaming heap. The guard avoided being crushed, but the force of the landing momentarily stunned him. He was still attempting to rise when Christophe thrust his sword through the man’s back and into his heart.

Four men and one woman now sat alone in the middle of the road. Three of the men had swords in their hands, and the fourth had a dagger, but none had moved and all were clearly frightened. The rest of Dreux’s men had emerged from cover and were circling them with an assortment of spears and blades. Dreux himself was standing in the road, with the four experienced archers beside him, their bows drawn.

“We seek your money, not your lives! Give us what you have and you will leave here in peace.”

“You’ll take nothing from us!” shouted one of the sword wielders, and kicked his horse forward. Dreux nodded to one of the archers, and an arrow was loosed to bury itself in the horse’s neck. The beast reared up in pain and threw the rider to the ground. His leg broke on impact with a dull snap and he howled in pain. The horse ran wild out into the forest and the bandits made no attempt to follow it.

“The next arrow will not take a horse, I swear it. Horses sell well and I will not waste more profit so that you can impress your whore.”

The most finely dressed noble turned to look at Dreux. “Stupid? We are not stupid! The moment we lower our weapons you will kill us and rape my daughter!”

The bandit leader frowned. “We can kill you where you sit right now and do what we please with your woman. If you fight, you will surely bring to pass that which you fear. If you surrender all that you own, we will let you go with your lives, your clothes, and your daughter’s honor intact.”

The noble scowled. “How do we know you will keep your word?”

Dreux shrugged. “You do not, but what choice do you have?” The mounted nobles looked at each other and the two dozen men surrounding them. One by one, they threw their weapons on the ground and dismounted.

“You’ll all burn for this! I’ll hunt you down and kill you all” the man with the broken leg cursed.

The finely dressed noble looked at his downed companion, “Quiet Gervais! Do you want to get us killed?”

At the sound of the name, Christophe’s head spun round and focused on the fallen man. Gervais. It was not an uncommon name, and Perronne was far away, but there was something about the man’s face that looked familiar. He strode over the fallen man who was struggling painfully to straighten his leg. Christophe had not seen his brother since their father had sent him to Arnoul 12 years before, but the more he looked at the man, the more sure he was of his identity.

The fallen man glared up at him. “What the hell do you want?”

“Gervais de Perronne?” asked Christophe.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know my name, you filthy $#%&? You know, that pig nose makes you look like someone I used to know.”

Christophe did not even blink. In one swift move he lifted his sword and plunged it into Gervais’ throat. Blood flowed thick from around the wound. In the background, the woman screamed, but Christophe cared for nothing but the look in his brother’s eyes as his life flowed out of him. Gervais’ hands slapped at the sword for a while, but his efforts quickly grew feeble. As blood began to fill his brother’s mouth, Christophe leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Say hello to father for me.” A thick croak escaped Gervais’ severed windpipe, and he struggled to move, but soon his eyes glazed over and all motion ceased.

When Christophe finally stood, the woman was sobbing and the rest of the nobles were hastily placing their possessions in piles on the ground. Dreux put a hand on Christophe’s shoulder. “And what was all that about, then?”

Christophe glared at him. “None of your business.” He looked back down at Gervais, and for the first time saw the de Perronne signet ring on his hand: three dogs heads with a chevron. Christophe bent back down, pulled his knife, and sawed through the knuckle joint. When the ring came free, he dropped the finger on Gervais’ face and strode off into the woods towards the bandit camp.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Coop with AussieGiant

1083, Paris

The great hall in the palace was deserted as almost all the servants and nobles were at the wedding celebrations being held in the Prince's honor. The clash of steel was intensifying as the sword play was gaining momentum.

Alain was sweating now, his concentration levels increasing as a few thrust and swings had gotten a little close.

He still had the amused carefree look on his face, but the sweat off his brow betrayed just a little more concentration than normal.

The princess seemed to notice too and spurred by that knowledge was pressing harder. Her physique was lithe and the dancing was really paying dividends in the sword play.

Alain could not help notice the firmness and length of her legs, the tone of her shoulders and arms, she was turning into a particularly attractive woman he thought.

Pity she was being followed around by not one but two suitors. The German was a real pain in the ass and was no real threat, Arnaud on the other hand was.

Alain was not sure where he came from but his credentials were impeccable and all the background check conducted by Seneschal’s Office could find what that he was cruel to dogs.

Garlic munching pig, thought Alain, cruel to dogs, Constance loved Medoc and vis versa, the huge hound was big fan of the princess and they got along famously.

Bringing his thoughts back to the blade before him was a good idea as he found himself defending furiously. Finally he was able to lock swords and using his strength he brought her in close and then pushed her off, but not before he felt the full length of her body against his.

“Your Highness, it is unseemly for you to be so flirtatious with me, we must work together and this just can not do.”

Constance stumbled backward and fell to one knee. She paused upon hearing his comment, cocking her eyebrow in curiosity.

"Truly? Then I apologize, mon Duc."

The words had barely left her mouth, she sprung upon him, trying to catch him by surprise with a low slash of her practice blade. Alain parried without missing a beat and Constance noticed she was slowing down with each new swing. The wooden swords were heavier than her small blade, unwieldy compared to it, but then again, they permitted more powerful swings. Going with a high stance, she pounded on Alain's defenses and as her arms tired, she renewed the effort , but it was to no avail. Using her momentum against her, Alain tripped Constance mid swing, sending her tumbling on the polished stone floor.

Panting, the princess propped herself on her wooden sword to rise and wiped the sweat that pearled on her brow with the cuff of her dirty sleeve. There was a moment of silence as she caught her breath, before she addressed Alain in an offbeat fashion.

"What is this "work" you spoke of?"

Gawping despite himself, Alain was, for once, at a loss for words.

Snorting his response, he tried to compose himself.

"You are either learning the subtleties of court so fast it is incredible, or I truly have the mind of satan.

Work...it is such a broad term your highness, perhaps you could elaborate?"

Constance grinned. "Perhaps a bit of both, mon Duc."

With a steady grip on the practice sword, she pounced on him, trying to capitalize on Alain's apparent distraction. She was met with skillful parries and after a few offensives, she gave up. Both combatants now circled each other.

"As for the "work", well, you brought it up... didn't you?"

Alain was tiring and his face betrayed growing frustration at the responses he was receiving from Constance. As they circled each other he considered what to say next. Finally he sighed and said;

"I simply meant that as Seneschal, we, meaning you as a princess of the realm, and I as the King representative, must ensure we maintain the correct level of decorum."

With that he dropped his guard.

Again, Constance rushed him and with surprising vitality this time, her blade rapidly closing on his unprotected abdomen.

Alain wondered if she would hit him with all her strength or pull back. Either way he had to know.

His guard remained down.

Moments before the strike would connect, Constance realized something was wrong. Why wasn't Alain raising his guard? Mid swing there was little she could do, but she tried nonetheless. Instead of fighting against the momentum, she shifted her feet sending her blade in a wild trajectory which clipped Alain. Unfortunately, this also dangerously unbalanced her and as her ankle twisted beyond its limits, she fell on the cool floor with a cry of pain.

Startled by her cry, Alain swore to himself and rushed to her side. Kneeling down his thoughts raced from concern to fear and back again.

Taking her shoulder he scanned her body for injury.

"Where does it hurt Highness?"

"My foot..." She pointed while wincing slightly at the pain.

Alain gently took her boot off, he shook his head as he saw the swelling and bruising already starting.

Looking up at her he held her gaze.

"I am sorry Constance, I did not mean for you to get hurt."

"It's all right... you didn't..." She continued with downcast eyes. "Why didn't you raise your guard?"

Raising her chin with his hand; "I wanted to see if you would win at any cost."

Looking away himself now he continued; "The high court can change people Constance and sometimes, many times, for the worse. It is a ruthless business and I would prefer to shield you from that for as long as possible."

He returned his gaze to her, the moment of sincerity and earnestness replaced by a smile and concern.

"We have to ice your ankle or you will be hobbling all the way to Rome."

Lifting her up and putting her arm around his shoulders he helped her to a table and chair in the hall. Pouring a glass of water he handed it to her while placing a cool towel on her ankle.

She pushed away the cup before rising on her good foot with a slight wince.

"I will be fine, Alain, but I should really be leaving now. I expect I won't be able to make good time with this injury and it is already late."

Somewhere in the Alps, 1087

The rhythmic sound of hooves echoed through the low valley, lazy snowflakes slowly covering the rocky landscape. Huddled in her cape, Constance peered pass the score of armed men escorting and into the valley proper, filled with jagged outcroppings which left only a narrow path on which to travel. As her party lazily made their way through the treacherous pass, a shiver ran down her spine. Nervously, she brought the cape tighter around her body with one hand, while clutching the reins of her horse in the other.

A blur of movement to her right grabbed Constance's attention, but before the princess could say anything, the twang of crossbows broke the cadence of the hooves, something whistled by her and the world exploded in a cacophony of shouts and screams. She immediately froze in terror, yet her horse reacted differently, bolting through the narrow path and clipping another rider on the way which almost unseated Constance. In a few moments she would have been away from the fighting and relatively safe, were it not for a deft hand that caught her billowing cape.

At first, the clasp choked her, until she was pulled off her horse and into the snow-covered dirt. In shock she tried to cry out, but only a gurgle came out. Clutching her throat, she rolled in the dirty snow, wheezing. Pain racked her body from the fall, but Constance rose to her knees as her breathing came back. That is, until she was violently pushed back into the frozen dirt. The princess pushed herself on her back and finally got a look at the assailant. His clothing was tattered, stitched together in many places and his features were similar in many ways; his olive skin was pockmarked, his dark hair in disarray was greasy and the stubble of a uneven beard on his chin was messy.

With a grin, the man threw aside his shoddy spear and picked up the princess by the folds of her ample bliaud. As she was inexorably pulled to him, Constance desperately tried to pry his hand away, to no avail. Back on her feet, inches from his face, both their gazes interlocked. There was a pause while they eyes stared at each other, while both man and woman were surprising impassive. The princess' assailant broke the moment first, his features twisting in pain as he let out gasp.

Both of their gazes dropped to the man's side, where a gem encrusted dagger was lodged, the small pale hand gripping it already mostly covered in blood. For some reason unknown to her, Constance locked sight with the man and was riveted by what she saw in his eyes. His life ebbed as his eyes glazed over and seemed to look past her, to something far away. Constance knew she should have felt some sort form of disgust or remorse at the still warm blood on her hands and the lifeless shell of a man now at her feet, but she felt elation instead. She now felt more alive than at any instance in her life, she felt in control, she felt powerful.

The din of battle behind her diminished and Constance, bloody dagger in hand, turned to realize she was in deep trouble. Most of her escort were now dead or routed and the last few were on the verge of being dispatched. There was no where to run and however easy it had been to kill one of them, she doubted she could repeat the exploit on so many. Nevertheless, she steeled herself, clutching the dagger tightly in her right hand, Constance decided she would go down fighting.

Her bravado was interrupted by the thundering sound of many hooves and they were getting closer. The motley band of men, at least those still alive, looked at each other with questioning glances before scrambling in all directions. Constance remained still in the middle of the path, a cool breeze played in her brown hair, partly covering her hair. She had all but forgotten the blood caking on her hand and small blade, her gaze completely focused on the newcomers, absently she sheathed the dagger in her belt.

Instantly Constance recognized the livery of Hermann von Munich. How could she not? The man had hounded her ever since they had met briefly in Bordeaux. Despite his keen interest in the princess, she did not reciprocate and up until now, her escort had kept him at bay. Part of her was grateful for his timely arrival, but another more suspicious part of her found all this highly suspicious. As Hermann himself neared her, she sighed in resignation, there wasn't much she could do about those last thoughts and so she decided not to dwell on them.

"Highness! We heard shouts and..." Hermann finally noticed the blood on her hand and his eyes widened considerably. "Are you injured?"

"No, I am fine." She answered curtly.

He managed a weak smile before continuing in his broken french.

"You were lucky Highness that mein men and I were nearby. I am glad to see you are unharmed."

"Yes, lucky."

If he was put off by her dry reply, Hermann showed no sign of it.

"I was on mein way to Bologna, but if I remember correctly, you were heading for Rome, ja?"

Constance nodded and kept a blank visage.

"That is... correct."

He gave her a hearty smile before motioning her closer.

"Sehr gut! You should ride with me, for your safety of course."

"Of course..." She muttered sardonically as she grabbed the offered hand and deftly climbed on the horse to rest in front of Hermann. With a few words in German, he and his men set off and Constance rolled her eyes as his hands moved closely around her lower body, ostensibly trying to grab the reigns. It was not long before they had left the site of the battle, but Constance found her mind wandering back to what happened. especially to the blank look of the man she had killed; and she smiled.

A manor in the foothills north of the Pyrenees, near Toulouse, 1089.

The Prince shouts across the table,

"Christophe, my Hawk, bring the new maps of the paths through the eastern woods, would you? I've had scouts crawling through there for weeks and I still can't see how we'll get an army to Marsellies without boats or a road. Hope those mercenaries are comfy back there in the bloody mountains. Bet they wish they'd just kept marching about now, eh?"

Louis roars with laughter, spilling wine into the grass near his feet before he continues,

"Still haven't given you a proper nick yet Yvon. You know that camp follower we left at Zaragosa? That bowlegged walk she had gave me an idea, I think I'm going just going to call you Wood."

Another boisterous laugh erupts from the Prince, but moments later his exclamations are finally silenced, perhaps by the thought of that girl or some other bit of nonsense. It's the only chance she'll get, and so she takes it, ducking out of the cottage with little Heloise wrapped in a thick blanket and held tight by her side. In French she addresses her husband,

"M'lord I thought you might want to meet your daughter. After all, it has been three days since you arrived and you have not yet come to see us, so..."

A faint look of disquiet crosses the Prince's face as he twists in his chair to face his wife. He addresses her while gazing at his new child, not yet a month old,

"My wife, a pleasure, as always. So, this is the child? Look at those ruddy cheeks!"

Louis reaches out to stroke her cheek and with a surprisingly quick motion the girl turns her head and bites down on the tip of his finger. His eyes widen slightly, and for just a moment a gentle look of overwhelming love comes into his eyes as Heloise suckles his thick, callused finger unsuccessfully before he withdraws it and wipes it on his wife's shoulder.

"She's beautiful. She will be a fine princess some day. Heloise..."

As his eyes rise to meet those of his wife they harden, however, and an unreadable look enters them which makes her nervous. His voice roughens,

"A son next Teresa. A son. Pray for it every day. Go now, I've work to do."

Without another word she retreats, drawing her cloak tighter against the chill.

:egypt:

Rome, 1087

Constance was running as fast as she could, when she slipped, with a yelp of surprise, in the tall wet grass of the courtyard. The princess muttered a curse as she found herself lying on her back, staring at the sliver of moon which provided the only illumination in the courtyard. She rose in a crouch, realizing at last that all this running had done little good for her bare feet which were now throbbing in pain. Nevertheless, she willed herself to move on to the next shadow. There she folded herself in half, hands on her knees, out of breath and panting. Her heart was pounding furiously from a mix of exhaustion and fear.

If she had been told a few days ago that she would be sneaking off in the dark to flee a convent, she would have probably laughed off the notion as absurd. Now, faced with this very reality, Constance found herself scared and confused, but also slightly excited. Still, she could not wrap her head around the idea that her own loving father had wished her trapped in this abominable place. Surely someone had altered the letter she had presented upon her arrival in Rome. Then it dawned on her, that this would be precisely something her brother could do; after all he had always wanted to get rid of her, had he not? Louis, you wretched pig, you won’t get rid of me so easily! She thought with some measure of venom.

Thinking of Louis spurred Constance into action once more and as if drawing from some secret cache of energy, reserved only for hating her brother, she sprinted to the next large patch of shadows under a sturdy stone wall. The wall would pose a problem, it was taller than she was and had a reasonably even surface, furthermore, Constance, despite being fit, had never been very strong of the arms. Yet, stopping here meant the whole escape had been for naught, it meant that she would be trapped here, it meant that Louis had won.

With an undignified grunt the princess launched herself at the wall, her hands barely reaching the edge. With great effort, and multiple near falls, Constance heaved herself over the daunting obstacle until she was lying, her back resting on the cool stone. Her arms were burning and she was out of breath, but she couldn’t stop herself from uttering a small cry of exhilaration. Underneath her came a whisper, which startled, but she quickly recovered her senses when she realized who it was.

“Highness?”

“Hermann von Munich!” For once she spoke the name with joy. “I was not sure you would come.”

“How could I refuse your plea for mein help?” Constance had counted on that and she was beginning to understand that such a man had his uses, besides being annoying.

“Come Highness, everything is ready.” He continued in the same near silent tone.

Without a word, she rolled off the wall and dropped on his horse, wrapping her arms around him as he launched his mount into a gallop. While Constance disliked being rescued, especially by this man, twice, she had to admit that he was well prepared to escape the city. While she would have lost her way after two intersections, his mastery of directions was flawless, the guards at the wall were well bribed and right out of the city a fresh horse awaited them, more importantly, no questions were asked along the way.

It was only when the sun came up and they were surrounded by Hermann’s personal guard, that Constance realized something was terribly wrong. This was not the way to Florence, the practical route to return home.

“Where are you taking me?” She asked sharply.

“Bologna.” Was all he said and her face contorted itself to accommodate a flurry of emotions. Finally she settled herself.

“You can’t! Our two people are at war… Unless you mean to free me from one prison, only to deliver me to another?”

“After a fashion.”

Constance mulled over his cryptic and feared for the worse, nevertheless, she chanced a reply.

“What does that mean?”

Hermann turned to her with a large grin that chilled her to the very core.

“When we reach Bologna, Kaiser willing, we will be joined in wedlock!”

Byzantine intrigues.


It was a quiet tavern, outside the bustle of the capital. On a main highway, it was frequented by many travellers but typically such folk were too tired and too solitary to make much noise. And with its lowly décor, it was certainly not the kind of establishment to attract two members of the Conseil du Royaume.

Hermant handed his horse, Bayard, to the stable boy and waited for Gaeten to do likewise.

“Don’t talk.” Hermant pleaded. “Let me say what I have to say first.”

Gaeten looked at Hermant with a wry smile, as if the desire to talk was far from the utmost thing in his mind.

They walked silently into the tavern and looked around.

Hermant began: “We first met in such a place. Do you remember? There you rescued me from a stupid confrontation. Now it is my time to return the favour.”

Gaeten raised an eyebrow.

“Sit” encouraged Hermant. “I will bring you your ale.”

Gaeten sat and watched the other customers: weary merchants catching a breath before entering the big city; worried travellers excitedly discussing the latest news from Staufen and Caernarvon. Hermant returned carrying two large tankards.

“Drink” he intoned and the two men drank silently, as if observing some religious ritual.

“If you duel the entire House of Aquitaine, you will die.” Hermant said suddenly.

Gaeten showed no reaction.

“Suppose you best de Perrone - then what, will you put him to the sword? Kill a defenceless man? Break the Oath? And kill him for what, for defending his Prince’s honour?”

Gaeten did not respond.

“No, I knew it. And the de Perrone probably knows it too - he’s a wily one. Yes, maybe you will strike him dead with a chance blow. But he’ll be counting on your chivalry to save him if you overpower him. And if your chivalry does fail you, I suspect the twisted freak will take some satisfaction in his death bringing you down to his level.”

“You may be stronger than de Perrone, but he’s a sly one. I’ll wager he’ll cut you even if you do beat him. And then you have to face Yvon, then Gontran. And if you still prevail, doubtless other Aquitanians will stand up to strike further blows at you. Perhaps even the Prince himself, or more likely a champion. You’ll either have to kill the entire House of Aquitaine or you will fall. And of course, if you fall, not one Aquitanian will show you the mercy you’d show them. Mercy really isn’t their thing, is it?”

Gaeten looked at Hermant with a blank “tell me something I don’t know” look.

Hermant sipped his ale. “What were you thinking?! The Prince, no less? What has he ever done to us? We are an Order devoted to fighting for the King, he will be King … oh Christ, what were you thinking?”

“Listen, you can’t fight. Yes, I know every bone of your body is screaming that you must fight. I know you would like nothing better than to pound Perrone into the dirt. But you can’t fight.”

“You remember what you told me about our duel in the tournament? How your old tutor had told you about Socrates? About how sometimes you must make a sacrifice for a greater good? Well, your sacrifice is to live. For the greater good, Socrates chose to die rather than run. For the greater good, you are going to run rather than die.”

Gaeten stared at Hermant impassively, although his lip betrayed something close to a snarl of disbelief.

“You are a righteous man, Gaeten. The world is short of those. It needs you. France - France does not need you. You are done here. That ship has sailed. But France is just one country and there are many others where your qualities will serve God.”

Hermant cast a nervous glance at Gaeten. “No, no, no. I am not asking for you to become a monk on some island rock. I am thinking of…”

Hermant paused for dramatic effect. “Constantinople.”

Gaeten looked at Hermant incredulously.

“Yes, yes, Constantinople. Sure, we have our differences from the Greeks, but they worship God in their own way. And they are sorely beset by the Mohammedans. They are always looking for Frankish knights to serve. I have a … friend … who has good contacts there. I reckon I could get you into the Varangian Guard. You’d have to put on a display, show them your stuff, but with your duelling skills, that would be no problem.”

Hermant was getting carried away: “Imagine, a new life, a fresh start. Away from all this politics and intrigue. Warm seas, white sands. Just you and a two handed axe, cracking Mohammedan skulls. And those Greek women, Gaeten, let me tell you…”

Hermant stopped short. Gaeten’s eyes seemed to be blurring over. Hermant reigned himself in and then asked nervously, as if proposing to a young woman:

“What do you say, Gaeten?”

“No.”

Hermant looked downcast. He rubbed his forehead and looked at his shoes.

“No? That is all you have to say? I spend the last half hour trying to charm the socks off you - to save your life! - and all you have to say is “no”?!”

“No.”

Hermant raised his head to heaven and exclaimed.

“Great maker, I was afraid it would come to this.”

He starred again at Gaeten, who appeared to have gone green around the gills. Hermant sat back and crossed his arms. He paused, watching Gaeten observantly and then slowly spoke:

“Look, old friend, you really don’t have a choice. I am sorry, but it is for your own good.”

Hermant ostentatiously waved a large hankerchief in the air. Moments later, four sergeants of the Order entered the tavern. They approached the two drinking knights. Somewhat sluggishly, Gaeten looked up and tried to stand. The effort was too much and he slouched back onto his chair. Hermant came over to him and whispered conspiratorially in his ear:

“I am sorry, old friend, I spiked your ale. When you wake up, you’ll be on an English ship bound for Constantinople. You must never come back. They won’t understand your leaving and will kill you on sight if you return. I am sorry, it’s for the best. Take care, old friend, and may God go with you.”

Gaeten’s eyes closed and the four sergeants lifted him out of the chair.

Awkwardly, but with an air of finality, Hermant touched his brother knight on the shoulder.

“God go with you.”

The Imperial Border, 1092

It looked passable enough. Even though both the populations and army sizes of Europe were expanding, there were simply not enough men not to watch the entire Franco-Imperial border. This fact was something that Raynaud de Xaintrailles was counting on. Sure, he was traveling alone and had papers with him, but still: the less trouble he encountered, the better.

...

There had already been one incident in which all the preparations he had taken in order to be taken as a diplomat by the Imperials had almost cost him dearly. This was still in Northern Iberia, barely after he had begun to set out to retrieve the Princess Constance, when four bandits, taking note of his dress and fine mount, ambushed him.

He had no time to go for his sword, which was tucked deep away (again, as part of keeping up his appearance as a diplomat). Instead, he spurred his horse into action, steering it for the nearest patch of trees. Standing up, maintaining his balance, he leaped up on a sturdy branch at the last possible moment, with the four bandits in hot pursuit and closing in. A second later, he yanked down, timing his fall perfectly as the rearmost bandit passed directly underneath. Raynaud, the bandit, the unlucky bandit's horse, and the broken-off tree branch all came tumbling down as Raynaud, far better prepared and trained, wrestled and pinned the bandit to the ground as the remaining three started to veer around.

Punching the man hard and repeatedly in the stomach to ensure his staying in place, Raynaud stood up and collected his tree branch, preparing to face the other three. The bandits were now riding directly for him, in formation. Again, at the last possible moment, Raynaud dove off to one side, quickly stood up, and swung the branch hard at the leftmost horse's rider. The force of the blow was easily enough to dismount him, although this one still had his wits about him and tried to get up. A running blow to the head courtesy of Raynaud ensured he stayed on the ground.

Now there were only two left, but still they veered down on Raynaud. One of them, seeing Raynaud's obvious combat prowess, finally drew a sword. The other did not, though, and was subject to another tree branch whack. This one, though, stayed on the ground, trying to kick Raynaud away as he tried to buy time to get his own weapon. After several desperate attempts, he was finally successful, only to have it kicked away by Raynaud as soon as he drew it. He was greeted by the full force of the branch coming down directly on his head.

The final bandit, realizing what a folly it was to try and defeat Raynaud while still mounted, got off his horse at a safe distance and purposely approached his intended victim, sword in hand. Once he was close enough though, Raynaud flung his tree branch at the final bandit. It was easily parried, but in the brief period in which he had took his attention off Raynaud, the noble had rushed up and was about to tackle him to the ground.

Gaining control of the sword and throwing it away to a harmless distance, Raynaud wrapped both of his hands around the man's neck and squeezed tightly. As the man turned red, then purple, then blue, he tried to choke out a surrender, but Raynaud would hear none of it, only stopping once the man had stopped trying to wriggle free.

Walking over to the man's sword, he picked it up and summarily beheaded each of the four bandits, leaving the rest of their bodies and possessions to rot in the field. Sinners deserve no special treatment or burial upon death, he reasoned. After all, they're already in Hell. Besides, four human skulls would serve as enough of a deterrent to make sure no further incidents along the way to the Empire.

Once his bloody work was done, Raynaud whistled for his horse. It was the first sound he had uttered during the entire ordeal.

...

As he approached Imperial territory, Raynaud hid the skulls away, but did not entirely dispose of them. Appearance and decorum would now save his skin more than fear, although if things were to deteriorate then fear would have to make an appearance out of necessity.

This section of the border was a lightly-wooded area, with a vast open field just beyond. The exact point would have been in dispute, if there was anything to dispute over. It reminded Raynaud of the ancient Greek philosophical question: If you have a heap of sand and remove its grains one by one, at what point does it cease to be a heap? At what point did Imperial territory start? He wasn't sure exactly, but knew that if he kept riding he would eventually come across people that spoke German instead of French.

His ponderings of this question, as well as reassuring himself that the Greeks back then were ultimately heretical and their own selfish, opulent ways were the doom of them, got him through the wooded area. He was still deep in thought as he crossed across the wide field, when eventually his concentration was broken by a sharp German voice.

"Halt! In the name of the Kaiser!"

So that's the answer, then, Raynaud thought. Evidently Imperial territory starts once you get out of the woods.

Stopping to dismount, Raynaud addressed the still-unseen German soldier aloud. "May I go through my possessions in order to present myself?"

A pause. "You may."

Raynaud immediately rustled through his bag, careful not to let the skulls or his sword fall out, and finally grabbed a scroll. Holding it up, he spoke aloud. "This scroll I hold details my name and purpose inside the Kaiser's lands. If you can see me, you know I hold nothing other than this. If you cannot, then I swear upon my word as a good Christian that I am unarmed."

Raynaud waited a minute, and then three men in what roughly amounted to Imperial uniform stepped out of the high grass into Raynaud's line of vision. They eyed him up for a while, and then one of them grabbed the scroll, briefly going over it. After conferring in very low tones with his fellows, the lead soldier looked up at Raynaud.

"Your name and purpose."

"I am Raynaud de Xaintrailles, of France. I come alone and without ill intent for the purposes of liaising with the Imperial high command on the matter of the whereabouts of our Princess Constance. Do any of you have your letters? The papers I provide confirm all of this."

Before any of them could answer, a new voice rang out. This one carried with it the weight of command; the voice of someone who knew honor and was to be respected.

"Soldiers! What is going on?"

The soldiers instantly snapped to attention. The high grass rustled as this new figure approached. "Commander der Stolze," the lead soldier said in crisp tones, "We have apprehended a Frenchman who claims he is a diplomat who wishes to negotiate the Princess Constance's release."

The rustling stopped as the figure paused. "But we are at war with the French," he mused. "And he says nothing about offers of peace. Does he have validation?"

"He claims he does, but none of us can verify it."

The rustling resumed, and a moment later a tall, well-armored figure emerged from the high grass. He eyed Raynaud for a second before conferring with his underlings. Taking the paper to examine it, he looked over it carefully before looking back up at Raynaud.

"This man is who he says he is. He is an ambassador of King Philippe and is to be treated with all of the proper respect and decorum." Now addressing Raynaud directly, he continued. "I apologize for the conduct of mein men, sir. They were just doing their jobs. Mein name is Sigismund der Stolze, and I am in charge of monitoring this section of our borders in the name of the Kaiser."

"You do your job well, Sir Sigismund," Raynaud said, trying to put on his best diplomatic overtones. "And I do not hold your men's conduct against them, you, or anyone else, as they were doing their jobs well as well."

Sigismund nodded. "We do as we are commanded to the best of our abilities, for anything less than that would be improper. I am glad that those on the other side see merit in this as well. Tell me your name, diplomat, so that we may be formally introduced."

"I am Raynaud de Xaintrailles, Sir Sigismund."

Sigismund eyed Raynaud thoughtfully for a while before continuing. "From where in France do you hail, Raynaud?"

"Toulouse, Sir Sigismund."

"I see," said Sigismund. "Sergeant, please go through the Frenchman's bag and let me know if you find anything unusual for a diplomat." Turning his gaze back to Raynaud in time to catch him grimacing, Sigismund nodded gravely. "I thought so, when I recognized the name," he said. "Did you really think that Imperial commanders don't know the name of every single Frenchman of note?"

"Sir, I assure you that my intentions are entirely honorable."

The sergeant returned to Sigismund, bearing the results of his search. "The Frenchman is carrying four skulls and one sword, which looks to be a standard issue for someone of his station," he said. "Nothing else out of the ordinary; no poison or daggers or maps or anything of that nature."

"Thank you very much, sergeant," Sigismund said, dismissing him and turning his attention back to Raynaud. "As for your intentions, whatever they may be, they will have to be put on hold. As of this moment you are now mein prisoner. Mein custody is somewhat more generous than those of other Imperial generals, but you are still a prisoner of war and not a diplomat. Thus, do not expect the same privileges you would be accorded were your deception to pass unnoticed. As for your mission, I can tell you your eventual destination will be the same, but the manner of your visit and how you get there will be entirely different."

"I expected as much," said Raynaud. "But what is my destination?"

"Kaiser Heinrich."

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Character of Sigismund der Stolze used with Ignoramus's permission.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Coop with Tristan de Castelreng and Ramses II CP.

Paris, 1083

Philippe had summoned his daughter to his study and that was rare enough to have Constance wonder and worry a little. But as she entered the room, all worry disappeared as she looked to her father seated in a large chair by the fire. Turning to her, his face radiated a warm glow that she had not seen on his face for many years, the last time being after the birth of Charles.

"Connie, mon petit ecureuil, come nearer..."

He slapped his knee and Constance moved to sit on her father's knee like she did when she was a little girl.

"I have a mission for you"

For all his earnestness, Constance couldn't help but see the mischief behind her father's smile.

"What kind of mission, father ?"

"A marriage..."

At the mention of the word, Constance visibly paled.

"You can't... I'm not... who..?" she mumbled, her mouth suddenly dry, oblivious to the fact that her father's smile had grown still wider, the mischief in it burning that much brightly.

"You refuse?"

Constance appeared downcast, but resigned "No, there is no possibility of refusal. What of the task you already gave me? I'm to go to Rome and see Sa Sainteté..."

"Justly, while you're headed there, the marriage will be negotiated... by you."

"By me? You want me to negotiate my own marriage ?"

At that last reply from his daughter, Philippe couldn't contain himself any longer and let out a loud laugh.

"Your marriage? You thought that was what I had in mind?"

A look of bewilderment crossed Constance's features, but she managed to nod nonetheless.

"If not mine, then whose marriage shall I arrange father?"

Asking that question out loud made Constance realize whose marriage it had to be... Louis...

She grinned with glee as she imagined her brother's plight, wishing he hated the idea of wedlock at least as much as herself. She would see that for herself soon enough and expected him to be more than a little annoyed that she would arrange it.

"I'm expecting your brother any moment... In fact, he should be here already. He must have crossed the path of a serving girl..."

Louis knew he was late, knew he was making his father wait, and yet... the wench had given him such a look! How could a man refuse and still call himself a man? What could possibly be so important about this little meeting anyway?

As he finished doing up his breeches the Prince's eyes wandered over to the plump girl who was still reclining on the rug, breathing heavily. Using the toe of his boot to prod her thigh Louis said,

"They'll be wanting you in the kitchens soon lass. Get moving now."

He was already striding off before her muttered, 'Yes m'Lord' reached his ears. Wonder if Father's picked a chap to inflict Constance on. Perhaps that's why I've been called, to get my input on the current crop of nobles... Yes, I'm sure of it!

Who would be the best match though? The matter bore more thought than he had time for, as here was the chamber door. Entering Louis announced himself with a deep bow and a respectful tone,

"Mon Pere, Mon Roi, it is good to see you!"

...continuing with a wry note and a sideways grin,

"...and you Constance."

"Louis, my dear brother..." Constance greeted him with a smirk. "Father has some wonderful news." She turned to the King expectantly, but kept Louis in her field of vision; she didn't want to miss her brother's reaction to what was coming.

"My son, your campaigns will certainly take you south from Toulouse over the Pyrenees. This couldn't be more to my will... As it happens, I've just received word from Rey Alfonso de Castille that his daughter Teresa was looking for a royal husband and he thought you would be a fine match (though I don't know where he may have got such an idea, the King murmured in Constance's ear)... And I think we should accept his offer... If only to keep you birthing too many bâtards while you'll be campaigning. From what I heard, Teresa is a very comely lass... which should keep you at home rather than running the smallest bit of lace that crosses your path..."

The Prince freezes in position, with a gently mocking smile still directed at Constance. For a few moments the run of his thoughts can almost be heard ringing in the air.

...ye gods its me not her... what will i do with emily, and vanessa, and sara, jesus sweet sara with her hips like swan and her mouth like... and poor matilda's whores will go broke... the lads will poke such fun... a wedding in the middle of my siege too, bloody wench is already interrupting me... wait, did he say she was comely?

In a stiff voice, but full of propriety, Louis replied,

"My King I am honored to have been chosen for such a great purpose, to advance France's place in the world and my own plans in Iberia! May your will be done as God intends."

There is a pause as Louis swallowed several times, and looked about as though expecting a pitcher of wine to appear out of thin air before he continued,

"Err, if I may inquire, when can I meet her?"

"A meeting has already been arranged while you'll be travelling south to Zaragosa... She'll meet you on the Tourmalet mountain pass and go down the Pyrenees with you to your camp near Zaragosa."

"Travelling... with me? To, uhm, the camp?"

Louis' gaze had taken on something of a frantic quality. His eyes shifted about as he continued,

"Excellent Father! What better way to get to know me than on the road to a campaign, where I am happiest! I wager I'll have her marching and lugging a shield by the end of it."

After a hearty, fake laugh the Prince's eyes narrowed and he abruptly turned to his sister,

"Did you say something dear Constance or was that the snort of a horse outside?"

She gave him a contemptuous look.

"I believe it came from a pig... Do not worry brother, I will tell your betrothed what to expect. She will be ready for you."

"Stop fighting, you two... It has ended being funny when you were about twelve... Anyway, Constance, I expect to brief the bride about what to expect in her husband, though not too much, for fear she runs to a Mahomeddan instead, and teach her a bit of French... If her teachings were left to your brother, I think all the French she would acquire would be pillow-talk... Louis, I will ask you to clear your camp of your "maîtresses" for a while... We do not want to ruin this opportunity by your inability to keep "it" into your breeches, n'est-ce pas ?"

Constance performed a contrite bow. "As you will, father."

Louis matched Constance's bow to perfection, "Indeed, as you wish mon Pere."

"That's better... I let you fool me with your mock respect just this once... Now, I have other matters of state to attend to... I'll leave you to to discuss the practicalities of setting up the marriage and getting acquainted with the bride. Try to behave, just this once..."

With a quick peck on the cheek for his daughter and a friendly pat on the shoulder for his son, Philippe strides out of the room, beleaguered by the ministers awaiting him with proposals and accounts.

Both the prince and the princess glare at each other for a moment before leaving the room in opposite directions.

Paris, 1092

Two men sat in a dark room. Both looked i front of their feet with serious faces. One of the men started nervously play with his finger when they heard footsteps behind the door. Silently third man entered the room and seeing the other two he nodded and said..

"It's done."

"Are you sure that no one noticed you there?" asked one of the men, that nervous one.

"Yes. Everything went just like we planned! The Boy is taken south while our boy is in the castle."

"I'm still afraid that some one could notice the difference!"

"Don't. His mother is dead and his sister is somewhere in Italy. Those two were the only ones who could've noticed the difference. If we manage to keep Princess out of our way there's no chance any one could figure out that we replaced Charles with our boy!"

The man who had sat there silently during this brief conversation suddenly rose and said..

"I will make sure that our bella principessa will never see his family again!"

"Giorgio, what you have in mind? If you want to kill her then that our employers don't want. Otherwise they just could've ordered us to kill Charles!" said the nervous man.

"Oh no.. my dear barone.. I wasn't thinking that! Let's just say that I have people who know people who could keep principessa in Italy for a very very long time" replied Giorgio..

"In that case.. contact your people then. However, I have to leave now or my absence could be noticed!"

The man who were called Baron nodded to the other men and silently left the room...

Bologna, 1093

With the report of the capture of Marseille, the Imperial city's inhabitants were on edge as Raynaud de Xaintrailles was escorted in. The French, despite all efforts, were gaining, and even though Marseille was not an Imperial territory, the fact remained that the French were getting a bit closer to their lands. This unease was kept to a minimum, however, by the presence of the Emperor in the city. Kaiser Heinrich had long held a reputation for ruling with an iron fist. His defeat at the hands of Pope Gregory in the Investiture Controversy had softened his rule in some ways, but yet he made up for it in other areas.

Raynaud noticed that military discipline had tripled as he drew closer to the Kaiser. Aside from when Sigismund was around, the men were fairly lax with him and each other, going back to their dirty peasant roots rather than fully embracing the chance for mobility that Christ had given them. However, as he entered Bologna, none of the rough, low speech was used anymore. Everyone spoke in crisp, professional tones and made sure to salute. So this is how it's going to be, Raynaud thought as he continued his uncomfortable ride into the city. King Philippe puts on a spectacle by displaying wealth and merriment for all to enjoy. This one does the same but enforces military standards. In the end, neither show enough attention to the one spot where it truly matters. Will they regret their choices in the afterlife? Only the Lord knows. After all, the Conseil had rejected a most holy crusade that would take the French into heathen Moorish lands. As for the Imperials... nobody knew what they were up to. This would be an interesting meeting, and for once Raynaud did not know what to say or expect.

He was led into a large building, and was told that it served as the Kaiser's official palace during the time he spent in the city. Sigismund was nowhere to be found during this final escort. Raynaud was a bit sad about this. Despite being a German, Raynaud could tell that he was an honorable, religious man. They might have even been friends had he not been on the other side. Instead, a group of gruff retainers lead him deeper into the "palace". They all seemed very official and polished, the very essence of a German. The lead man's name was Ludwig, Raynaud remembered. He was very close to the Kaiser; was probably his personal retainer or veteran warrior. It was Ludwig himself who entered the Kaiser's room to introduce Raynaud.

Stepping back out into the hallway, he addressed Raynaud in his usual matter-of-fact voice. "You are about to speak with the leader of our people," he said. "As an educated Frenchman, I am sure you know about proper decorum. Keep in mind that you are a prisoner of the Reich and the Kaiser is doing you a favor by receiving you here today. Improper behavior will swiftly be punished."

"I understand," said Raynaud, nodding, and he stepped into the room.

It wasn't much; certainly not what Raynaud was expecting coming from a leader of European Catholics. There was a woodcut of some unidentifiable religious scene on the far wall. Maps, particularly those of northern and central Italy, scattered the rest of the walls. A little desk with scrolls strewed over it in a way that looked haphazard, but Raynaud could tell that the Kaiser knew where each and every single important piece of paper in there was by just a glance. And then there was the Kaiser himself, sitting at a table in the center of the room, with two pieces of paper and a quill pen at his place. At the opposite end of the table stood another empty chair, which was presumably for Raynaud.

Heinrich looked up at the unarmed Frenchman, giving him a brief once-over. "Sit," he said, and Raynaud did.

"Raynaud de Xaintrailles," he said, looking over at one of his papers. "House of Aquitaine, currently overseeing the Dauphin's shiny new Iberian possessions before he goes entirely off the map and ends up trying to cross my border under the guise of a diplomat. Identified as an enemy soldier because of a sword and, most interestingly, four human skulls among your effects." He paused, now looking up at Raynaud for the first time. "I have many questions, but I suppose my first one is 'why the skulls?'"

Raynaud spoke quickly and smoothly. "Sir, early on in my journey here I was ambushed by bandits. After disposing them, I took their skulls as a deterrent. Any future bandits aspiring for my head or possessions would see them and think twice. I have to assume they worked, as the next time I was accosted on my trip was by your border guards."

Nodding, as if the question he had eagerly asked had suddenly ceased to become important, the Kaiser moved on to his next question. "Sir de Xaintrailles, you are aware that my Empire is currently in a state of war with your Royaume, correct?"

"I am," Raynaud said.

"You are a soldier that crossed into Imperial territory under false pretenses. You could be killed for that alone, you realize. Personally, I think ransoming you would be the better option. Your Dauphin has recently drained my treasury of some funds with his capture of a very able general and strong personal ally in Maximilian Mandorf. If I return the favor with you, perhaps we could call it even."

Taking Ludwig's advice, Raynaud decided to butter the Kaiser up. "Good thinking, Your Majesty," he said, perhaps a little too quickly.

Heinrich waved his hand absentmindedly. "Oh, spare me the flattery," he said, "I get enough of that falsehood from my subjects every day. I was hoping that you and I would have just a good honest talk, two highborn men speaking frankly on the same level about things. I desire this very much, Sir de Xaintrailles. All my life I have dealt with politicians, or those who have amounted to as much, and have had to watch my words. For once, I have someone in my custody who is different, who isn't worried that I won't prioritize enough projects his way if he says the wrong thing in my presence."

"Well, Your Majesty," Raynaud said, slightly taken aback by the Kaiser's demeanor, "Do not forget that while this may be true, my life is in your hands should I say the wrong thing."

"Yes it is," said the Kaiser. "All the more reason for you to speak the truth. Tell me, Raynaud, exactly what are you doing in my lands?"

"In this case," Raynaud said, "my diplomat persona was not a deception. I was coming to you with the purpose to negotiate the release of our Princess Constance."

Heinrich looked around for a while, and then sighed, a wan smile crossing his face. "Ah, how the priorities of every man are different. Do you know the tale of how the Princess you speak of came to be in the situation she is currently in?"

"No, Your Majesty. I do not."

"Neither do I," Heinrich said, and then emitted a harsh chuckle. "That's the funny thing about all of this, isn't it? I'm sitting in this very office, minding my own business, making important military decisions so that my people don't get swallowed up by your mad king, and all of a sudden this hits me. This minor nobleman, this gibbering idiot, this annoying pest comes up to me, asking that if I'll perform or arrange marriage rites. I ask him why in God's name would I do such a thing and tell him to get out of my office before I have him killed for insolence, and he responds by saying that he's fallen in love with a French princess and rescued her. He particularly emphasized that last point, but did not elaborate, I'm afraid."

Finally, Raynaud thought, we're getting somewhere. It looked like Raynaud was going to live, but unfortunately for him, the Kaiser had a lot on his mind and seemed to view Raynaud as an outlet for his troubles. "So you have her in your custody?" he asked, still cautiously.

"I do," Heinrich said.

Now the tricky part came. Raynaud, captured, humbled, and taken aback by the Kaiser's honesty, would have to put his diplomat disguise back on and get to the reason he made this more-than-unfortunate trek in the first place. Deciding to play to what the Kaiser seemed to value so far, he threw caution to the wind instead of choosing his words carefully. "So what will it take for the Royaume to have her back?"

"I've been thinking about that for a while now," Heinrich said, with a grave expression on his face. "Ransom her off, along with you? Exchange her in return for Staufen, maybe, or just generally peace? Simply kill her, in exchange for my son Henry who now lies dead outside the city?"

Feeling bolder by the moment, Raynaud decided to press his luck in probing the Kaiser's mind. "I notice that none of these options you mention are actually marriage."

"Marriage?" Heinrich actually laughed out loud this time. "A French princess, married to that cockroach? Of course not! Why would I waste a golden opportunity such as this on a nobody like von Munich?" He calmed down for a bit, now seemingly speaking to himself more than Raynaud. "But then again, that's all it comes down to, isn't it? Priorities. That man's priorities are to obtain himself a charming foreign princess. Unfortunately for him, his priorities mean absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things. Your priorities are to get her and yourself out of this territory, possibly to use as leverage for a higher position, possibly some other reason. Something tells me that you do not have the backing and power of the Office of the Seneschal, or even the King, and that means that your priorities do not matter to me either. This means as well that the Royaume does not have a representative here, and thus Philippe's priorities are irrelevant. So it all comes down to me, again..." He trailed off, deep in thought.

Raynaud simply sat and listened. The Kaiser was certainly on a roll here. Raynaud wondered exactly how long he had this on his mind. He wondered if he was drunk.

Heinrich picked up again, this time half-talking to Raynaud. "That's the thing, isn't it? I don't even care. This whole war with France, this is just one big distraction, one big joke to me. I'm throwing away countless resources and lives into a diversion. ..." He trailed off again, before looking at Raynaud and, for the first time in a while, addressing him directly. "Tell me, Sir de Xaintrailles, are you a religious man?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," Raynaud said without hesitation. "The Word of the Lord means more to me than anything."

"Good boy," Heinrich said, like a teacher to a pupil that gave the correct answer, but was clearly leading somewhere. "Do you follow the word of the Bible and God's representative on Earth, the Pope?"

"Naturally," Raynaud said.

"Ah, but what if I were to tell you that the current Pope was in fact not God's representative on Earth?"

Raynaud leaned forward in his chair, taken aback by this. What was it? Blasphemy? He would have to once again choose his words carefully. "I'd say that would imply a lot of things, Your Majesty. Questioning that office is akin to questioning the Lord himself."

"Indeed," Heinrich said. "However, I speak not of the office, but of the office holder. Ever since the birth of the Reich, there has been a system in place where the Emperor appoints the Pope, who in turn appoints the next Emperor. This is the way the process has always been, you understand. It is willed by God himself. The current Pope, unholy abomination that he is, refuted this traditional system and in the process created an ecclesiastical oligarchy by transferring the power of investiture over to the Church instead of its rightful place. This means that ever since Gregory has taken office, the entire Catholic flock has been without a shepherd."

"Interesting," Raynaud said, trying to sound neutral.

"Now, let me ask you something, Raynaud de Xaintrailles. If the highest office in the land can be so corrupted, what does that say about the institution as a whole?"

Raynaud was silent for a long while, pondering the implications of the Kaiser's statement. "I... I do not wish to go down this line of discussion any further," he said finally. "The Church is salvation, everyone knows that. A great majority of mankind is forever doomed to the fires of Hell anyway. To say that even the faithful are as well because of one man's what you call 'usurpation'..."

"The Church is not salvation if its leader is an interloper who manipulates everybody," Heinrich said with finality. "Until I right this terrible wrong for good, I suggest that you hold by your own definitions of what is and is not holy and just instead of what a potentially corrupt body of men who mistranslate the Will of God say. To get back to my original point, this is my priority. I am trying to reform Catholicism itself; to save it forever from the whims of individual men. I have no time to get into an extended war with a man who clearly has an unsubstantiated vendetta against me, yet alone to deal with the matter of where some foreign girl ends up with."

"Your Majesty..."

"Go ahead Sir de Xaintrailles, take her. Take her back to France and rid me of the extra problems she causes. Tell your Dauphin and King that I have granted her and your unconditional releases as a gesture of good faith. I am trying to save the soul of every single man, woman, and child in Catholic Europe and restore Investiture to its proper place. I cannot be bothered with all of this additional, uncalled-for pressure. Tell Philippe to lay off and to pick another target. Tell him that, Frenchman."

Aware that the conversation was wrapping, Raynaud took that as a sign to stand up and bow. "I will, Your Majesty. Thank you."

At the other side of the table, Kaiser Heinrich did the same. "Go in peace, Raynaud de Xaintrailles, and may our paths never cross again."

Raynaud bowed once more and exited the room, not saying a word for a very long while, thoroughly disturbed by the conversation that had just taken place.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Co-op between GeneralHankerchief and myself.

Dijon, 1081 AD

It was decided by the Duc that the duel would take place at dawn, in front of Dijon's eastern gate. That morning the two nobles meet outside the walls, with a horde of spectators lining the walls on one side, and surrounding them on all others. Each of the combatants speaks with their retinue one last time before taking their swords and marching onto the field. The Duc speaks first.

"Well, met, Chevalier! Is there anything you wish to say before we begin our duel? For my part, I can only say that it is a privilege to participate in such a fine contest as this."

"I don't really do words, mon duc," replies Raoul, "but thank you for the hospitality and the honour of fighting you this day."

With that he raises his blade in preparation for the first exchange of blows.

The air seems still for a few moments, each knight cautiously approaching the other, silently sizing up their opponent. Then with a shout both men sprang forward. The sun glints off steel as they swing their swords. Both aim high and put all their strength into the swing. At first it seems as if each will take a blow but then the ground under Raymond de Provence's forward foot, softened by that morning light rain, yields. He loses his balance and his sword swings wide.

The next thing Raymond notices is the clanging sound of his opponent's sword striking his helmet. It was a savage blow, and nearly knocks the Duke down. For several seconds Raymond stands dazed, hearing nothing but a ringing in his ears. Luckily Raoul is caught slightly off guard by the degree of his success, giving Raymond time to steady himself and raise his sword. The Duke is not out of the fight yet, although he might worry about the warm feeling of blood trickling from his right ear, and the persistent but softening ringing in his head.

Raoul backs off a few paces, frowning slightly as he examines his opponent.

"No offense, mon duc, but you look pretty hard hit. I will not hold it against you if you pull out, it was a lucky hit on my part anyway."

Raymond shakes his head a bit, partly to decline and partly to clear the ringing from his ears.

"That's a noble sentiment Chevalier, but I can still fight. Let's give this duel a proper ending!"

The two combatants circle each other, looking for an opening. Suddenly, both move in for a swing. This time no mishap gives either an advantage, and their swords meet. The two men strain, each pushing his blade against that of the other. Raoul's strength begins to give him an advantage, and slowly he pushes the Dukes sword back. Then, suddenly, Raymond shifts the direction he is pushing his sword. Raoul finds next to no resistance forward, but his weapon is being pushed to the side, where it swings harmlessly past Raymond before Raoul can compensate for the change.

Raymond takes the split second advantage he has gained and swings. His first swing chinks Raoul's mail on his left arm, and then the latter is able to bring his sword up but not in a good position. Raymond presses the attack and for several moments Raoul is forced to back up, desperately trying to block each blow. Finally Raymond's furious attack is too much, and he is unable to block a second blow to his offside arm, which sends several chain links flying and draws a deep gash in his limb.

"Sir Raoul, this time I ask whether you'd like to yield. There would be no shame, for we seem to be evenly matched."

Catching his breath, Raoul wheezes a laugh, waves Raymond's question away and raises his sword:

"Have at you, mon duc!"

The two combatants circle each other, occasionally making a feint in an effort to find a weakness in the other's defenses. Finally Raoul takes his chance and commits himself to an attack. Raymond has been waiting for this moment, however. Even as Raoul begins his swing the Duke is already ducking under the arc of his opponent's swing. Raymond strikes hard and quickly, his sword smashing the chain rings of Raoul's mail along the upper part of his left leg. Blood gushes from the wound, and although Raoul attempts to continue the fight, he can no longer keep his footing and falls to the ground. The fight has ended.

Wincing, Raoul crawls on his knees to the man who has defeated him. As he looks up, he speaks under pain.

"I offer my fealty, Duc Raymond. Give an order and it shall be done. I will follow you even into death."

Raymond offers Raoul his hand, smiling.

"It was a fine contest, Sir Raoul. Let's get you patched up, and then we can go exchange oaths formally.”

With a nod Raoul lets Raymond hoist him up, and with the Duke shouldering the weight of his left side they both begin the trek back into the city.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Descriptions of the fight provided by ZIM; intro, epilogue and mid-battle dialogue by deguerra and Cecil XIX.

Calais, 1093

The inn was not among the most renowned of the city. It catered mostly to merchants and craftsmen. Most sat huddled at tables discussing the rising prices of wool or copper, gulping down large tankards of ale. But the establishment was also cozy and clean, two criteria that had made him the choice of the men sitting at a table in the back of the room. If the folks assembled in the tavern had known who those men were, the content of their conversation would have been very different.

For sitting at the corner table were Guillaume, called the Conqueror, King of England, and Philippe, King of France, his cousin and rival. Their apparel didn’t distinguish them from any well-off merchants and nobody had taken any notice of them, as they knew they would.

Guillaume was just off his ship, having crossed from Folkestone and braving the fierce winds of October to be at this meeting. Philippe had ridden hard from the German border, leaving the siege in the capable hands of Tancrède, a veteran of many campaigns.

The two kings shared a bottle of fine Burgundy wine, while their escorts discreetly scanned the room for any threats.

Philippe raised his glass for a toast. “Here’s to you, cousin… May your line reign on Albion forever…And Albion alone, I may add…”

“And yours be faithful to the dream of Charlemagne, Philippe” answered Guillaume, raising his glass and drinking it in one gulp. “A thing which is well underway if I’m to believe the reports from my “scouts”… The Kaiser will soon bow under the French yoke if you continue like this…”

“If only… The man must rather be a direct descendant of the Goths that conquered Rome than an heir to Caesar to go to war with the Pope… It’s a conduct France and her King cannot condone… Do you believe he even stooped so low as to abduct my daughter? While she was under Papal protection?”

“I do not contest your right, Philippe… But it seems you bit more than you can chew… Staufen lost, Antwerp under threat… You badly outnumbered at Frankfurt… Heinrich may be the one to fulfill the dream of Charlemagne in your place…”

“Never!!” Philippe cried out, drawing glances from some of the other patrons. Those quickly returned to their talks and drinks under the glare of the sovereign’s escorts.

“God will never let this happen… And you talking of overextension reminds of the purpose of this secret meeting.”

“Indeed, why the need for secrecy? What do you wish to propose that cannot be said in public? I would much rather be in one of my castles than an inn, however cozy it might be… I would regale you with food and drinks, with girls… I would tell you about the disgusting customs of the Scots… I would take you to hunt fox and boar… All things that make life bearable as a king…”

“I may well call you up on that, Guillaume… But what I wish to propose is not for all ears and should we not agree on it, I think it best left unheard, as it may cause some tension between our Royaumes.”

“Hmm… I must admit, Philippe, that you’ve whetted my appetite for more…

“I came here to propose an alliance between our Kingdoms. We are brethren us Franks and Normans, we share the same heritage… We even share the same lands, much to my dismay, I’ll admit…”

“An alliance? And what of the Scots? You’re allied with them as well? What if they decide that our presence is unbearable? Who will you support?” Guillaume asked seriously.

“I will make everything in my power to prevent such a war from happening… The Scots will not be able to win against you without France’s supporting them, so it seems that point is moot.”

“So allies, we may be but I feel you’ve not told me everything, no?”

“True, I told you that we share our heritage and our lands… Right now, we hold each other by the throat… You hold lands in France, so much so that it looks sometimes as you’re its true sovereign. But I know hold Wales and threaten to take Dublin, providing our Scottish allies do not take before us… Then all avenues of expansion will be closed to you... And you’ll be cornered… South and West by France, North and West by Scotland, with territories easily cut off from Albion and then left to their own devices.”

“You paint a grim picture, Philippe… But I assure you that should it come to war, you’d find us much more resilient than your Imperial neighbours.”

“Who talks of war? We both have something the other wants… So why not trade? I thought.”

“Trade? Trade what?”

“Here’s what I propose: you abandon your claims to Angers and Caen and I’ll hand Caernavon to you.”

“Seems like a lopsided deal to me” Guillaume answered, somewhat puzzled.

“Let me finish… I know of your expansion from Aquitaine through the Pyrenees in Spain. Valencia could make also a fine addition to your Spanish holdings and I’m willing to give it to you as well.”

“And Zaragoza?” asked Guillaume, a greedy look in his eyes.

“No, Zaragoza will remain French for now… But it could still be open to further negotiations… Once we’ve begun, there’s nothing from stopping us… We may even set an example that will help us come to terms with the Germans.”

Guillaume drew another large swallow from his glass, considering the offer that had been made.

“I may agree to the deal on principle…” began Guillaume.

“But?”

“But I’ve incurred costs garrisoning those castles, building barracks, improving the port in Caen… I’ll incur more costs yet when I’ll need to bring my men back to England. Rufus, my son, is still in Angers and I can tell you that knowing him his baggage train will require an entire fleet.”

“So how much are we talking about?” Philippe inquired, not at all surprised by Guillaume’s true nature coming to the front.

“Let me count…” said Guillaume, beginning to mumble and count upon his fingers. “Let’s see: which would you prefer full payment or regular tribute?”

“Tribute, of course… We’re at war and our coffers are not as full as I would wish them to be…”

“Tribute, then… My estimate would be for a payment of 1400 florins of gold for the next 14 years…”

“What?” a nonplussed Philippe exclaimed “Do you think that French chickens lay golden eggs? My treasury could never afford such a burden for so long… I’m not Croesus.”

“Well… Since you’re my cousin, I’m willing to make a gesture for family’s sake… I’ll halve it down… Say 800 florins for the next 10 years… Is that good enough for you? I’m losing an arm in this deal…” Guillaume said with a wily smile.

“Acceptable” Philippe said grudgingly.

“My, my… Acceptable, only… You almost hold me at ransom here, Philippe… So do we have a deal or not?” Guillaume asked, extending his hand over the table, having spit on it in merchants’ fashion.

“Deal” answered Philippe, spitting in his hand and taking the proffered hand. “I’ll have my Senechal draw up a treaty which will be then sent to receive your royal seal. Now let’s drink to our Kingdoms.”

Philippe raised his glass, imitated by Guillaume and they both emptied them in one gulp, before refilling them.

Rome, St Peter’s cathedral, 1088

Fra Matteo hurried through the nave towards the transept where the Swiss Guards guarding the gates to the Cathedral had told him he would find His Holiness, oblivious to the ornate decorations, rich tapestries and lifelike statues that made St Peter the most beautiful church of all creation.

Pope Gregory was kneeling in front of the altar, hands joined, eyes closed, his lips moving ever so lightly, seemingly lost in prayer. Fra Matteo stopped a few paces behind the Vicar of Christ, awed as always by the power the man held in his hands. Matteo had just come back in Rome from the northern reaches of France when he was summoned to present himself before his Superior.

Sensing a presence behind him, Pope Gregory stopped in his prayers and called to Matteo “Here, help me stand, Matteo… I’m not young anymore and these cold stone floors are not good to my aches…” Matteo stepped forward and extended his arm to give the Pope support. Gregory extended his hand to a kneeling Matteo that kissed the large ruby ring, symbol of his function.

“Your Holiness, I come to make my report on our negotiations with the French King…”

“Matteo… We’ve known each other long enough to dispense with honorifics… Call me Gregory, like you did in seminary.”

“Yes, Gregory… It is only that I have sometimes difficulties remembering you ever were a simple human... Even I stand in awe of your power…”

“And you should know better… We’ve both done our share of drinking whoring those years ago, si?” Gregory said with a wink.

“Si, we drove the brothers mad, didn’t we?” answered Matteo, a fond smile upon, his lips.

“Yes, these were good times… But enough of these fond memories… I’m anxious to hear your report of how our trap worked.”

“I think it should be up to your expectations, Gregory, though it didn’t quite work as I thought it would…Anyway, if Philippe displays the same bravery he did in Champagne for the whole campaign and if the French nobles have but only a fraction of their King’s valour, we won’t have to fear Heinrich for long…”

“So it worked? It truly worked?” an amazed Gregory asked.

“Yes… it seems so… We’ve lit the spark to Philippe’s kindle…Now it’s a bonfire that rages in him.”

“Yes, that I can believe… He always seemed to hide a raging fire behind this outward calmness and severity… And he’s always been a strong supporter of the Church… Our plan was bound to be successful. How did you manage it?”

“Quite simple in fact… I arranged to meet Philippe at an abbey in Champagne and paid a hefty sum in gold to some German company in the vicinity. I had them believe I was in the employ of some minor noble of the region and that my master wanted to get rid of his neighbor who was visiting the same abbey. I pretended to hire them to abduct that minor noble to have a ransom paid to my master, his rival. My plan was to have Philippe abducted which would have caused a war between France and the Reich. But he was forewarned of the Imperials assault on the abbey and had time to assemble his retainers and ride out against the assailants… Truly, if that man wasn’t such a staunch supporter of our Mother Church, I would believe him to be the Devil” Matteo said, signing himself.

Gregory reciprocated the gesture “So he came out free of the ambush?”

“Yes… But the fact that the ambush only existed is excuse enough for him to go to war… That added to the fact that Heinrich contest your right to St Peter’s Throne is enough to have him wage war against Heinrich…”

“Good, good… And is there any way this whole business can be traced back to us?” Gregory asked.

“No… The German “mercenaries” were paid in Spanish Reals, taken from the Vatican coffers. “I thought it fitting as the French Prince was recently in Spain… The man is outwardly supportive of his father but they stand at odds on most subjects… Louis is almost a devil-spawn such dreadful is his conduct… It should help keep him in check if his father thinks he’s out to usurp his throne with German help.”

“Well thought, Matteo… I knew you had what it took to bring this to a successful resolution… It prevents us from excommunicating Heinrich, something which would lead to lots of doctrinal discussions on the wrongs or rights of his allegations concerning his right to choose the Vicar of Christ in Rome. Discussions I would rather do without… But there’s something else on your mind, Matteo, I can see it” said Gregory, considering the anxious frown on his subordinate’s face.

“Yes…” said Matteo, anxious to take the burden off his shoulders “I believe we have created a monster… Now unleashed, Philippe will be hard to bring back in chains… I fear the Reich may be doomed… This will alter the balance between the Kingdoms…”

“Don’t you worry, Matteo… Leave this to me to deal with… And remember, excommunication is a double-edged sword… It can strike on both sides of a border.”

Gregory took Matteo by the arm, leading him towards the gates of the Cathedral. “ So tell me, how do these French women look ? And the wine… You must tell me about the wine…”

The two men headed into the sunlight shining on Rome, discussing the merits of women and wine.

Caernarvon 1095

Alain stood on the battlements of Caernarvon castle as it overlooked the Irish sea. In his minds eye he could see the English ships blockading the port of Dublin while the English troops ringed the city itself.

Was it fear, was it prudence, he could not tell what it was that had made him hesitate in attacking the city when he had the chance. The feeling of doom was certainly upon him from the journeys very beginning. His nights were broken by dreams of his death in Dublin, he would wake covered in sweat, swiping at an imaginary spear being driven up into his heart, his steed Cyril too late in crushing the spearman’s head with his hooves.

He was broken from his revere by his veteran retainer.

“Sire, the kings report has arrived. You should return to Paris for the Council.”

Alain took the report and read. It was short, it was damning. He had failed to achieve the objectives laid out by the King and now was being held accountable for that failure.

Without turning from his wind swept view, he spoke. “Thank you Julien, that will be all.”

He resumed his watch of the ocean, thinking back to a time when he was younger.

William had sired Alain on his fiftieth naming day. As a result even in Alain’s youth, he was an old man, in addition to this he was a bitter, aggressive but he was still his father.

The old Duc of Bretagne was half English, half French and he never seemed to forget that and as a result William seemed to hate the world for this twist of fate.

He would goad Alain in public, calling out sarcastic hurtful words in sword practise while in front of the assembled knights and tutors.

“Get a butterfly net Alain!!” he would shout when his eldest son would fail defending himself correctly.

Alain had slowly learned to hate his father, it would fester and simmer under the surface, exploding occasionally under severe stress or public humiliation. The Ducal house would become an icy place while the two fought. His mother Janice and his younger brother Stephen would make every effort to smooth the waters. Thankfully the old Duc was as quick to anger as to forget and things would return to normal quickly. However it was the constant sniping and snide comments that soured everyone eventually. That was the real and insidious effect his father had on everyone.

His mother, once beautiful and vibrant, was slowly reduced to a woman of few words, lines of worry and concern etched her face. She rarely spoke to her husband in the presence of others, fearing they would argue or William would explode into a rage while disagreeing with her on some matter. It was excruciating to watch.

His father’s specialty was public humiliation, he was relentless, vicious and utterly without compassion. He seemed to pride himself in being able to force people to lose their temper as his will demanded, or simply having to leave his presence because they could take no more.

Yet he had found himself trying to please his father all his life. Striving to hear just one kind word, just one encouraging sentence, one act of compassion or love.

In reaction to this Alain was a young man of two characters. One was created to ignore or appease his father, providing a public face to those watching the family. He was witty, oblivious, unconcerned and carefree to such an extent Alain would surprise himself.

The other was developed to fight fire with fire.

Explosive, quick to anger, ruthless, mean spirited, this “Alain” was as sarcastic, humiliating and aggressive as his father. It was this “Alain” that would rise and take over for short periods. This was the person that would be taken with rage at the hateful words of his father and react in kind, this was the person who would smash the knights instructing him, beating them until they cried for mercy. This was the person who would lash out at his mother at some small word, or beat and kick his brother when taunted or provoked.

That Alain had seemingly died at the same time as his father had passed away, the same day his brother Stephen had fallen from the walls of Rennes to be paralysed in both legs, the same day his mother had left the family home and walked with bare feet to a church in Paris to disappear from his life.

Even in death the hate for his father still burned.

The Kings words echoed in his mind.

Bologna, 1093

Constance was half-dragged, half-carried out in the paved streets of Bologna. The late afternoon sun glimmered over the horizon and already lampposts were being lit on the street. Once in the open, the princess moaned softly and averted her eyes from the light, parts of her face were bruised and her bliaud was nearly in tatters.

A minute later, Raynaud de Xaintrailles strode out, this time without the assistance of any Imperial guards. While he was physically in much better condition than the Princess, he was still lost in his own thoughts after his conversation with the Kaiser and thus paid Constance very little heed, if any at all. The two of them walked silently through the streets of Bologna to where they would eventually emerge and head for Rome, Raynaud in a little shuffle and Constance in a perpetual stumble as she tried to make the sudden adjustment to her freedom. Both of them were far gone in their own thoughts. There would be conversation, but not on the first day.

For the better part of the evening, she mutely followed him, stealing a few glances in his direction, but mostly keeping her eyes on her own feet and concentrating on every step. Even with her blurry red eyes, her burning forehead and her exhaustion, she never once complained. Constance walked when Raynaud walked and rested when he rested. On the next morning, when she rose, she collapsed to the ground and remained deathly still.

Raynaud, who had risen only ten minutes prior and, while in a better mood than the previous day, was still groggy, emitted a soft groan as he saw the princess faint. Trudging over to his water skin, he took a short swig, paused, and then emptied it over Constance's face. It was enough to wake her, as she started cough and sputter, her hands waving wildly in the general direction of her face, bracing for another impact of water that did not come. Eventually she let her guard down, and for the first time, Raynaud got a look at her face. The bruises were still there, but they did not totally hide who she was. His eyes widened in shock.

"You..." he muttered. "In the church..."

"Yes." She replied with some measure of shame before propping herself up with great effort. Her feverish eyes seemed glazed over and yet they bored right through Raynaud.

"Why did you come?" Constance queried in a raspy voice.

"My reasons for doing so are my own," said Raynaud. "However, chief among them is the fact that I felt I could make a difference in this situation. My presence on the Iberian front was not critical, and the Seneschal's other diplomats were otherwise occupied. I felt that this would be a better use of my time. I also believed that I would be able to connect with the Kaiser on a level that the diplomats would not be able to, as they are apt to forget their roots, lost in the foppery of eternal pampering. Unfortunately, I did not realize exactly the level that the Kaiser and I would connect on, but that is a story for another time." He paused, making sure that the girl was still coherent, probably his first act of compassion in a long time. Then he continued.

"Your disappearance has been greatly discussed in the Conseil. Tell me, Your Highness, how did you come to be in the Kaiser's possession?"

"Hermann... He wanted me and he..." She choked on the word before sobbing and collapsing back in the dirt. "You shouldn't have come." She muttered in between the sobs.

Raynaud just stared at her. "Evidently I should have, considering the state you've been in ever since you were released. You are a Princess who, frankly, looks like a mess, and I need you to be more helpful than you currently are for everyone's sake. Your Highness," he added on hastily at the end. "Now, you were mentioning a gentleman by the name of Hermann. Did he violate you in any way?"

For the first time her eyes focused and her plaintive voice turned sour. "Everyone will just have to find someone else. I am..." At that moment her body was wracked by a violent series of cough. "I am dying and I do not care anymore. There is nothing left for me in this world."

"Snap out of it," Raynaud said, now more annoyed than anything else, despite the Princess's predicament. "You're not dying, you've just been mistreated, and I need to know the extent of this mistreatment. You may continue to moan and feel self-pity, but then all you will get is more of the same. Your Highness. Or, you could tell me exactly what happened, and I can help you feel better. The choice is yours, although I hope for your sake that you choose the later, for if you don't, so help me God, I will leave you here and go back to Paris myself, and good luck finding anyone else that will get you where you need to go. What you are doing now amounts to suicide, and I have no pity for those who would so quickly forsake the Lord's ultimate gift. So, Princess, what will it be?"

Constance gave out a hoarse laugh which ended with another series of coughs. "I am tired, battered, sick, defiled and I have blood on my hands. Face it, I am damned." She paused and asked earnestly. "What would you have me do?"

"I would have you answer my original question," Raynaud said, "and then I will deal with the matter of you being damned or not. What happened to get you in this state?"

"Hermann took me as his... thing." Disgust crept in her voice before she continued with downcast eyes. "I wasn't strong enough to get away and there were consequences to my attempts."

"So he violated you," said Raynaud. "Do not worry about it, for he is a sinner. He will eventually burn in the fires of Hell for all eternity for his act, but he will get his justice even before that. Not now, though, for this is a cursed land for you and it would be best for everyone if we departed it immediately. There is a patch of woods about fifty yards to the right. If you can make it there, we will rest there for one day. Do not do anything; I will see to feeding you, setting up shelter, and the like. Just relax and regain your strength. Do not worry about your tormentor. The Lord will see to his destruction. Does this sound acceptable to you, Your Highness?"

"For now..." Constance struggled to rise and on shaky legs made her way to the woods where she sat, her back resting against a tree. She watched Raynaud in silence with some fascination before speaking up once more. "You never gave me your name, and please drop the formalities, I am not the one here who deserves respect."

Raynaud gave her a short, sharp bow. "I am Raynaud de Xaintrailles, Knight of the House of Aquitaine."

Upon hearing this, Constance lost her short-lived mellow attitude and looked at him sharply. "My brother sent you didn't he? I should have known... We are heading back to Rome after all. You are taking me back to that prison and here I thought you would be the one to save me. All along, I should have realized..." By sheer force of will, she stood up on shaky legs, using the tree as support, she continued with a grim determination to her tone. "...only I can save myself. I was weak Raynaud de Xaintrailles, but never again. I am not going back there, no matter what."

Raynaud looked at her and shook his head. "The Dauphin did not send me here. He is preoccupied with other matters that I will not relate to you out of respect for my liegelord. I admire your resolve, but you are still, as you put it, 'tired, battered, sick, defiled,' and, if you continue with this course of action, alone. Now, I can help you out, as I mentioned. I can make you strong, and eventually, I could perhaps assist the Lord in His work of disposing of your Hermann. But first, you need to come along with me."

Constance narrowed her eyes and seemed confused for a moment. Her mind told her that Raynaud was bad news, that all this was some sort of ploy and yet, her instincts screamed at her to trust him, that this man, unlike the others, would not betray her trust. Slowly she sat down and took a deep breath, oddly enough she seemed better. There was no more coughing and her pale visage had regained some color. She looked at him with genuine regret.

"I am sorry. Yes, I will come with you."

"All right," said Raynaud, still without the hint of a grin on his face. "But first, we go over to that patch of woods and rest up for the rest of the day." She nodded reluctantly, and he slowly helped her along to the woods, where they spent the rest of the day. In spite of the turnaround/breakthrough compared to the day before, there was still very little talking, mostly because of Raynaud's usual demeanor. The following day they set off for Rome, where they would charter a ship back to France.

...

Rome

Ever since the two of them passed Florence, Raynaud felt as if they were being followed. Now that they had crossed into the Eternal City, where a ship was waiting to take them back to France, he was sure that something was going to happen. Constance, although mostly recovered from her ordeal, was still not at full health and thus vulnerable. By this point in his life Raynaud knew better than to distrust these flashes of intuition, as he viewed them as signs from God. In a small village about halfway between Florence and Rome, he had exchanged his fine diplomat’s clothes for less-obvious earth tones for himself and Constance. He still wished he had his skulls with him, but they were lost somewhere along the journey to Bologna.

The two of them had moved as quickly as possible through the city on Raynaud’s orders, not bothering to stop and hear the latest gossip (that Kaiser Heinrich had rode north for Frankfurt and was now under siege). It was a beautiful city, with equal wonders from classical and modern days, but Raynaud was in the mood to see none of it. In rudimentary Italian, he asked for and received directions to the docks. Constance, keeping with her ordeal as well as her disguise, said nothing. Twice, Raynaud has stopped abruptly, turning around and drawing his sword, but he quickly realized there was nothing there and moved on. After the second time, the city’s denizens started to give the both of them a wide berth.

Finally, the docks were in sight. When Raynaud and Constance saw their designated ship – really, just a large boat – the two of them broke out into a jog. The city had just been too spooky for them to be there any longer. But they abruptly skidded to a halt as five men appeared, blocking their path to the ship. While they didn’t look German (in fact, they looked just as Italian as everybody else in the city), Raynaud still saw their eyes on the Princess. Turning to Constance, he said very softly, “Run, but eventually lead them back to me. Do this now.” She nodded, and took off in the opposite direction, back into the city. Raynaud turned back, seeing that all five men had already drawn their swords. They now ran directly for him.

Not having enough time to draw his own sword, Raynaud instead dropped into a crawling position. This maneuver partially worked, as it sent two of the kidnappers sprawling into the hard stone ground. However, that still left three men to pursue the princess. Praying for a miracle, Raynaud got up and drew his own sword, preparing to face down the men he had drawn away from Constance.

He feinted left, and then went right before abruptly drawing back to parry a blow that never came. The trick was in the opening phases to keep the enemy off-balance, after all. A split-second after the phantom parry, he went forward again, raining a flurry of blows, before drawing back momentarily. While the two Italians were stopped, trying to figure him out, Raynaud want low, causing the two of them to stumble back and lose their balance once again. Quickly disarming them, Raynaud grabbed the two of them by their hair and bashed their heads together once. They were out cold, hopefully unable to remember anything that had gone on. Raynaud ran to the ship to prepare for departure in case it was a footrace between Constance and her pursuers.

Meanwhile, Constance, quickly realizing that she wouldn’t be able to outrun three physically fit men, dodged into the first door she could find, praying that nobody would throw her out or take advantage of her. She was fighting a desperate battle with her emotions, hoping that they wouldn’t overcome her, hoping that all the bad memories she had accumulated with Hermann wouldn’t come washing back in a tide, threatening to break her down once and for all.

She won the battle, her breathing slowly returning to normal… until the door crashed open. Unable to help herself, she screamed and darted to a new hiding place, overturning a table and crouching behind it. She could hear Italian voices laughing, saying something, “ bella principessa”, drawing ever nearer to her.

Finally, they entered the room she was hiding in.

Summoning all of her strength, both physical and emotional, Constance took a deep breath and broke all four legs off the table, one by one. Holding two in each hand, she threw them as hard as she could at her three pursuers, and then jumped out and started running low.

It bought her just a second of time as the Italians swatted at the table legs with their swords, but it was enough. She cut between two of them, darted out the door, and then broke into a full sprint back to the docks. This time, she knew, she had to make it. This time, it wasn’t an obsessed Imperial suitor that she had prior experience with, this time, it was a group of Italians, purpose unknown, and Europe was a very large continent. She had to get to the docks, to the ship, to Raynaud, or otherwise she knew she could kiss any chance at seeing France again goodbye for a very long time.

And there Raynaud was, on the ship already, spotting her and screaming, waving his hands in exaggerated motions, “Venez! Venez! Venez!” and somehow, she found some extra speed, for the Italians were right behind her and still gaining…

She dove onto the boat just as Raynaud was pulling it away from the docks, but one of the Italians was right behind her and also managed to get on. She screamed, but Raynaud was there, grasping the man on the head and them kneeing him right back into the sea. The two dry, conscious Italians could only watch as their prey was sailing away, sailing back towards France. They were going home.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Co-op between TheFlax and myself.

“How many years have we been here Andreas?” Prince Henri sat casually at the table and leaned back whilst examining his erstwhile tutor and now confidant.

“Only 18 months my Lord, not so long.”

Andreas also sat at the table in the main hall, hunched over uninterestingly picking at a plate of cheese and grapes.

Henri continued “Well it seems like an age! I grow tired here, I am not even consulted in governance any longer” Henri stood and slowly paced to the fireplace, lit as always, and stared into the low flames.

It was mid-morning in the residency given over to the Prince and his entourage, whilst it was not cold outside the building itself was constructed mainly of stone so held the evening cold….the hearths were constantly lit as a result.

“What has become of me now?” Henri was barely audible to Andreas now, clearly talking as much to himself as to his long standing tutor “I am a Prince, 2nd in line to the throne and yet I remain here as if under house arrest, to do nothing of worth, of valour. I know I am still young but am I to stagnate here until all chance of adventure or chivalry has been pushed aside with increasing age?”

Henri, still only 17, had been in Andreas’ care for the last 7 years nearly. Half Italian and Frank, Andreas was well versed in sword-play and the machinations of court life, he himself had been a minor noble in the North of Italy until those very same “machinations” had forced his family into poverty once the Germans had started their political games against the Italian states of Milan and Rome. Using the name of his Frankish mother he had managed to steer what remained of his family to a comfortable living under Phillips nation and once his mother had died, he found employ in the Kings household and then into Henri’s circle as a general tutor of arms and protocol. He liked the boy he’d known since before his 12th birthday, studious but kind, naturally chivalrous but woefully overshadowed by his older, boisterous and frankly unappealing brother Louis.

“Take heart Lord, your stay here will not be that much longer. Your father himself only instructed you remain here until you had completed your further training.”

Henri turned again to look at Andreas “I know, but have I? Will I ever complete my training?”

Andreas shrugged “That is not for me to deem my Lord but know this, the skills of sword and honour cannot ever be learned fully…you will continue to learn long after I have joined God, all you can do is achieve a level of dignity that you, yourself, can be proud of.”

Henri chuckled to himself “Heh…there is not much comfort in such words for a hot-headed young man such as myself Andreas. Perhaps you would be more at home speaking with the embalmed at the cemetery with such morose lines.”

The statement was no threat, as usual, just a jest in poor taste…the Prince had developed quite a black sense of humour as he turned the journey into adulthood. Andreas mused that it might just hold him in good stead when the blood and the screaming of battle started.

1096, Outskirts of Bern

A lone figure wound his way through the slowly fading light of a late autumn afternoon, the first flakes of winter carrying on the air. He approached a lone church, where the monks could be heard praying and where a warm hearth and good food resided. He ignored that - he did not come out this far and into Imperial territory for something so simple and earthly as that.

No, instead he made his way to the rear of the church, where several graves were, with all but two made of wood. The two that are not were made of well crafted marble, each engraved with the names of their occupants - Lionel and Beatrix.

Gaetan brushed away the the snowflakes which had gathered upon the marble markers, first the girl's, then the boy's. Opening his cloak, Gaetan pulled out a beaded necklace and placed it upon the girl's marker with gentle care. Pulling his cloak tight about him, Gaetan dropped to his knees and breathed out a sigh, his breath condensing in the air.

"It is good to see you two again, I missed you dearly. I brought you something Beatrix - a necklace from Outremer, sold to me in Italy by a most "trustworthy" merchant. I suppose it is the thought that counts." Gaetan paused. "I bet you wonder why I was in Italy...I went too far again. I'm too used to wearing my feelings out upon my sleeves I suppose - I insulted the Dauphin, and suffered both the consequences, and paid for them later on...yet another harsh lesson I seem to refuse to learn. You always said I was too stubborn Beatrix, an-"

In a flash, Gaetan was upon his feet, his sword drawn and ready to fight. "Who goes there!"

A brief silence, and then a shadowy figure stepped out from behind the entrance to a mausoleum. Gaetan could not quite make out who it was in the moonlight. The figure paused, giving Gaetan a once-over, and then spoke in a neutral voice.

"Hold, Frenchman, for I am your kinsman. Be lucky that this is the case, for I hear that speaking this language in Imperial territory is not usually smiled upon." Gaetan cringed at being discovered for what he was, but said nothing immediately. Judging by the way the man spoke to him, he was clearly of the upper class back home, but his identity still remained a mystery.

Gaetan relaxed his stance, but did not sheath his sword. "Kinsman or not, you still have no answered my question. I am not exactly welcome back home, and one of my "Kinsmen" has already demonstrated that he was more then happy to do me harm. Why is a fellow such as yourself here, in Imperial territory, following someone such as me?"

"I am here to provide you with a means to return home," the figure said smoothly. "There is a task that needs completing, the type of task that usually smooths over all rough patches and forgives any past indiscretions." The figure paused, wondering if he had Gaetan on the hook yet and mulling over his next choice of words.

"But yet here you are chastising me for being in Imperial territory and following you," the figure said, without any trace of humor. "And here I am wondering why I did not have to venture farther to find you. I might ask you the same thing, Gaetan de Rethel, that you asked of me. Why are you here instead of with the Varangian Guard?"

Gaetan stiffened and bitterness creeped into his voice. "So Hermant sent you? Or did he openly tell everyone in the Royuame how he drugged me and tried to be rid of me?" Gaetan seemed to stand protectively in front of the markers, his face determined, his figure resolute. "I fight, that's what I do - I am but a soldier, a killer of men, and a good one at that. But I am not a mercenary - my wage is not paid in gold, but in gratitude. I spill blood not on command, not for someone's ambitions - I fight for them."

Gaetan gestured towards the markers. "Peasants, Serfs, Freemen, Merchants. Men, women, children. I fight for lost souls and the damned. Not nobles, not land, not a sack of gold. So go tell Hermant the next time he would send me off to serve someone's greed and political ambition, remember to not befriend me first." Gaetan pauses for a moment, clearly riled up, and waves at the stranger. "Leave me be, I have much to contemplate..."

Gaetan could make the figure turning around to depart. "Fine then," he said, already walking away. "But if you ever do wish to return home again, and in the way you describe, I only need to remind you that these opportunities do not come around often. Good evening, chevalier."

"Wait - you still have not answered my question. Why have you come out this after me? To what purpose do you risk your life? What opportunity do you speak of?"

The figure turned around once more, this time with a flourish, as if he were expecting nothing less than what Gaetan had just said. "I see no reason for answering these questions... for the moment," he said, much to Gaetan's chagrin. "I will grant you the information you desire, plus more information about your opportunity, but I must receive an answer first, Gaetan. You are making a decision based on very little information, and I understand that. However, there are some things in life that one must take on faith, such as hoping that your lord will provide for you or that your deity of choice is in fact the One True God. This is one of those times. You have already heard from me that this opportunity will provide what you desire: restoration, and in the proper way. All that is required from you now is your simple faith that I am leading you in the right direction." The figure paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully.

"I either need a 'yes' or a 'no', chevalier," he resumed. "If it is 'no', then I will leave you to your ponderings in this holy graveyard and go back my own way. If it is 'yes', however, then I will consider your faith a binding commitment and expect your deliverance in return for my information. So, what shall the answer be?" he asked.

Gaetan stood postulating as the cold wind whipped around him, silence permeating the graveyard. He seemed ready to say no, when the necklace he had laid upon Beatrix's marker suddenly flew off towards the direction of the stranger. Gaetan panicked, reactively snatching at it, but he missed it at first, and only managed to catch it as it flipped through the gathering snow at the base of the stranger's feet.

Finding himself kneeling before the stranger, necklace in hand, Gaetan looked at the necklace, and back at Beatrix's grave. Closing his eyes, he made his decision. "Yes..."

"Rise, Gaetan," the figure said. "You are not my bondsman, you are my kinsman." Waiting for Gaetan to do so, he continued. "The heathen Moorish Empire stretches from Iberia to Egypt, eclipsing even the ancient Carthaginians in size and threat to the civilized world. A great many of their lands have been long lost to the loving embrace of Christianity, but Iberia... Iberia is a different case. In Iberia, the great Catholic factions share a land border with the heretics and do nothing. Their brothers cry out from the brutal repression of the Sultan, begging for a return to the light, for salvation. And yet, these factions do nothing, forever damning half the peninsula because of their own petty squabbles, or because they fear Moorish reprisal."

The wind continued to whirl around them as the conversation continued. "I think these factions forget that if you have the Lord on your side, then there is no threat of reprisal," the figure said. "These Catholic Iberian factions have lost their way, then, and I aim for them to rediscover it. I asked the Conseil for permission to do this once more, and was rebuffed - though barely. This time, I am doing it the right way. This time, I am gathering a base of support beforehand. And once we do get approval - for we shall, one way or the other - we will set out and purge the good people of Iberia of any Moorish influence whatsoever. We shall cleanse the Peninsula and save countless thousands of souls."

The figure finally stopped, regarding Gaetan with a look. "And now, you should have enough information to deduce who I am."

Gaetan's face tightened in strained disgust. "Raynaud de Xaintrailles...I should have known - yet another lackey, or should I say opportunist? Somehow I don't think you follow Prince Louis blindly." Gaetan breathed out, relaxing in the face of reality. "But my word is my bond, and I shall support you however begrudgingly. But I wish to know why you followed me into Imperial Territory to ask this of me, why you would disturb me in my place of solace."

"Think of me as you will," Raynaud said, once again delaying answering Gaetan's main question. "I seek no recognition or reward for my actions other than what lies ahead in the next life. I do wish that you would see my side of things, but I suppose that is too much to ask too soon. Perhaps farther down the road."

The wind finally died down, and, overhead, the moon poked through the clouds, finally illuminating Raynaud's visage for Gaetan to see. He sighed, finally providing a straight answer. "Think of me as you will," Raynaud said once more. "But do not dispute that this mission is incredibly important to me. I believe in the values that I profess - redemption, for some, justice, the True Faith - and I will go whatever length necessary to see this task through. This includes seeking you out, to provide you with the opportunity you need. As for your place of solace, it just so happens that this was also my place of solace, at least for tonight. I was asking the Lord for guidance on how best to approach you, and as I was leaving I spotted you in the graveyard. Did He provide me you? Perhaps. But I suppose that's all part of the journey, isn't it?"

As Raynuad turned and left, Gaetan remained a few moments longer in that cold, moonlight graveyard, slightly stunned, yet deep inside the fierce embers of his heart blazed again.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Co-Op with GeneralHankerchief :bow:

York, 1096

Severin de Brie was not a happy man. It seemed to him that he had been on this accursed Isle for an eternity. The weather was horrible, the food was worse and the locals, boors. At least he was in England now, marginally more civilized, after several futile years among the savages to the North. The only word of french the Scots seemed to speak was "non", for they would not have an alliance.

Of course the Normans were just as bad, they spoke more French, if with an atrocious accent, but were just as obstinate. No exchange of land was good enough for them, no matter how Severin had cajoled or begged. Even worse, the diplomat knew that his failure had become fodder for the latest Seneschal election back home. He winced each time he received news about the Conseil from Geoffroi in Paris. His name was known among the powerful, but for all the wrong reasons.

As Severin sat in his rented room in York, physical evidence of how bad it had gotten lay before him. On a table, illuminated by a single candle, were two letters, both opened. One had the seal of the Seneschal, the other the King. Each had a very different and contradictory task for him.

Severin sighed the sigh of a defeated man. The Seneschal commanded the diplomats, but the King was the King. Whatever he did, he would make a powerful enemy. This terrible exile in a cold, sodden backwater might last forever.

"How could things get any worse?" he said aloud.

A sudden breeze from the window behind him snuffed out the candle.

"Touche," he muttered, reaching for the tinderbox.

Suddenly a gloved hand clamped over his mouth. Severin tried to scream but only a muffled squeak escaped. The hand pulled his head back and up. Severin thrashed, staring up at the darkness of the ceiliing, eyes wide, when he suddenly felt cold steel at his throat.

"Things can always get worse, de Brie. I would suggest that you cease your struggles, or you may get cut," whispered a voice at his ear.

Severin froze, but swallowed nervously. His adam's apple scraped the blade, and he could feel a spurt of warmness travel down the skin of his throat.

"Tres bien," the voice continued, "Quite the dilemma you seem to have before you. I anticipated such an event since the election, and traveled north to personally consult with you."

The hand over his mouth roughly moved to his forehead, "You may speak, but remember one scream and. . ."

Severin shivered, "I'll make the deal! The alliance! I will!"

The voice tsked in his ear, "You are quite mistaken, there will be no alliance. You are being removed from those negotiations."

Severin's bladder let go, and the stink of urine filled the room, "Please no! I'll do anything you ask, just tell me what to do!"

There was a dark chuckle behind him, "How felicitious. Be sure that you follow all instructions from our beloved Seneschal, because I will be watching."

Severin could feel movement around him, and then the knife was gone from his throat. Clasping a hand to his wound, he turned toward the window.

A figured, outlined by moonlight, crouched there.

"Perhaps a study of magyar would be in order," the shadow said.

And was gone.

When Severin relit the candle, the royal letter was as well.

Metz castle.

Henri, Prince of the realm sat in the quarters allocated them at Metz. Across the table, Andreas idly prodded the last of his meal whilst he listened to Henri talk. They had just received a letter from the King, Henri’s father.

“It changes nothing Andreas, nothing. This is an old trick of my fathers, one he has used these past 5 years to continue to keep me side-lined whilst he groomed Louis for succession, promises Andreas, nothing but the empty promises we’ve both had these past years…I grow weary of all.”

Andreas nodded. He’d hoped, for the good of Henri, that this may have been different but it was hard to believe after so many false starts, especially now that Henri had decided to take things into his own hands…regardless of his Fathers instructions. Was the letter in response to Henri’s actions or had it just coincidentally arrived with them at this time and offered a genuine olive branch? Even Andreas, knowledgeable of court politics couldn’t be sure.

“Then what is my lords wish?”

Henri turned from Andreas and stared at the fire thinking, as he was often to do, before replying.

“Come with me?”

“Pardon my lord??”

“Come with me, to the borders. My father waits with an army there and there is where we will not only have our answers when I see my father face-to-face again after so long but we will be in a position to be unavoidably placed in harms way.”

Henri’s eyes flashed with youthful excitement at the thought of seeing an army, let alone the thrill of potential danger so near to Imperial forces. However, Andreas was of less of an accommodating nature.

“My lord…” he started as diplomatically as possible “…whilst I am your tutor, I am under the direct employ of your father and I do not feel this would be his intention.”

Andreas diverted his eyes from Henri, well aware that he’d perhaps spoken out of turn. However, it seemed that Henri was more tactically astute than he’d thought and had already come up with an answer…

“It is not just I who has been left to rot Andreas. What of your mother, passed by this last year? Did you have permission to see her in her illness, or even to attend her funeral? Do you not have reason…as much as I…to move your life forwards in the presence of the King?”

Andreas thought for long moments. It was true indeed, he had personal “grievance” with how he had been treated, and whilst as a lowly vassal to the Royal household he should perhaps expect no less, he couldn’t help but feel the pressure building in his heart for more or at least a half-chance for something greater.

Now looking more fully at the young Prince he resolved himself.

“Indeed, it is as you say my lord. I will follow you.”

“Then that is settled. Rest well now, I will start making arrangements for our travel. If my Father is in anyway genuine in his compassion, or at the very least wishes it to appear so, it may be an opportunity for us to provide more than just our horses.”

Metz, 1096

Peasants

Filthy grubby peasants

Bertin surveyed the rabble that had assembled on the muster field. They were a decently fit lot, but they lacked even the most rudimentary of marshal training. That would change. O yes, that would change. There was no chance Bertin would let Antwerp become the military center of the north. Antwerp?! No, Metz would provide the armies of the north. He would whip these peasants into the best fighting force the royaume had ever seen. He would…

One of the maidens who ringed the muster field caught Bertin’s eye.

“Er, um,” Bertin stammered, “I’ve called you all here… to say you’re all doing excellent. You can all go now.”

Confused, the mob of peasants looked quizzically amongst each other. All the while, keeping their feet firmly planted in the muck of the muster field.

“I said, you can all go now,” growled Bertin with a hint of menace in his voice.

The peasants finally realized it was in their best interests to disperse before their Baron could change his mind and make them practice marching drills for the whole day.

Bertin worked his way through the disassembling crowd to where he had thought he had seen the lass. Luckily, the peasant girl had not moved. “obviously enraptured with my command prowess” mused Bertin. Leaning in close, Bertin whispered something in her ear.

For the next several days, much gossip in the castle would focus on what precisely the Baron had said. The tamer versions involved Bertin boasting of his skill with his “lance”. Those closest to the pair, however, swore they heard something about a horse… and that it was not meant in any sort of metaphorical way.

Whatever was said, the peasant girl blushed deeply and then raised her hand to slap Bertin. Just before she was about to slap him, she seemed to think better of it and lowered her arm. Blushing, even more then before, she whispered something back to Bertin. Smiling, Bertin gently took the her by the hand and led her back to his chambers.

Peasants

Delightful lovely peasants

A manor in the foothills north of the Pyrenees, near Toulouse, 1096

Heloise was terribly happy. Daddy was home and he'd brought her some of the most clever little toys from the German shops in Marseille. He'd scooped her up in an endless hug and lavished the most extraordinairy attention on her, making her feel the like the center of the world once more... a thing which had been happening far, far less since the squalling new baby, Simone, had come along. At two and a half Heloise was a genuine prodigy, she could already recite whole paragraphs from the Bible by heart and her Nanny swore she could work some of the wood cut puzzles meant for adults as well.

In the next room there was a startlingly loud crash as some object struck the door with a thump.

Daddy was 'having a talk' with Mommy now. Heloise understood what that meant, it meant Mommy had been bad. If she had been really bad she'd have a funny walk for a few days after Daddy left. Otherwise she'd just be quiet for awhile before she went back to yelling at Nanny and the nursemaids.

Voices spiralled higher and higher in the next room, the roaring boom of Prince Louis overwhelming the shrill anger of Teresa's cries.

"... a son!"

"...fault..."

"Yes it is! I've a dozen bastards in Toulouse alone you..."

Something heavy can be heard breaking and splashing against the wall.

"Pig! You filthy, rooting, whoring, pig!"

A single, sharp report can be heard, followed by a gasp. The shouting stops, and Daddy laughs uproariously. Heloise smiles at the sound, and slides the last bit of the iron German puzzle into place. Finished, and Daddy sounded like he was having fun too!

The door opened, and without a backward glance Daddy came out to scoop Heloise up. Turning back to the room he points at Mommy and says,

"A son next Teresa. A son or there will be trouble. Your father's kingdom is little more than a fiefdom of the heathens. If France did not prop him up they would run your people under in a month. Give me a son in your nation's name. Pray, take potions, bleed your veins, visit witches, do whatever you must to secure my line. No more of these lovely, useless little girls. No more!"

"Come Heloise, let's take you to Nanny. Daddy and Mommy have more to discuss, and I just know Nanny is going to love your new toys."

:egypt:

Paris 1093

In a way he had no idea what the result was going to be, however he was certain that he had the commitment to at least ask. That in itself was something that surprised him more than he realised.

His letter had been short and to the point. There were matters of some urgency to discuss and he would like to "consult" with someone who at least openly seemed like he could help.

The answer was equally short. Meet at the church in Paris at the time of the Seneschal elections and a discussion could be had.

His thoughts drifted that very event. The next Seneschal, now that would be an interesting event in the Kingdoms short history of the position. His brow creased at the thought.

Hell, that was nearly half the reason he was going to the meet the man.

1095

It was well after dark, when much of the city had gone to sleep. Even though there was very little agriculture to be done in this part of the country, many people still retired for the night early, as was custom. This left the myriad streets of the Royaume's capital under a nightly siege by the various factions - the streetwalkers, the vagabonds, the whores, and, at least for one night, the men who had business to discuss. As he had indicated in a follow-up letter to his correspondent, they would meet in this particular church on this particular day at this particular hour.

As was custom for the recipient of the original letter, he arrived at the church early, in order to gain solace, look upon the various representations of the religion's oldest days, and, of course, pray. He did this for a good half hour before the doors opened and a figure walked in. Upon one quick glance, he could tell right away that this was the man he would be discussing things with, and stood up from his pew, turning around to watch as the second man slowly walked down the church's aisle.

The colonnades cast a patch work of light and shadow across the central aisle, the short squares of light caught a face stern with trouble and anger, the fluid gait of a fighter seemed menacing in a church.

The figure stop and for a moment no once spoke, finally with a hand extended Alain spoke;

"Xaintrailles, I am glad to see you are here. Before we go further, I wish to thank you for everything you have done for Princess Constance."

Alain paused for a moment to consider his next words.

"She, is, someone I have care for a great deal."

Raynaud took the Duc's hand and grasped it, looking him in the eye, his gaze as cold as ever. "Your thanks are much appreciated, Duc Alain," he said. "As a member of the royal family she is officially a treasure of the country and thus should be treated as such. I can only hope that such situations do not befall anyone else." Releasing his grip, but not adjusting his gaze, Raynaud continued.

"Now," he said, "Duc Alain, I do hope you will forgive me should I not adhere to proper protocol regarding behavior tonight, for I am still uncertain as to the nature of this meeting. I was hoping you would be able to enlighten me on this matter."

Alain motioned towards the side of the church and takes a seat in one of the side pews.

"I am interested to know what has happened to the concept of the crusade?"

His voice hardened substantially. "Recent events have caused a certain level of disilusionment. I can not say I am a religious man, my father certain was not, however my mother recently joined the church and I am uncertain as to what to do next."

"Last Conseil session, the Crusade was narrowly defeated because we were not yet in prime standing with the Pope. The general sentiment was that we should work to sweeten His Holiness over and then re-introduce the edict once that happened. However, due to certain... events... we are in even worse standing with the Pope than before," Raynaud said. "Thus, the Crusade once again resides in limbo, and the citizens of Iberia still cry out for salvation. Why do you ask, Duc Alain?"

"I ask because I believe there must be a higher calling than the one I have been...subjected to recently.

If there is nothing for me here in the realm, then I wish to give my service to a cause that my benefit from my skills and commitment."

Alain paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing in assessment before he continued.

"I would not normally, say this, but can you help me?"

Raynaud sighed for a moment. "I assume you speak of His Majesty's... disapproval... of your handling of your Seneschal term these past days. But yes, there is a way out. The Crusade is not dead, Duc Alain; it will never be dead so long as blasphemers and heretics hold any authority on the Iberian peninsula." He motioned Alain to gaze upon the large image of Christ, nailed to the cross, affixed to the wall above the altar.

"Tell me Duc, what do you see?"

Alain grunts initially but then spends a moment considering the image.

"I see an admirable thing being turned sour by the machinations of man Raynaud. Fortunately, or unfortunately my father spent a great deal of time on my tutoring. I have spent more than a few years on theology and religion.

I am not a man of blind faith, equally I must say there is much good centered in the church. You could call me a forward thinker but you will be sadden to hear that Nicaea was part of my studies."

Alain turned to Raynaud.

"What do you see?"

Raynaud sighed. Not another one. "Nicaea or not, you cannot deny that Christ was the most influential figure of all time. The achievements He accomplished, both in life and death, serve to inspire the greatest and worst of us even a thousand years afterward. What do I see, Duc Alain? I see a man who sacrificed his life in order to save the rest of us from eternal damnation. I see the very same men He died for, slowly forgetting the reason that He died over the years and centuries."

Motioning once more to the image of Christ, Raynaud continued. "You and I are in agreement that a very admirable thing has indeed turned sour, Duc Alain. The very salvation of mankind has been thrown aside. The people of the continents to the east of us and below us have willingly forsaken His message for the words of a wealthy crackpot who says that Christ is no longer relevant. In addition, the peoples of the lands where Christianity and Islam border each other are complacent. Do they remember the message and seek to liberate their neighbors from the oppressive and heretical Mohammedan philosophy? No, they forget themselves. They forget that temporal affairs are only that - temporary - and put themselves in eternal danger for the sake of a few years of stability back home. United, the various Christian factions in Iberia could easily drive back the menace to the south and secure western Europe for good. They do not, of course, embroiled in their petty disagreements. They forget themselves," Raynaud said once more.

"I want a Crusade to make up for the failures of the Iberian Catholics," Raynaud said, his words echoing throughout the quiet church. "It is unfortunate that this task falls upon us, but it must be done for the good of all of us, for if the Moorish threat is allowed to continue living then we will eventually find them crossing the Pyrenees, bearing down on us. Crusades are things of redemption, Duc Alain, both for the individuals going on them and for the entire religions as a whole."

Raynaud fell silent, waiting to see how the Duc would react.

"Redemption could work for me Raynaud. I can not say I have much to look forward to here in the burgeoning realm of France. I have soured quickly to what my father would want me to do.

Is there truly salvation to be had?"

"I believe that your definition of salvation is somewhat different than mine, Duc," Raynaud said. "However, I believe that you will find both if you do decide to go on Crusade."

"I believe you are correct Raynaud, but every crusade needs its warriors, no matter if their reasons seem noble or not.

Shall we agree to meet closer to the next Seneschal election?"

Raynaud, nodding, bowed and departed the church, muttering something about "needing to keep track of de Rethel", leaving the Duc alone.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Coop with GH

Metz, 1096

“Andreas, who is that person down there?”

Andreas moved to the window beside Prince Henri and looked down at the courtyard. A rabble of peasants were milling about, some had started to move away from the castle itself. They had clearly come prepared for some form of martial duties as they all carried various improvised weapons.

“Where exactly my lord?”

“There in the corner, he is finely dressed and speaking to that serving girl”

“Ahh, yes my lord, that would be Baron Bertin de Montsault. Why so you ask?”

“It pains me to view someone who is clearly meant to be of noble birth and to set an example for our citizens, debase himself in public with a peasant girl like that…that is why. At least my brother had the pretence of discretion, this “man” flaunts his status and power…and lord God forefend my tongue…his Rutting, in public view.”

“Would you meet with him my lord and impart you views on him?”

“No, not at this time. He is not directly the problem but he is clearly an indication of many Dukes and Barons in our lands…that is the problem and it is that which I can lend myself to in the years to come. For now though we must ride to Frankfurt. My father has sponsored my application to The Order and it would be amiss of me to not make haste to them whilst a German army threatens!”

Absolution

St Thierry Abbey near Reims, 1100


Philippe walked the cloisters at a brisk pace. As anything in monastic life, nothing ever seemed to change. The only difference he could tell from the last time he was here was the missing bodies of the German prisoners and wounded.

“And to say that a war was started here” he mused.

The abbot who had been leading him since his arrival to the monastery finally stopped at the door of a small monk cell.

“He’s in there, Your Majesty… He wants to talk to you alone…” The abbot said with an insistent look to the bodyguard of Philippe.

Philippe nodded “Tancrède, stay here with the men… It is not as if I risk anything in there…”

The veteran saluted and began giving orders to the men.

Philippe hesitated for a moment, his hand resting on the door handle before finally reaching his decision and stepping into the room.

It was the stench that first told him of the state the man laying in the small cot was in… The room was dimly lit and he could not see clearly the face of the man, a wheezing breath coming out of his mouth.

Philippe grabbed a stool and sat near the bed.

Hadn’t he been told the identity of the man, lying in this sickbed, he wouldn’t have recognized him. But looking hard upon the gaunt face, it carried enough resemblance to the face of the friar he had met in that same monastery.

“Fra Matteo” Philippe called, in a low voice. The man stirred but did not wake up.

“Fra Matteo, it is me, Philippe”, the King called again. As if stung, the man sat upright in his bed, a feverish look in his eyes, looking hard at Philippe, before all strength went out of him and he slumped back on his pillow.

“It is truly you” Matteo said in a rasping voice “I didn’t truly believe you’d come… I have much to tell you and so little time…”

Philippe looked at the frail creature in front of him “What ails you, Matteo?”

“Death is stalking me… I have caught the Napolitan sickness as you French call it (OOC : syphilis)…I should have heeded my vows of chastity, one more proof of the omniscience of God… If you live by the sword, you’ll perish by the sword… And my sword was often out of its scabbard” Matteo was then wracked by a fit that could be best described as half-laugh, half cough… Philippe waited until he recovered, wincing “Suffice it to say that I will soon face St Peter but I fear he will send me to Hell for my sins, sins which I need to confess… Confess to you…”

“I am no priest, Matteo… I cannot hear your confession…”

“Oh, but you will, Philippe… For it is an earthly sin, I will not depart this earth without telling you about it… Come closer so I can tell you of my sins against you, against your Kingdom.”

Wrinkling his nose at the foul stench of the cot and the man, Philippe leaned towards the sick friar, lending him his ear.

“Do you remember our previous meeting here ?” Philippe nodded. “Have you ever wondered about the circumstances of the attack made upon you by that German captain ? Did you truly believe his story ? You’re no fool, Philippe… But you had no idea of the dark forces working against you… Dark forces led by my master, Gregory… May he rot in Hell for his own sins… I arranged for this attack, Philippe… I did it on orders from Gregory… He needed you at war with the Reich, to rid him of Heinrich, who wished to denounce him as a usurper…” A new fit of coughing had Matteo, twist in his soiled blankets, making Philippe, step away from the bed, overturning the stool, aghast both at the state of the man and the news he brought.

“Philippe !!” the man cried in anguish, whimpering “Stay by my side…”

Reluctantly, Philippe righted the stool and sat back by the bedside.

“Once you’d managed to rid him of Heinrich, he had foreseen to use the threat of excommunication to bring you to heel… Gregory didn’t want you to become too powerful at the expense of the Reich… he wanted things to be balanced, the better to reign over your Kingdoms…”

Matteo turned his face to Philippe, his feverish eyes looking deep into the King’s own. “I see you do not truly believe me… But these are not the ramblings of a sick and feverish man, this is the truth… And I have proof of it…”

At these last words, Philippe’s face lighted up. “Proof ? You truly have proof of these dealings ?”

“Ah… Now you’re prepared to believe… Yes, I have proof… We exchanged letters with Gregory, and they are yours if you promise me one thing : make Gregory pay for his sins… Force his hand to your own benefit… Make him see what it feels to be a puppet in somebody else’s hands… Make him suffer, make him beg…” Matteo stopped, out of breath, his chest heaving.

“Promise me…”

“You have my word as King, Matteo”

“I know you’ll honour it, My King” Matteo began speaking fast, babbling “Ask the abbot for my personal belongings… I’ve already asked him to release them to you, should you ask…”

Philippe could see the man was rapidly waning, the light in his eyes dimming by the second “Make him pay…” The last words were said in a whisper.

Matteo’s eyes closed and his lips parted one last time, whispering “Oh Lord, welcome me…” Then his breathing stopped and he lay still upon his cot.

Philippe drew the blanket upon his face and made the sign of the cross over the prone body of the monk. He then stood and opened the door, filling his lungs of the clean night air, needing to get rid of the fetor of the sickroom.

Tancrède watched as sad smile spread across the face of the King, torn between sympathy for the dead man and his guilt and his need for revenge on Gregory.

“Prepare the horses, Tancrede… God rides with us from this day on.” Philippe called, striding fast towards the rooms of the abbot.

Marseilles 1101, Let us hope for Sobriety

Yvon Rode into his manor in Marseilles, The town guards standing at attention, spears held at an angle. Yvon smirked slightly at that, Adam must have been drilling these peasants for months to get them disciplined enough to do even that! But the good mood did not hold long, not when darker thoughts weighed Yvons mind. The council….. He chose not to think of it, instead slipping into his manor and sat down to a fine meal. He was already eating when Adam and two of the manors personal guards marched into the room; Adam was holding an armful of papers and reports, his face grim. Yvon looked up, smiled briefly and motioned towards a chair.


“Newest reports and missives from the province are in my lord. And of course, tax reports are in… uuuggghhhh” Adam says, placing the papers in a pile on the table.


Yvon laughs and takes a swig of wine “That is the price of progress my friend, endless reports and figures. You know how to deal with them.”


Adam looks critically at Yvon “are you asking me to lower the taxes again? I realize you dislike taxing the citizens, but this is getting ridiculous….”


“It is not that Adam, I am just doing what I think is best for my territory. I am not good with the whole tax business… to be frank, just not the kind of thing I think a baron should be doing to the men and women under his protection….. But I am not here to talk business Adam, at least not right now” Yvon takes another swig, before going on “Have you heard the latest news? About the English?”


Adam shakes his head “Of course, every chapel in the land speaks of the excommunications of William and the Normans. And of course with tensions so high even a fool can see we will use this opportunity to take back what is ours. “


Yvon nods, his voice drips with bitter sarcasm “ Good, then you understand the basic set up of things. There is talk of a Crusade, to launch a glorious attack on London to free them from their blasphemy.” He gulps down the whole glass of wine and places his head in his palm,
“I am not sure if the course we are taking is truly His will Adam. They are still Catholics Adam. And to think we deem to attack a catholic nation under the pretense of a crusade when the heathens still rule in the holy land does not sit well on my shoulders. I want to kill the English as much as the next man does, and I plan to do as such. But I am not claiming God guides my blade as I butcher them. At the beginning I was neutral to the idea of this crusade…. Whatever gets the job done ehh? But now, it just leaves a sour taste in my mouth to bring God into this affair. I will not take up the cross against a fellow catholic. That I can not do.”

Adam sits back through the monologue, understanding that Yvon simply wanted someone to listen, not talk. After Yvon finished Adam opened his mouth, “ My friend, I am not going to say I disagree with you, your points are valid. But A crusade is a crusade, and is declared by only one man. The Pope, the voice of god on earth. If he declares as such then it must be His will.”
Adam nods his head vigorously, certain with himself. “But it is each mans decision to take up the cross. If it so displeases you then simply stay out of this crusade.”

“Perhaps you have a point Adam, although I have lost much faith in the pope in these past few years…. Hell, This crusade has not even been finalized, it is a possibility it will not even happen. But either way I have already decided what path I will take in the next few years.”
Yvon Smiles, grabbing a new glass of wine, “ we are going back to Spain my friend, The siege of Pamplona awaits!”

Adam cocks his head “What about Marseilles? Do you believe the city will be ok without your guidance? What of the guard?”


Yvon raises a hand, “Worry not, the city will be fine. My lord Prince Louis has already says he will keep an eye out for trouble, and the people will be fine with the professional guard gone. I have the utmost confidence the city will be fine while we go on campaign once again!” His eyes light up, a grin spreading on his face as he flourishes his wine glass,
“The English are going to regret sticking their fat noses into Iberia! That much I am sure of! Let us hope for a long and bloody campaign my friend! Let us hope for GLORY!” towards the last sentence, Yvon steps up on the table, wine flying from his glass.


Adam smirks “let us hope for Sobriety.”

*Royal Army encampment, Upper Rhine, Frankfurt crossing*

Henri had only recently joined the army formally, under the leadership of the Order of the Fleur-de-leys. He sat in the tent pouring over the recent documents the Royal courier had delivered that morning, for it was morning although it was gloomy and dark outside. Winter was here and the ground in the encampment varied from frozen solid areas to sticky-cold mud which even a horse would have difficulty negotiating.

Andreas, Henri’s former tutor and now constant companion and mentor worked hard behind him trying to breathe life into the small stove of the tent whilst readying a pan to make either a hot drink or hot food…when and if the stove co-operated of course! Henri cared neither way however and was intent on the letters and reports.

Andreas broke the silence.

“So, war starts finally against the English my Lord?”

Henri put down the documents and paused…of course, Andreas had read them already, he always did. He pinched the top of his nose and sighed, he was already tired this morning. Tired of the cold and inaction.

“Yes, though a formal declaration is still to be made but the war itself and a crusade against them is but a mere formality. Come on Andreas…has the war against the English ever really stopped?”

Andreas ignored the question, assuming it rhetorical.

“I hear you are not joining the rest of the Order when they ride West in the Spring. I must admit to being a little confused. I thought you keen for action.”

“And indeed I am but I am no fool also. A war and a crusade against the English changes everything, no longer is the nation and her lower nobility focused on the Germans and the West. They are happy to leave here and leave those they deem “lesser men” in charge…like myself.”

“So, the crusade leaves you with an army already? Fortune has favoured you my Lord”

“Oh cut the over formal nonsense Andreas…you know full well how this has come about.”

Henri pursed his fingers in a steeple and placed them to his lips, a smug look on his face before turning to regard Andreas…as expected Andreas had a wide beaming smile glaring back at Henri.

“Stop toying with me Andreas, we’ve been together to long for me to know that there is not much of my life, my intentions or indeed my supposed secret communications between my father and I, that does not escape you…me thinks your face is betraying you as well.”

Henri matched Andreas’ smile before continuing.

“Yes Andreas, of course this situation could not have turned out better even if we “had” known what my father was going to do. Now, is that pottage you have there or mulled wine? I declare that you are a most wise, honourable, loyal and skilled with a blade retainer but..truthfully, I fear your cooking will be the death of me and not the Germans.”

*Road East of Frankfurt – 1104*

The mercenary companies mixed freely in the evenings, eating, drinking, swapping stories and gossiping. Prince Henri rode past them and barely contained a sneer. He did not like “hired killers” like these, they were after all Germans, hired to kill their own brethren and it did not sit particularly well with him.

Two mercenaries stood by the fire and watched Henri ride past.

“So what do you think of this little Prince?”

They continued to watch Henri ride off into the dark towards his tent and the French trained companies.

“Hime not too sure as yet there. Honest truth is that he let them ‘ovr guys off the hook, just rode up to them and told them to leave. Not sure if them other lot would have done that.”

“Still, he’s driven us hard to get here. Rumour is that there’s a German army just down the road and quite a large one just Sou’East of here, bet we’ll have te do some fighting then huh?”

“Bah, you English never cease to annoy me eh? Wot you want eh? To get paid well but do no march’in and no fight’in? Well get it in do your head that we do wot we is told’er, he holds the coin so we follow heem huh.”

“Company life innit yea? I wonder if any of dem knobs realise what we’re thinkin or wantin.”

“Wot it matter to you eh English? If you die tomorrows, who cry for you eh? Not me that who. You fink too much English, me think that why you here an no at home wif a bed under ye back an a woman on your man huh?”

The English mercenary chucked to himself.

“Aye, be truth enough there cap’n. Still wonders where this little lad’ll take us huh?”

The German shook his head and sighed heavily before turning around and walking back to the fire muttering.

“Too much finking..bah..English finkers…”

The Englishman just stood there staring into the darkness where Prince Henri had gone…wondering…

Frankfurt to Steinbach-Hallenberg road – Winter 1105


“Andeas I have a tough choice ahead of me”

Henri and Andreas were in the command tent on the road just past Steinbach-Hallenberg, Henri sat at the camp table as usual dealing with the day to day documents running an army in the field required him to. They had passed the site of their previous battle a few days previously and now encamped awaiting a response from their request to Frankfurt for re-enforcements.

“What so my lord?” Andreas as was common now, was preparing something indescribable on the camp stove.

“Well, provided we get the expected spearmen from Frankfurt we are left with a significantly difficult road ahead of us. My scouts report at least one other large German army just outside Magdeburg and that the majority of the garrison from Hamberg has left to move West. If we march well we will still not reach Hamberg for another six months, besides its quite possible that the armies at Magdeburg may block our most direct route anyway. The other consideration I have is that we must besiege Hamberg and potentially for a season or more…it does not sit well with me to leave a large enemy army to my rear whilst we sit at a siege.”

“So, you defeat the German army at Magdeburg and then move on to Hamberg of course…but then you already know that, so what is the real problem my lord?”

Andreas looked at Henri, 18 years of age, in charge of an army and two difficult battles under his belt already…he looked older beyond his years.

“The problem I have is that when I defeat that army I would like to ransom them back. Save their lives as much as possible. IF, the ransom is accepted then what? I march on Hamberg with potentially still an enemy army behind me of those I released? Or siege and take Magdeburg which will be re-enforced by those same men? So…the other choice I have, in order to make sure the men under my command do not face the same forces twice, and potentially in a siege…is…well, that is the issue I am struggling with.”

It dawned on Andreas what his lord was dealing with…his conscience. To release the prisoners was the honourable and chivalric thing to do, but in doing so, he would significantly endanger his own men’s lives and potentially jeopardise the entire aims of his campaign.

He thought hard before answering

“My lord. You are a Prince of France, that you struggle with the choice ahead of you is display enough that you are both honourable and caring for those whom you command. I will remind you that you are not alone in this matter, although they are far away there are others you can turn to for council.”

“Fetch me some paper and a quill will you? I have an idea to buy some time.”

“What have you planned my lord?”

“We do neither action! I truly believe the spearmen from Frankfurt will be released to us, they will have already have marched a significant journey which means they will not be able to march much further. I am sending another letter to Frankfurt to urge that the spearmen be sent North and await our column marching West. We will meet them there and release a company of crossbowmen as was agreed to march back to Frankfurt. We will continue to follow the road thereafter West and then North West. From this more Northerly position…”

Henri stood, rummaged through the maps on the table and swiftly pointed to an area on one of them showing North East Europe to Andreas who watch on.

“…here, once we reach this point we will be able to strike due-East again more directly to Hamberg. We avoid the German armies, assuming they do not take the offensive. Ideally, they will follow us….away from Frankfurt and we will seize Hamberg castle before they reach us. We will then meet them in the field, defeat them, and THEN move South East, unopposed on Magdeburg. Edicts dictate that Hamberg will be pre-ratified and we will be able to raise more troops…God willing…before the main German armies converge on us. It’s a gamble but in our present strength, even with another company of spears we will be sorely pushed to take both Hamberg and Magdeburg AND defeat a large field army.”

“IF, your father agrees that is my lord.”

Henri looked disgruntled at this.

“Hmmm..my father. Ultimately, yes, but practically…I am in command but I will go where my Country needs me most. At least if we march North West we will not only buy time for the situation to develop more but also for our own forces to address themselves again.”

With that Andreas nodded. He’d never really commanded more than a company of men back on his fathers Italian estates so the concept of armies moving, vying for position on a continental scope was beyond him. He looked at the maps and understood it to a certain extent and realised the boy always was good at chess. His brother often commented on the sharpness of Henri’s mind, his swiftness of thought and he was seeing that in action now.

Henri returned to his letters and maps whilst Andreas thought, both of them were interrupted by the entrance of a messenger.

“My Lord…*pant*…message from Frankfurt.” The messenger was out of breath and clearly fresh from the road.

Andreas took the message and started to unfurl it for Henri

“Thank you, please ask the guards to find you some refreshment and wait outside.”

The messenger bowed slightly to both men, Henri halted him.

“Hold there friend…here!” he tossed him a silver florin which the messenger caught “Be sure to wait nearby but tend to your horse first.”

With that the messenger bowed again and left.

“Here” Andreas passed the open missive to Henri and he began to read

“Hmmmm…that may cause a problem” the Prince looked a little worried “It would appear that the garrison troops released from Hamberg have marched exactly due West and now immediately threaten to besiege Antwerp but in better news Frankfurts spears await us along the road.”

Henri thought for a moment and sighed

“No. This doesn’t change our immediate plans. It may mean we must march West to relieve Antwerp if others cannot be mustered to do so. Andreas?”

“Yes my lord?”

“Do you ever get the feeling we’re fighting fires during a thunderstorm? We may find ourselves facing a German army outside Antwerp only to dash back to face another near Hamberg or even Frankfurt and then to rush North for Hamberg castle all the while fighting the Kaisers men along the way.”

Andreas chuckled “Indeed it does, and there you were a few months ago complaining of inaction!”

Henri smiled “Tis so…and as such we shall not complain my friend! Rouse the army. We MARCH!”

Beatrix entered the quarters issued to her in the travel inn. The inn itself was well appointed being along the main routes to Frankfurt, Antwerp, Hamburg and other places if significance, trade and travel being frequent and the Royal household having paid for finer lodgings…as befitting a prospective bride for a Prince.

Prince Henri himself however, was absent when she arrived. Being well trained in the ways of court she took no slight in the matter as she had been well aware that the young Prince was still actively campaigning. She sighed to herself, she was young…only just 16…and had been told of the virtues of the young Prince’s earlier life but the reality was far closer to his boorish elder brother Louis, who’s own reputation was well known within the court. She had no impulsion to be “tethered” to such a man, young as he was, whilst more noble suitors might be found but her father was determined to ally himself with the Royal line and it was her duty to father and greater France perhaps.

So she waited in the well appointed surroundings for her fateful meeting with the man who, her father hoped, would be her husband.

Day’s passed with no messages or sign of the Royal and Beatrix started to resign herself to the fact that this man was just like Louis…a womaniser, warrior…aggressive and without tact! Not even the kindness to send any message to her as she waited.

On the fifth day, a messenger arrived. A retainer of Prince Henri announced as Andreas, who came fresh from the road to meet with her. Beatrix was ushered into a private room with two of her ladies to await the man.

Andreas entered soon after, he had clearly not bathed since his arrival or even changed clothing! Such a show was unfitting Beatrix felt for a first meeting but the man before her bowed deeply and announced his honourable intent before being asked to proceed.

Beatrix, demure and composed bid him to proceed “You may announce yourself and your intent Sir”

“Thank you m’lady” Andreas’ accent was lilting and awkward, his hair almost white in places, his face still grubby from the road but there was a youthful light behind his eyes “It is my honour to be his Royal Highness Prince Henri’s Retainer, he brings you news that he is still held outside Hamburg awaiting the Germans surrender. He has bidden me to ride to you and consult directly on his behalf.”

Again, Andreas bowed deeply and awaited composed for Beatrix to respond.

“Sir, you may address me more formally as The Lady Beatrix Capet and I must admit that I am not only shocked and upset by the Princes continued absence but also the..frankly…beshevelled appearance of his supposed favoured retainer!”

Andreas regarded Beatrix. She was small and slight of build, clearly only just what could be considered a woman. Beatrix for her part had said her piece and sat regally before him more intent on un-ruffling creases in her dress than actually holding a conversation with him.

“That is so The Lady Beatrix Capet, but the Prince is at the behest of his most noble enemy the Germans. If they saw fit to surrender before him instead of plying the folly of trying to actually fight him, well, I am certain the Prince would be here in person and much more appropriately attired than myself.”

The heavy sarcasm was completely lost on Beatrix.

“That is indeed so, well, perhaps he should impart my impatience and indignation to the people of Hamburg directly and make it known that a lady of good breeding is being kept waiting in a hovel due to their stubbornness!”

Andreas smiled a little “Why certainly Lady Beatrix Capet, I will make sure I pass the Prince a true level of your..erm..discomfort and anger so that he may impart such to the Germans personally. I am sure he will use your indignation to fuel his anger at them.”

“Indeed, and you will do this for me now Sir. Please ensure the Prince knows of me and my dire situation immediately.”

Clearly Beatrix had ended her conversation, such as it was, as she rose, nodded to Andreas before Imperiously leaving the room.


Prince Henri walked out of the Inn via the back door immediately making for the stables. Locating the nearest watering trough he dunked his head directly in to wash the chalk from his hair and the grim from his face. The icy waters seemed to slap him in the face but in truth he needed the cold shock to calm his temper down.

He was not known to have a temper of any sort, even in battle, but that child…for she was too petulant to be considered a woman…raised an anger within him he hadn’t known before.

Andreas stood nearby holding both horses.

“So my lord, how does she sit with you?”

“Not well Andreas, not well at all. She sets herself higher than even the status of the whole land, she does not please me, fair of face though she may be there is no inner core…no soul that I would like to be in company of that is certain.”

“Very well my lord, I shall inform her family to expect her back home shortly then?”

“Indeed you may Andreas for I would not be as complementary as you would be in such a letter.”

With that Henri and Andreas re-joined their bodyguard outside the Inn and rode back towards Hamburg.

Paris 1113

The mansion was packed with people for the social event of the season. Gauthier de Beauvis was one of the younger members in the crowd intermingling with the aristocratic guest. He was a very unique individual his origins blurred but had been raised an aristocrat with schooling in Rome and Paris. He had recently completed his military training and was ready to join the Chevalier of France. What made de Beauvis unique were his features, he was an individual who was asked if he hailed from a particular region or was he the father or brother of a noble because of the striking resemblance to members of the nobility. No one knew and he always replied that he was not but never explained where he came from……

“There he is by the window from here I would say he looks like the King Philip in his younger days.” whispered the man. His partner looked over and acknowledged his remark but disagreeing.
“No I don’t think so to me from up close I say he reminds me of the late Duke de Champagne god rest his soul.” then quickly downing the goblet of wine before pouring himself some more. The third quickly interjected on the gossip of the young nobles origins.
“Mmmm, could be Henri my friend, but from what I heard he was a bastard son of a high ranking clergy member, possible the Pope himself. He did spend a lot of his early childhood in Rome.” The other two looked at their friend with astonishment of the mentioning of the B word and fearing the young noble would hear them gossiping about him.“Oh come on you two! Stop with the antics! He is a fine man and if he had a legitimate father, that man surly would be speaking up and proudly announcing his son to the world. There is no one but a wealthy benefactor. The young man has been well looked after.”

The other two men agreed with their friend and then strategically moved about the crowd to participate in more gossip with the many guest.

Paris, 1114

A hulk of a man sat silently in the corner of the dark and dingy inn, silently grumbling about his lot in life.

He had everything – strength in both mind and body, faith in his heart, and perhaps most importantly, his dashing good looks which sent many a fair maiden falling to the ground. His family was wealthy enough to support their favoured son and a small retinue of retainers on campaign for one of the nobles of the Realm, and with luck, he probably would have risen to the very top, becoming one of the great Dukes that rules the ever expanding Kingdom.

All of that would have happened had that pig-headed excuse of an older brother not been born three years earlier than Villain.

Thanks to him, Villain is now reduced to being merely a landless slave to his father, managing their estates whilst his irksome brother sent back daily reports of his glorious conquests, if guarding some snotty noble could be counted as ‘glorious’ and seducing illiterate barmaids counts as ‘conquests’.

Villain hated this. To drown his sorrows, he has taken to frequenting this shabby tavern on the outskirt of Paris, hoping that the drinks would somehow mollify his indignation.

He was so engrossed in the details of downing his third bottle that he didn’t notice a messenger wearing the livery of Villain’s father entering the drinking house. The messenger walked delicately through tavern, as though touching any of its patrons would somehow contaminate him with some sort of disease. ‘In God’s name! How can the son of Lord de la Salle sit in this place… let alone eat and drink!?!’ thought the messenger as he gingerly approached Villain.

“My lord?” The messenger asked cautiously, hoping that Villain de la Salle is at least somewhat sober.

Villain glanced at the messenger; no doubt his father has more tasks regarding the state of their farmlands to bestow upon his son. Rather than giving the messenger a reply, he merely nodded.

“I bear grave news, Sire. Your brother… Théophile… is dead.”

That shook Villain out of his reverie, he stood up, suddenly alert to the fact that this could be his chance to escape his mundane duties. “What… how… what happened to him?”

“Sir Théophile followed his commander, a Bertin de Montsault, into battle against the vile Germans. Unfortunately, no man escaped the skirmish to tell the tale. As such, you are now the heir to the de la Salle fortune. Your father commands you to ret-”

A feral grin came over Villain’s face. With his older brother dead, a large amount of the family fortune is freed up that could be diverted to another use instead – Villain’s advancement as a Chevalier of France.

He quickly left the shabby building before the messenger could finish and climbed up on the messenger’s horse, before riding full speed towards the family manor. In his giddy imagination, he thought of battle and glory, of women and gold, but most importantly – power, pure unadulterated power over his subjects.

They would all be mine…

Forests South West of Hamburg – 1114, winter

Henri sat astride his horse as the army marched through the forest, Andreas beside him, they were all tired, all dirty…all running away


Andreas, do you have the latest reports?

Andreas rummaged in a bag, and withdrew some parchments before replying

Aye my lord…he began to read whilst they rode on…seems the Germans are at our heels but we have outpaced them sufficiently but it is still a matter of a dozen miles between us and it is by no means certain we will reach Frankfurt before being overtaken.

Henri looked pensive

That…is not…good news Andreas…Henri abruptly smiled at Andreas though…still the Duc of Lorraine awaits us in Frankfurt and re-enforcements are on their way East also, we will prevail Andreas..take heart.

Andreas smiled also but it was much more weakly and there clearly wasn’t too much belief in his eyes…he continued to read

Ah…reports on a few Chevaliers who have made themselves known in court..

Andreas handed them to Henri who read them

Hmm…he threw one to the ground off hand…ok…another went into the mud on the road as he muttered to himself…ahh…now this man interests me Andreas…he passed the parchment back to Andreas

Him? This man my lord? But why, he appears quite ignoble by all accounts…almost brutish…what interests you of this man?

HAVE YOU NOT SEEN THE ARMY BEHIND US?!? Henri alarmed himself with his volume and animation but looking at the hollow eyes of his tired men around him he bent in closer to Andreas before continuing in low tones

…that army behind us Andreas could destroy all of Lorraine, such troops we have not faced before or even seen their quality..ever…what interests me of this man is the same essence that abhors me about him. He is ignoble, perhaps even a brute but we will have ignoble work ahead of us and I am a Prince of the Realm not to mention the Captain of a Noble Order of Chivalry.

Andreas started to realised what Henri was suggesting and paled

No my lord, what are you suggesting?

Andreas, faithful servant and guardian, you have taught me well the ways of Chivalry, of honour but you also told me that often not such high ideals have no place on a battlefield. When..and I mean…when, we defeat that Satan spawned army behind us…we must think hard on what to do and it is a man like this I will turn to, to ensure our ultimate victory.

Andreas couldn’t quite believe the young man in front of him and what he was intimating, what had become of Henri?

The Channel, 1114:

Simon let himself be soothed by the gentle rocking of the boat as the last remnants of land sank into the grey mist that had formed. The air was so humid that the hair clung wetly to Simons scalp. His face was set in a permanent scowl. He couldn't help but remember how he had felt when he had first seen the steep shores of Southern England.

It was pride that had filled him, pride and zeal. Feelings of a younger man it now seemed to him. He had been full of purpose. The discussions in the Magnaura had been tedious but finally his ambitions, the ambitions of the Order had been cast into legislation that had been passed by the Counseil. They were to ride at the head of an army to show William the might of Christendom! It would have been a grand show of Chivalry and Faith and France's soldiers at the front. The Order among them, led by their King to bring justice and freedom to the English! He fondly remembered the eagerness with which his Brother Knights had joined him, even those that had never ridden with the Order before. So much had gone wrong since then.

They had traveled further and further north, without word from the Papacy. How could they have recieved any when no request was ever sent? It seemed all had turned against them. The Moors in the South, the Germans in the East, suddenly France seemed surrounded by heretics. And their King. He had conquered one settlement after the other with them and then gone off alone to face William by himself. No judgement, no justice, no Crusade. The King had lied to them, and even in his head Simon knew that those words were treason and that he would rightfully die should he ever speak them aloud.

From that moment on he had only wanted to leave Albion. But of course it hadn't been that easy. The English had finally found their will to fight, after leaving their settlements abandoned they had gathered a large force. It had been a good battle, but it had cost dearly. Robert Bouchart dead. Dead while conquering a land he didn't want. Dead while following the empty promises of his Captain.

Simon knew that he could never forgive himself for this. With a last sigh he turned away from the graying mist, turned away from that cursed Isle that he never wanted to see again!

1107 Anjou, near Angers

Elias Stood watching the soldiers swarm across the town. They were frantic, everyone had heard that the French were moving on Angers. And everyone also knew there was nothing the English could do to stop it. Geoffrey was finished, and in that thought his brother took great pleasure. When the French soldiers swept on this place and disposed of his him almost decided to stay behind, even to just see his brother’s expression. He was sure it would be delicious.

However, even hate for his brother did not overwhelm Elias’s wish for self preservation. He would still be considered a nobleman of England, and whether or not he was killed mattered far less to him then keeping his wealth and at least some stripe of Nobility. Frankly he was quite put off by the whole distinction between French and English. As long as you had the land and the gold to back your opinion up then your culture mattered very little. But…. Tensions ran far to high between the two for that to ever catch on. So Elias had made his choice, and he did not consider it the cowards way out. He was going to get out of this little piece of hell with everything he could carry, and start over. He already had the fake papers identifying him as a lesser noble of France. He sincerely hoped that would be good enough. But even if that failed, he was not too adverse to letting on his true heritage. His lineage was a good one, And he hoped the fact they had been toiling under the English would not diminish that. His father had been a good enough Duke. But Elias could not rely on that. And so he had to leave.


He turned back to his horse, and to all the gold it carried. He motioned forward to the servant he had brought with him. The man stepped forward hesitantly, he had the same hair as Elias, and similar face. Just what he needed.

The dagger came up and slit the mans throat, and Elias kept his arm pumping forward, slashing the servants face again and again until it was a mangled wreck. Elias switched cloths with the man, and put a heavy purse and his jewelry on him as well. Hopefully it was good enough.

He saddled his horse and rode south. As he did so he thought, what was he going to call himself? Micheal D’Anjou.... Yes, he liked the irony of that. Well, he may as well start his new life as a Frenchman.



(so Rushed.... I need to put aside more time for this.... :thumbsdown:)

The weight of a Crown

English Coast, near Dover, 1114

The ship sailed away from the coast under full sails, rising and falling in the heavy seas. Wind lashed at the lonely figure of a man standing on the white chalk cliff overlooking the battering sea.

Philippe had wanted to say goodbye to Brother de Montpierre but had not found enough courage to face the man. When he could face odds some would deem insurmountable on the battlefield, he couldn’t stand the gaze of a man who thought he had been betrayed.

Was he wrong to think so ? Philippe thought not, however hurtful those thoughts were.

In his heart, the King knew he had betrayed the trust of these men who had followed him to these wretched isles. But in the depth of his heart, Philippe knew that he had been led to act like this… Had he not advocated for many years a truce or even an alliance with England? Had he not pushed for the return of English holdings in France to be made peacefully? Had those same nobles who now called for England to be given back to its people called in the past for English blood at any cost ?

Philippe felt he had been lured by the siren’ calls of those nobles, had failed to see the traps in their advice… Now with the departure of de Montpierre, he felt lonelier than he had ever felt before… Even more than after the death of Bertrade, his queen… The crown felt heavier by the day on his head…He had wanted peace more than anything in this life but had been a warrior king, deemed by some one of the fiercest of his time… And what did have as a reward for his life ? A mangled face under a leather mask and a lonely life in these barren lands with nothing but still more fights ahead of him…

Philippe wished Godspeed to the ship sailing towards his country, to carry safely back to France the knight it carried.

A single tear ran down the leathery surface of the mask, dropping down to the heaving sea, its salt mingling with that of the sea.

After a last look to the ship disappearing in the Channel fog, Philippe turned and walked back to his horse.

On the walls of Frankfurt

Summer, 1116

On the walls of Frankfurt, three men stood looking over the army of the Holy Roman Empire under the command of one Captain Oskar Jonas. The besieging army kept a respectable distance from the walls, staying well out of range of any archers that might try to engage them. It was also clear what the intentions were of this veteran army, the battering ram, ladder and siege towers being assembled in full view.

Thomas spoke to Baron Vaux. "You can see that becoming a lord of Lorraine creates all sorts of opportunities to meet new people who wish to create the greatest trouble for you.
But it will be nothing compared to the trouble we shall make for them. The insolence, to lay siege to a city so well defended!"

Just then, three men could be seen making their way past the siege equipment, and walking steadily towards the front gate. As they came closer, it was apparent that two of the men were soldiers in the employ of the empire, but the third in civilian attire was not.

"Strange that one in the middle does not appear to be German at all", noted Henri.

These men continued to approach until they were within range of any skilled archer when one of the men began waving a white cloth.

"Now what shall we make of this, surely all these Germans did not march all the way here to surrender", Andre mused.

Twenty yards or so from the front gate, Thomas shouted down. "That is far enough, gentlemen. What is your business here?"

"You are Prinz Heinrich?"

"No, I am Thomas, Duc of Lorraine."

"We wish to speak to your master, Prinz Heinrich."

"His name is Henri, and I am afraid you have it backwards. I am the master of Frankfurt and of all Lorraine."

The German in charge was clearly confused. He spoke to his compatriot who seemed to no better comprehend the situation. "Nein, nein. Thomas ist der Prinz nicht. Moment."

"I am Dieter. Mein Captain, the honorable Oskar Jonas, wishes to know if the Prinz Heinrich, ja?…will surrender Frankfurt and his forces to him. If so, his men will be treated with the most respect."

Henri was becoming amused as the conversation was clearly irritating Thomas now.

Andre showed little patience. "Shall I order the archers to kill them, mon Duc?"

"No, but if all of them are this confused, this might be easier than we thought."

"I will not surrender the city nor any man within its walls." Retorted Thomas.

"Nein, auslander schwein. You must tell Prinz Heinrich- Henri? Henri, ja. You must tell him that the honorable Captain Oskar Jonas will guarantee safe passage for himself and his nobles if he will lay down his arms."

"Prince Henri is my vassal and as Duc of Lorraine I can assure you neither of us will lay down our arms."

"Was? You are Duke? That is rank subordinate to a Prinz, how can one of such position be your vassal? That is unbelievable. Unbelievable nonsense! No wonder you are losing this war", Dieter scoffed.

"Well in the land of the Franks we do things differently." Thomas called down, and then Andre taunted “And if we’re losing the war, then explain why Frankfurt, Bern and Stauffen are in the hands of our people and not yours!”

A temporary setback, and one that we will soon rectify! Shouted Dieter as his frustration grew. With that the German pushed the man who did not appear to be one of them forward.

"Diese mann… we capture him trying to ride to your city with a message. The honorable Captain Oskar Jonas gives him to you as a sign of our intentions to be lenient with your men if the Prinz…or you…whichever one of you is in command of this place…capitulates. But be warned, we will not wait long for your answer!"

With that, the two Germans trudged back to their lines, Dieter saying something in German about stupid Franks and tossing the white cloth to the ground in disgust. Meanwhile, the stranger quickly made his way for the gate and was then let in. Thomas, Andre, and Henri quickly made their way down to meet the man.

"Thank you Duc of Lorraine, I thought they were going to kill me, but apparently thought better of it when they came to realize I was no one of importance. I am Louis Vertin, and I bear a message from the House of Capet to his highness, Prince Henri." Louis pulled a piece of rolled parchment from a small sack he carried and handed it to Henri. He carefully read the message.

"What is it?", Andre asked. "Is the King sending more men to aid us?"

Henri replied belatedly, "No, this is to inform me that my brother Charles has received an offer of adoption and his credentials are listed. I have been asked if I have an opinion on the matter.."

With that, Thomas and Andre roared with laughter. "You should suggest the offer be rejected, for if I was not good enough to be adopted into the Royal family, no one is." Thomas jabbed.

"Seigneur Vertin, you poor soul. You risked your life to deliver a message like that. What are they thinking back in Paris? Mon Dieu!"

Henri then replied, "Do not be jealous, Mon Duc, you must just hope for better luck next time, yes?. In any case, I will deal with this matter after the “honorable Captain Jonas” and his friends are driven far from the walls of this city."

"Indeed" chucked Thomas. His tone and mood then turned serious. "And that hour is fast approaching."

The funeral procession passed through the centre of Frankfurt in the early evening. It was soon after the battle, Prince Henri, distraught with the death of Thomas had insisted the proper blessings had been observed immediately after the battle and now in the evening he allowed no period of mourning.

“Thomas wouldn’t have wanted that” he’d said simply when asked.

They stood, the survivors, still in the armour they had worn in the battle. Still bloodied, still dirty. None had felt the need to eat, for none had felt hungry, none had felt the need to wash or change, for to wash the dirt of battle had seemed false to the Duc’s memory. They wore the colours of the battle that had claimed their Duke proudly, as the coffin was slowly interred into the ground.

The sunny day turned and it started to rain.

When it had all ended one of them stood alone. He had not spoken at the funeral for he could not find the words. The rain washed some of the grime from his armour and matted his hair. He felt…cold, but not just because of the rain, it was a coldness of the soul, a coldness brought by the knowledge that someone you’d known and had been close to for several years, someone who’d shown you kindness, would not be there again in the morning. Had gone forever.

Henri stepped forward and knelt at the freshly dug grave and drove one hand into the soil. He lifted the mud in his hand and crushed it tight to his chest, the wetted sod slowly slid down back to the ground but Henri didn’t notice. He looked up at the rain sheeting down and felt it a fitting tribute from God for such a vile day. He smelt fresh urine and realised he also heard a light clattering noise behind him…he looked round…before him was a small boy. The gravediggers son, at least one of them, not more than 9 or 10 years old…he stood as Henri did beside the grave…wet and shivering in the cold.

“Wh…why are you still here lad?” Henri’s voice was full of kindness. He had no anger left in him, only a hollow.

“M…m….my f-f-father said I had to wait here until everyone had left” The boy was clearly distressed, had even urinated himself, but had not seen fit to disturb Henri during these hours of private mourning.

“You have done your duty above and beyond lad, there is no need for you to suffer now” then privately and quietly to himself “time will come to us all to suffer enough.”

Henri reached into his coin bag and handed the boy some coins. The boy’s eyes widened.

“Take these and return home, give one to your mother…if you have one…and one to your father. Tell them Prince Henri of France has released you from your duty this night. Warm thyself well and keep the other for thyself to make sure you have a full belly tomorrow.”

With that the shivering waif nodded and ran into the darkness.

Henri checked his coin bag again absentmindedly and realised he’d most likely given the boy more coin than his father earned in a year…he smiled to himself…perhaps Thomas still lived in some way.

A firm hand landed on Henri’s shoulder and he turned. It was Duncan…the tall, lanky, birdlike man had once been known simply as “English” in the mercenary spear company but that changed one day in the German forests when he’d come to Henri’s aid. He had been promoted to Henri’s bodyguard as soon as it had been found out he had riding experience and now he had adapted well and been proven in battle at the side of Henri and Andreas.

“Time to leave my lord…come” Duncan beckoned Henri to follow him with a nod

“Where is Andreas?” It was a well founded question, Andreas had been Henri’s loyal retainer for more years than he remembered at the moment.

“He is seeing to the army and has already sent a letter announcing the Dukes death to Paris”

“oh…” Henri seemed weak

“My lord,, time for you to return to Paris eh? You now have more duties to do.”

Henri simply nodded and accepted Duncan’s friendly arm to aid him as they walked away.

**Several hours before**

“My Prince! My Prince…the Duc has fallen, the Duc is unhorsed!!”

Henri and his bodyguard had just extracted themselves from combat with some German Knights, crossbow bolts continued to whiz pass them as they galloped away.

“What was that, what did he say?” Henri turned in his saddle to seek out the man who’d just shouted as Andreas caught up with him.

“They have no regard for their own men my lord, they loose crossbows into us even as we fight with their Knights on horseback!”

“I know, I know…who said THAT…has any of you seen the Duc?”

“My lord! My lord!” Duncan galloped to join Henri. “The Duke has fallen my Lord” Duncan addressed his horse beside Henri, panting “The Duke has fallen, crossbows have claimed him my lord, I saw him fall”

Henri did not visibly react to the news, he pulled down his visor, raised his sword and shouted…“CHARGE!” The troop committed to battle again.

****************************************************************************


“We have found him my lord” Andreas reigned in his horse beside Henri’s. Henri sat astride his own surveying the some 400 prisoners they had captured. André des Vaux’s own men guarded them and André himself was interrogating captains.

Henri blanched at the news but followed Andreas as they rode back into the centre of the field. Thomas’ bodyguard had all dismounted and stood in vigil at the point where Andreas was headed. As they drew closer Henri could no longer contain himself and leaping from his still moving horse let out a cry of pure pain and anguish as he ran to the centre of the troop.

He fell to his knees at the body, and clawed at it. Several bolts protruded from Thomas’ chest plate, his helmet had been removed by his bodyguard and lay upright beside the prone form.

Henri cried. This was not meant to be, this was not Henri’s battle and should not have been Henri’s glory to have…alone...this day should belong to the young Duc, not him.

Soon strong arms dragged Henri upright.

“Where are they!” Henri’s voice was corse and filled with pain “Where are these men who would shoot down someone so noble with such a vile contraption!?!”

Duncan tentatively spoke “The crossbow captain is being spoken to by André des Vaux my lord”

Henri did not pause, Andreas and Duncan struggled to keep up with him as he ran across the field to André. André looked up as he heard Henri get closer…what he saw made the large man baulk and stumble…such pure anger and vengeance was in Henri’s face. Henri crashed into the German soldier whom André had been talking to sending him sprawling.

Henri pointed at the fallen man “André! Is this the captain of the crossbowmen? Is THIS that man?”

André composed himself rapidly, realising the target of Henri was not himself. He had done no wrong but he was Henri’s vassal.

“Yes, yes my Lord. This is the last one alive.”

Henri spun on the man lying on the ground. “Get up! Get up you cur and arm yourself!”

The German lay there for a moment, one of André’s men translated. The German looked as if he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“Geeettt! UP!” Henri reached down and dragged the man upright even though he was clearly a larger man. Henri pushed him away, reached round and grabbed André’s sword…he threw it on the ground before the German.

“Arm yourself! Die now like a man or later hanging by your giblets on the road to Hamburg! I swear now to God, that I will CRUCIFY you if you do not pick up that sword!”

This also was translated whilst Henri glared.
The German made a lunge for the sword and brought it up quickly, Henri didn’t draw his own immediately but relied on his armour as he brought a vambrace up to deflect the blow before shoving the German back a pace. Whilst he stumbled Henri drew his sword, spun and sliced open the Germans chest in one fluid motion. The German paused, the nerves in his hands went dead and he dropped André’s sword before falling to his knees and collapsing in a heap.

Henri did not appear sated and raised his sword again. He was pounced upon from behind by Duncan, Andreas and André…the latter removing Henri’s sword from his grasp and handing it to one of Henri’s bodyguard. Duncan and Andreas forcibly dragged Henri from the battlefield.

Henri roared with rage and hatred and sorrow as he was taken away from the waiting prisoners.

André turned to the assembled captives.

“See that man! He is Henri, Prince of France. Fear him! For he has forsaken all articles of war this day for you have slain a great friend of his. The next one amongst you who fails to answer my questions with truth under God! I will personally turn over to him!”

André had no difficulty with the prisoners after that moment.

Andreas returned to André later.

“How is he?” André was concerned, he had not seen or heard of Henri since early that day and the incident with the prisoner.

“He is…inconsolable. He has insisted the Duc’s funeral is today and has personally seen to organising it.”

“What of the prisoners then?” André was a big man, and did not shirk from duty.

“The Prince is…not himself. Ransom them back, I will take full responsibility…he would have all of them killed but he would condemn his soul and take a lifetime of penance when this grief left him.”

André nodded, this was true. The Prince was known as a chivalric man, a man of honour…he was certainly not himself and could not be trusted with this choice.

This is a co-op story with shlin28

“You should have killed them.” The first rider said, as their motley little group traversed the muddy road of Franconia.

“And disobey the Prince’s lapdog? I think not.” The smaller of the two retorted. 'Not publicly at least' he thought.

“They killed the Duc. Is that not enough of a reason?”

The other rider spat on the ground. “Don’t talk to me about what is right or wrong; I’ve heard tales of your… exploits, Villain. You would have killed the prisoners just to see how many you can kill before your arms tire.” muttered André.

The larger man chuckled quietly. “I suspect you would have let them go anyway, you hardly seem the type to butcher men in cold blood.” Villain smiled coldly at his comrade. “If it’s not the matter of the prisoners or the death of the Duc troubling you, what is?”

André glanced to the front of the column, where the Prince was riding, alone except for his two bodyguards. Prince Henri had not spoken to either of them after they set off on the journey to Paris.

“The Prince?” Villain asked, rather relieved that hours of listening to his companion had finally yielded something interesting.

“Who else… He was the commander of our army in Frankfurt, it was under his command that our Duc charged into the path of the crossbow bolts, and now, the Prince will most likely become the new Duc. Rather coincidental, don’t you think?”

“You are suggesting that the death was planned?” Villain asked matter-of-factly; he was hardly surprised, the same thought has occurred to him even before the last of the enemies were routed.

André sighed "I don't know, I am going to talk to some of the men at the battle, I need to know what happened in more detail. He is a Prince anyway, what could we do even if he did plan it?"

Antwerp 1117

Dear Gauthier,
I see you have arrived safely in the city and that you are making progress by joining the Order and assigned to fight with Prince Henri. You know either Prince Henri or Louis would be good men as comrades in arms. Germans or Moors it is all the same to us. You have made quite an impression in Paris; the ladies are still talking about you and some men are willing patrons to assist you in defending France from our enemies. You are making us proud!

You are still quite young and have been giving a great responsibility. I think it was a wise move of you to return to the city and assist in the defenses. There will be plenty of time for campaigning and fighting in fields and enemy lands.

When you have time there is someone I want you to meet. I am making the arrangements to send them your way but it is difficult to secure transportation. It may have information that could enlighten you an

.......Gauthier crumbled the paper having read it over several times but not getting any further information. He tossed the letter into the roaring fire and pondered when his guest would arrive. He was tired from the journey and it was good to be a comfortable setting of a bed and hot food. He enjoyed the camaraderie of his peers on the campaign but was tiring of the food and tent accommodations. Antwerp provided a change of pace with good drink and soft company.
There was a light knock at the door. Thinking of such he went to open the door. His mind tonight was not on siege defenses that can wait till tomorrow. There were better softer thoughts for tonight.

“Good Evening and welcome ladies!” as Gauthier mockingly bowed before them …………………….