Stories Thread

[Zim]

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.

[econ21]

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.

[GeneralHankerchief]

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.

[deguerra]

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.

[ULC]

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.

[OverKnight]

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."

[AussieGiant]

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.

[TinCow]

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.

[woad&fangs]

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.

[Rowan]

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.

[KnightnDay]

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."

[Rowan]

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...

[Ituralde]

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!

[TheFlax]

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.

[AussieGiant]

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."

[econ21]

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!”

[Cecil XIX]

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...

[TheFlax]

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"

[Ignoramus]

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.

[Ituralde]

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.

[Andres]

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?"

[TinCow]

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.

[KnightnDay]

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..."

[Ignoramus]

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."

[Ibn-Khaldun]

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.

[Cultured Drizzt fan]

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"

[Cecil XIX]

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?

[Cecil XIX]

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!

[Ignoramus]

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

Certainly, my Duc! It will be an honour.

[AussieGiant]

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!!"