Stories Thread

[GeneralHankerchief]

Paris, 1081

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Co-op between myself and TheFlax.

[TinCow]

1070 AD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christophe stared blankly at him, then nodded.

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

The boy nodded again.

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

[ULC]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another round perchance?”

Hermant bowed in thanks and readied himself again for combat.

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

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

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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

[econ21]

An Audience with the King, Paris 1081


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

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

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

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

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

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

The King looked on, inscrutable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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

[Cecil XIX]

Paris, just outside of the first Conceil

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

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

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

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

Raymond smiled at the Duke's greeting.

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

Bowing his head slightly at the compliment Alain replies:

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed and good luck to your Duchy."

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Coop story with AussieGiant

[ULC]

Outside Bruges, 1081

Lessons in Humility

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gaetan listens intently to King Philippes words.

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

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

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

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

Philippe seemed hardly mollified by Gaetan' s reply.

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

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

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

Send your orders and have your men join my camp.

You're dismissed."

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

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

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Co-Op done with Tristan over the debacle

[_Tristan_]

Co-op between Tristan and Ignoramus

Bruges - 1081

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Merci, mon Roi." replied Gaspard gratefully.

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

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

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

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

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

Shaking his head, Gaspard fingered his sword.

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

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

Looking shocked, Gaspard stared at Philippe.

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

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

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

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

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

[Cultured Drizzt fan]

Horrible Timing:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[woad&fangs]

Metz, 1084

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_Tristan_]

Bruges, 1083

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Granted.”

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

“Granted.”

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

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

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

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

[Ramses II CP]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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

On Campaign

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

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

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

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

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

While waiting Louis' thoughts turned to his sworn vassals,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aloud he said,

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

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

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

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

[TinCow]

1078 AD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gervais de Perronne?” asked Christophe.

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

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

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

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

[TheFlax]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Coop with AussieGiant

1083, Paris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Truly? Then I apologize, mon Duc."

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

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

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

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

Snorting his response, he tried to compose himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With that he dropped his guard.

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

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

His guard remained down.

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

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

Taking her shoulder he scanned her body for injury.

"Where does it hurt Highness?"

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

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

Looking up at her he held her gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[TheFlax]

Somewhere in the Alps, 1087

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, lucky."

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

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

Constance nodded and kept a blank visage.

"That is... correct."

He gave her a hearty smile before motioning her closer.

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

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

[Ramses II CP]

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

The Prince shouts across the table,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[TheFlax]

Rome, 1087

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

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

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

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

“Highness?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“After a fashion.”

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

“What does that mean?”

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

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

[econ21]

Byzantine intrigues.


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

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

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

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

They walked silently into the tavern and looked around.

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

Gaeten raised an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

Gaeten showed no reaction.

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

Gaeten did not respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hermant paused for dramatic effect. “Constantinople.”

Gaeten looked at Hermant incredulously.

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

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

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

“What do you say, Gaeten?”

“No.”

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

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

“No.”

Hermant raised his head to heaven and exclaimed.

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

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

“Look, old friend, you really don’t have a choice. I am sorry, but it is for your own good.”

Hermant ostentatiously waved a large hankerchief in the air. Moments later, four sergeants of the Order entered the tavern. They approached the two drinking knights. Somewhat sluggishly, Gaeten looked up and tried to stand. The effort was too much and he slouched back onto his chair. Hermant came over to him and whispered conspiratorially in his ear:

“I am sorry, old friend, I spiked your ale. When you wake up, you’ll be on an English ship bound for Constantinople. You must never come back. They won’t understand your leaving and will kill you on sight if you return. I am sorry, it’s for the best. Take care, old friend, and may God go with you.”

Gaeten’s eyes closed and the four sergeants lifted him out of the chair.

Awkwardly, but with an air of finality, Hermant touched his brother knight on the shoulder.

“God go with you.”

[GeneralHankerchief]

The Imperial Border, 1092

It looked passable enough. Even though both the populations and army sizes of Europe were expanding, there were simply not enough men not to watch the entire Franco-Imperial border. This fact was something that Raynaud de Xaintrailles was counting on. Sure, he was traveling alone and had papers with him, but still: the less trouble he encountered, the better.

...

There had already been one incident in which all the preparations he had taken in order to be taken as a diplomat by the Imperials had almost cost him dearly. This was still in Northern Iberia, barely after he had begun to set out to retrieve the Princess Constance, when four bandits, taking note of his dress and fine mount, ambushed him.

He had no time to go for his sword, which was tucked deep away (again, as part of keeping up his appearance as a diplomat). Instead, he spurred his horse into action, steering it for the nearest patch of trees. Standing up, maintaining his balance, he leaped up on a sturdy branch at the last possible moment, with the four bandits in hot pursuit and closing in. A second later, he yanked down, timing his fall perfectly as the rearmost bandit passed directly underneath. Raynaud, the bandit, the unlucky bandit's horse, and the broken-off tree branch all came tumbling down as Raynaud, far better prepared and trained, wrestled and pinned the bandit to the ground as the remaining three started to veer around.

Punching the man hard and repeatedly in the stomach to ensure his staying in place, Raynaud stood up and collected his tree branch, preparing to face the other three. The bandits were now riding directly for him, in formation. Again, at the last possible moment, Raynaud dove off to one side, quickly stood up, and swung the branch hard at the leftmost horse's rider. The force of the blow was easily enough to dismount him, although this one still had his wits about him and tried to get up. A running blow to the head courtesy of Raynaud ensured he stayed on the ground.

Now there were only two left, but still they veered down on Raynaud. One of them, seeing Raynaud's obvious combat prowess, finally drew a sword. The other did not, though, and was subject to another tree branch whack. This one, though, stayed on the ground, trying to kick Raynaud away as he tried to buy time to get his own weapon. After several desperate attempts, he was finally successful, only to have it kicked away by Raynaud as soon as he drew it. He was greeted by the full force of the branch coming down directly on his head.

The final bandit, realizing what a folly it was to try and defeat Raynaud while still mounted, got off his horse at a safe distance and purposely approached his intended victim, sword in hand. Once he was close enough though, Raynaud flung his tree branch at the final bandit. It was easily parried, but in the brief period in which he had took his attention off Raynaud, the noble had rushed up and was about to tackle him to the ground.

Gaining control of the sword and throwing it away to a harmless distance, Raynaud wrapped both of his hands around the man's neck and squeezed tightly. As the man turned red, then purple, then blue, he tried to choke out a surrender, but Raynaud would hear none of it, only stopping once the man had stopped trying to wriggle free.

Walking over to the man's sword, he picked it up and summarily beheaded each of the four bandits, leaving the rest of their bodies and possessions to rot in the field. Sinners deserve no special treatment or burial upon death, he reasoned. After all, they're already in Hell. Besides, four human skulls would serve as enough of a deterrent to make sure no further incidents along the way to the Empire.

Once his bloody work was done, Raynaud whistled for his horse. It was the first sound he had uttered during the entire ordeal.

...

As he approached Imperial territory, Raynaud hid the skulls away, but did not entirely dispose of them. Appearance and decorum would now save his skin more than fear, although if things were to deteriorate then fear would have to make an appearance out of necessity.

This section of the border was a lightly-wooded area, with a vast open field just beyond. The exact point would have been in dispute, if there was anything to dispute over. It reminded Raynaud of the ancient Greek philosophical question: If you have a heap of sand and remove its grains one by one, at what point does it cease to be a heap? At what point did Imperial territory start? He wasn't sure exactly, but knew that if he kept riding he would eventually come across people that spoke German instead of French.

His ponderings of this question, as well as reassuring himself that the Greeks back then were ultimately heretical and their own selfish, opulent ways were the doom of them, got him through the wooded area. He was still deep in thought as he crossed across the wide field, when eventually his concentration was broken by a sharp German voice.

"Halt! In the name of the Kaiser!"

So that's the answer, then, Raynaud thought. Evidently Imperial territory starts once you get out of the woods.

Stopping to dismount, Raynaud addressed the still-unseen German soldier aloud. "May I go through my possessions in order to present myself?"

A pause. "You may."

Raynaud immediately rustled through his bag, careful not to let the skulls or his sword fall out, and finally grabbed a scroll. Holding it up, he spoke aloud. "This scroll I hold details my name and purpose inside the Kaiser's lands. If you can see me, you know I hold nothing other than this. If you cannot, then I swear upon my word as a good Christian that I am unarmed."

Raynaud waited a minute, and then three men in what roughly amounted to Imperial uniform stepped out of the high grass into Raynaud's line of vision. They eyed him up for a while, and then one of them grabbed the scroll, briefly going over it. After conferring in very low tones with his fellows, the lead soldier looked up at Raynaud.

"Your name and purpose."

"I am Raynaud de Xaintrailles, of France. I come alone and without ill intent for the purposes of liaising with the Imperial high command on the matter of the whereabouts of our Princess Constance. Do any of you have your letters? The papers I provide confirm all of this."

Before any of them could answer, a new voice rang out. This one carried with it the weight of command; the voice of someone who knew honor and was to be respected.

"Soldiers! What is going on?"

The soldiers instantly snapped to attention. The high grass rustled as this new figure approached. "Commander der Stolze," the lead soldier said in crisp tones, "We have apprehended a Frenchman who claims he is a diplomat who wishes to negotiate the Princess Constance's release."

The rustling stopped as the figure paused. "But we are at war with the French," he mused. "And he says nothing about offers of peace. Does he have validation?"

"He claims he does, but none of us can verify it."

The rustling resumed, and a moment later a tall, well-armored figure emerged from the high grass. He eyed Raynaud for a second before conferring with his underlings. Taking the paper to examine it, he looked over it carefully before looking back up at Raynaud.

"This man is who he says he is. He is an ambassador of King Philippe and is to be treated with all of the proper respect and decorum." Now addressing Raynaud directly, he continued. "I apologize for the conduct of mein men, sir. They were just doing their jobs. Mein name is Sigismund der Stolze, and I am in charge of monitoring this section of our borders in the name of the Kaiser."

"You do your job well, Sir Sigismund," Raynaud said, trying to put on his best diplomatic overtones. "And I do not hold your men's conduct against them, you, or anyone else, as they were doing their jobs well as well."

Sigismund nodded. "We do as we are commanded to the best of our abilities, for anything less than that would be improper. I am glad that those on the other side see merit in this as well. Tell me your name, diplomat, so that we may be formally introduced."

"I am Raynaud de Xaintrailles, Sir Sigismund."

Sigismund eyed Raynaud thoughtfully for a while before continuing. "From where in France do you hail, Raynaud?"

"Toulouse, Sir Sigismund."

"I see," said Sigismund. "Sergeant, please go through the Frenchman's bag and let me know if you find anything unusual for a diplomat." Turning his gaze back to Raynaud in time to catch him grimacing, Sigismund nodded gravely. "I thought so, when I recognized the name," he said. "Did you really think that Imperial commanders don't know the name of every single Frenchman of note?"

"Sir, I assure you that my intentions are entirely honorable."

The sergeant returned to Sigismund, bearing the results of his search. "The Frenchman is carrying four skulls and one sword, which looks to be a standard issue for someone of his station," he said. "Nothing else out of the ordinary; no poison or daggers or maps or anything of that nature."

"Thank you very much, sergeant," Sigismund said, dismissing him and turning his attention back to Raynaud. "As for your intentions, whatever they may be, they will have to be put on hold. As of this moment you are now mein prisoner. Mein custody is somewhat more generous than those of other Imperial generals, but you are still a prisoner of war and not a diplomat. Thus, do not expect the same privileges you would be accorded were your deception to pass unnoticed. As for your mission, I can tell you your eventual destination will be the same, but the manner of your visit and how you get there will be entirely different."

"I expected as much," said Raynaud. "But what is my destination?"

"Kaiser Heinrich."

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Character of Sigismund der Stolze used with Ignoramus's permission.

[TheFlax]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Coop with Tristan de Castelreng and Ramses II CP.

Paris, 1083

Philippe had summoned his daughter to his study and that was rare enough to have Constance wonder and worry a little. But as she entered the room, all worry disappeared as she looked to her father seated in a large chair by the fire. Turning to her, his face radiated a warm glow that she had not seen on his face for many years, the last time being after the birth of Charles.

"Connie, mon petit ecureuil, come nearer..."

He slapped his knee and Constance moved to sit on her father's knee like she did when she was a little girl.

"I have a mission for you"

For all his earnestness, Constance couldn't help but see the mischief behind her father's smile.

"What kind of mission, father ?"

"A marriage..."

At the mention of the word, Constance visibly paled.

"You can't... I'm not... who..?" she mumbled, her mouth suddenly dry, oblivious to the fact that her father's smile had grown still wider, the mischief in it burning that much brightly.

"You refuse?"

Constance appeared downcast, but resigned "No, there is no possibility of refusal. What of the task you already gave me? I'm to go to Rome and see Sa Sainteté..."

"Justly, while you're headed there, the marriage will be negotiated... by you."

"By me? You want me to negotiate my own marriage ?"

At that last reply from his daughter, Philippe couldn't contain himself any longer and let out a loud laugh.

"Your marriage? You thought that was what I had in mind?"

A look of bewilderment crossed Constance's features, but she managed to nod nonetheless.

"If not mine, then whose marriage shall I arrange father?"

Asking that question out loud made Constance realize whose marriage it had to be... Louis...

She grinned with glee as she imagined her brother's plight, wishing he hated the idea of wedlock at least as much as herself. She would see that for herself soon enough and expected him to be more than a little annoyed that she would arrange it.

"I'm expecting your brother any moment... In fact, he should be here already. He must have crossed the path of a serving girl..."

Louis knew he was late, knew he was making his father wait, and yet... the wench had given him such a look! How could a man refuse and still call himself a man? What could possibly be so important about this little meeting anyway?

As he finished doing up his breeches the Prince's eyes wandered over to the plump girl who was still reclining on the rug, breathing heavily. Using the toe of his boot to prod her thigh Louis said,

"They'll be wanting you in the kitchens soon lass. Get moving now."

He was already striding off before her muttered, 'Yes m'Lord' reached his ears. Wonder if Father's picked a chap to inflict Constance on. Perhaps that's why I've been called, to get my input on the current crop of nobles... Yes, I'm sure of it!

Who would be the best match though? The matter bore more thought than he had time for, as here was the chamber door. Entering Louis announced himself with a deep bow and a respectful tone,

"Mon Pere, Mon Roi, it is good to see you!"

...continuing with a wry note and a sideways grin,

"...and you Constance."

"Louis, my dear brother..." Constance greeted him with a smirk. "Father has some wonderful news." She turned to the King expectantly, but kept Louis in her field of vision; she didn't want to miss her brother's reaction to what was coming.

"My son, your campaigns will certainly take you south from Toulouse over the Pyrenees. This couldn't be more to my will... As it happens, I've just received word from Rey Alfonso de Castille that his daughter Teresa was looking for a royal husband and he thought you would be a fine match (though I don't know where he may have got such an idea, the King murmured in Constance's ear)... And I think we should accept his offer... If only to keep you birthing too many bâtards while you'll be campaigning. From what I heard, Teresa is a very comely lass... which should keep you at home rather than running the smallest bit of lace that crosses your path..."

The Prince freezes in position, with a gently mocking smile still directed at Constance. For a few moments the run of his thoughts can almost be heard ringing in the air.

...ye gods its me not her... what will i do with emily, and vanessa, and sara, jesus sweet sara with her hips like swan and her mouth like... and poor matilda's whores will go broke... the lads will poke such fun... a wedding in the middle of my siege too, bloody wench is already interrupting me... wait, did he say she was comely?

In a stiff voice, but full of propriety, Louis replied,

"My King I am honored to have been chosen for such a great purpose, to advance France's place in the world and my own plans in Iberia! May your will be done as God intends."

There is a pause as Louis swallowed several times, and looked about as though expecting a pitcher of wine to appear out of thin air before he continued,

"Err, if I may inquire, when can I meet her?"

"A meeting has already been arranged while you'll be travelling south to Zaragosa... She'll meet you on the Tourmalet mountain pass and go down the Pyrenees with you to your camp near Zaragosa."

"Travelling... with me? To, uhm, the camp?"

Louis' gaze had taken on something of a frantic quality. His eyes shifted about as he continued,

"Excellent Father! What better way to get to know me than on the road to a campaign, where I am happiest! I wager I'll have her marching and lugging a shield by the end of it."

After a hearty, fake laugh the Prince's eyes narrowed and he abruptly turned to his sister,

"Did you say something dear Constance or was that the snort of a horse outside?"

She gave him a contemptuous look.

"I believe it came from a pig... Do not worry brother, I will tell your betrothed what to expect. She will be ready for you."

"Stop fighting, you two... It has ended being funny when you were about twelve... Anyway, Constance, I expect to brief the bride about what to expect in her husband, though not too much, for fear she runs to a Mahomeddan instead, and teach her a bit of French... If her teachings were left to your brother, I think all the French she would acquire would be pillow-talk... Louis, I will ask you to clear your camp of your "maîtresses" for a while... We do not want to ruin this opportunity by your inability to keep "it" into your breeches, n'est-ce pas ?"

Constance performed a contrite bow. "As you will, father."

Louis matched Constance's bow to perfection, "Indeed, as you wish mon Pere."

"That's better... I let you fool me with your mock respect just this once... Now, I have other matters of state to attend to... I'll leave you to to discuss the practicalities of setting up the marriage and getting acquainted with the bride. Try to behave, just this once..."

With a quick peck on the cheek for his daughter and a friendly pat on the shoulder for his son, Philippe strides out of the room, beleaguered by the ministers awaiting him with proposals and accounts.

Both the prince and the princess glare at each other for a moment before leaving the room in opposite directions.

[Ibn-Khaldun]

Paris, 1092

Two men sat in a dark room. Both looked i front of their feet with serious faces. One of the men started nervously play with his finger when they heard footsteps behind the door. Silently third man entered the room and seeing the other two he nodded and said..

"It's done."

"Are you sure that no one noticed you there?" asked one of the men, that nervous one.

"Yes. Everything went just like we planned! The Boy is taken south while our boy is in the castle."

"I'm still afraid that some one could notice the difference!"

"Don't. His mother is dead and his sister is somewhere in Italy. Those two were the only ones who could've noticed the difference. If we manage to keep Princess out of our way there's no chance any one could figure out that we replaced Charles with our boy!"

The man who had sat there silently during this brief conversation suddenly rose and said..

"I will make sure that our bella principessa will never see his family again!"

"Giorgio, what you have in mind? If you want to kill her then that our employers don't want. Otherwise they just could've ordered us to kill Charles!" said the nervous man.

"Oh no.. my dear barone.. I wasn't thinking that! Let's just say that I have people who know people who could keep principessa in Italy for a very very long time" replied Giorgio..

"In that case.. contact your people then. However, I have to leave now or my absence could be noticed!"

The man who were called Baron nodded to the other men and silently left the room...

[GeneralHankerchief]

Bologna, 1093

With the report of the capture of Marseille, the Imperial city's inhabitants were on edge as Raynaud de Xaintrailles was escorted in. The French, despite all efforts, were gaining, and even though Marseille was not an Imperial territory, the fact remained that the French were getting a bit closer to their lands. This unease was kept to a minimum, however, by the presence of the Emperor in the city. Kaiser Heinrich had long held a reputation for ruling with an iron fist. His defeat at the hands of Pope Gregory in the Investiture Controversy had softened his rule in some ways, but yet he made up for it in other areas.

Raynaud noticed that military discipline had tripled as he drew closer to the Kaiser. Aside from when Sigismund was around, the men were fairly lax with him and each other, going back to their dirty peasant roots rather than fully embracing the chance for mobility that Christ had given them. However, as he entered Bologna, none of the rough, low speech was used anymore. Everyone spoke in crisp, professional tones and made sure to salute. So this is how it's going to be, Raynaud thought as he continued his uncomfortable ride into the city. King Philippe puts on a spectacle by displaying wealth and merriment for all to enjoy. This one does the same but enforces military standards. In the end, neither show enough attention to the one spot where it truly matters. Will they regret their choices in the afterlife? Only the Lord knows. After all, the Conseil had rejected a most holy crusade that would take the French into heathen Moorish lands. As for the Imperials... nobody knew what they were up to. This would be an interesting meeting, and for once Raynaud did not know what to say or expect.

He was led into a large building, and was told that it served as the Kaiser's official palace during the time he spent in the city. Sigismund was nowhere to be found during this final escort. Raynaud was a bit sad about this. Despite being a German, Raynaud could tell that he was an honorable, religious man. They might have even been friends had he not been on the other side. Instead, a group of gruff retainers lead him deeper into the "palace". They all seemed very official and polished, the very essence of a German. The lead man's name was Ludwig, Raynaud remembered. He was very close to the Kaiser; was probably his personal retainer or veteran warrior. It was Ludwig himself who entered the Kaiser's room to introduce Raynaud.

Stepping back out into the hallway, he addressed Raynaud in his usual matter-of-fact voice. "You are about to speak with the leader of our people," he said. "As an educated Frenchman, I am sure you know about proper decorum. Keep in mind that you are a prisoner of the Reich and the Kaiser is doing you a favor by receiving you here today. Improper behavior will swiftly be punished."

"I understand," said Raynaud, nodding, and he stepped into the room.

It wasn't much; certainly not what Raynaud was expecting coming from a leader of European Catholics. There was a woodcut of some unidentifiable religious scene on the far wall. Maps, particularly those of northern and central Italy, scattered the rest of the walls. A little desk with scrolls strewed over it in a way that looked haphazard, but Raynaud could tell that the Kaiser knew where each and every single important piece of paper in there was by just a glance. And then there was the Kaiser himself, sitting at a table in the center of the room, with two pieces of paper and a quill pen at his place. At the opposite end of the table stood another empty chair, which was presumably for Raynaud.

Heinrich looked up at the unarmed Frenchman, giving him a brief once-over. "Sit," he said, and Raynaud did.

"Raynaud de Xaintrailles," he said, looking over at one of his papers. "House of Aquitaine, currently overseeing the Dauphin's shiny new Iberian possessions before he goes entirely off the map and ends up trying to cross my border under the guise of a diplomat. Identified as an enemy soldier because of a sword and, most interestingly, four human skulls among your effects." He paused, now looking up at Raynaud for the first time. "I have many questions, but I suppose my first one is 'why the skulls?'"

Raynaud spoke quickly and smoothly. "Sir, early on in my journey here I was ambushed by bandits. After disposing them, I took their skulls as a deterrent. Any future bandits aspiring for my head or possessions would see them and think twice. I have to assume they worked, as the next time I was accosted on my trip was by your border guards."

Nodding, as if the question he had eagerly asked had suddenly ceased to become important, the Kaiser moved on to his next question. "Sir de Xaintrailles, you are aware that my Empire is currently in a state of war with your Royaume, correct?"

"I am," Raynaud said.

"You are a soldier that crossed into Imperial territory under false pretenses. You could be killed for that alone, you realize. Personally, I think ransoming you would be the better option. Your Dauphin has recently drained my treasury of some funds with his capture of a very able general and strong personal ally in Maximilian Mandorf. If I return the favor with you, perhaps we could call it even."

Taking Ludwig's advice, Raynaud decided to butter the Kaiser up. "Good thinking, Your Majesty," he said, perhaps a little too quickly.

Heinrich waved his hand absentmindedly. "Oh, spare me the flattery," he said, "I get enough of that falsehood from my subjects every day. I was hoping that you and I would have just a good honest talk, two highborn men speaking frankly on the same level about things. I desire this very much, Sir de Xaintrailles. All my life I have dealt with politicians, or those who have amounted to as much, and have had to watch my words. For once, I have someone in my custody who is different, who isn't worried that I won't prioritize enough projects his way if he says the wrong thing in my presence."

"Well, Your Majesty," Raynaud said, slightly taken aback by the Kaiser's demeanor, "Do not forget that while this may be true, my life is in your hands should I say the wrong thing."

"Yes it is," said the Kaiser. "All the more reason for you to speak the truth. Tell me, Raynaud, exactly what are you doing in my lands?"

"In this case," Raynaud said, "my diplomat persona was not a deception. I was coming to you with the purpose to negotiate the release of our Princess Constance."

Heinrich looked around for a while, and then sighed, a wan smile crossing his face. "Ah, how the priorities of every man are different. Do you know the tale of how the Princess you speak of came to be in the situation she is currently in?"

"No, Your Majesty. I do not."

"Neither do I," Heinrich said, and then emitted a harsh chuckle. "That's the funny thing about all of this, isn't it? I'm sitting in this very office, minding my own business, making important military decisions so that my people don't get swallowed up by your mad king, and all of a sudden this hits me. This minor nobleman, this gibbering idiot, this annoying pest comes up to me, asking that if I'll perform or arrange marriage rites. I ask him why in God's name would I do such a thing and tell him to get out of my office before I have him killed for insolence, and he responds by saying that he's fallen in love with a French princess and rescued her. He particularly emphasized that last point, but did not elaborate, I'm afraid."

Finally, Raynaud thought, we're getting somewhere. It looked like Raynaud was going to live, but unfortunately for him, the Kaiser had a lot on his mind and seemed to view Raynaud as an outlet for his troubles. "So you have her in your custody?" he asked, still cautiously.

"I do," Heinrich said.

Now the tricky part came. Raynaud, captured, humbled, and taken aback by the Kaiser's honesty, would have to put his diplomat disguise back on and get to the reason he made this more-than-unfortunate trek in the first place. Deciding to play to what the Kaiser seemed to value so far, he threw caution to the wind instead of choosing his words carefully. "So what will it take for the Royaume to have her back?"

"I've been thinking about that for a while now," Heinrich said, with a grave expression on his face. "Ransom her off, along with you? Exchange her in return for Staufen, maybe, or just generally peace? Simply kill her, in exchange for my son Henry who now lies dead outside the city?"

Feeling bolder by the moment, Raynaud decided to press his luck in probing the Kaiser's mind. "I notice that none of these options you mention are actually marriage."

"Marriage?" Heinrich actually laughed out loud this time. "A French princess, married to that cockroach? Of course not! Why would I waste a golden opportunity such as this on a nobody like von Munich?" He calmed down for a bit, now seemingly speaking to himself more than Raynaud. "But then again, that's all it comes down to, isn't it? Priorities. That man's priorities are to obtain himself a charming foreign princess. Unfortunately for him, his priorities mean absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things. Your priorities are to get her and yourself out of this territory, possibly to use as leverage for a higher position, possibly some other reason. Something tells me that you do not have the backing and power of the Office of the Seneschal, or even the King, and that means that your priorities do not matter to me either. This means as well that the Royaume does not have a representative here, and thus Philippe's priorities are irrelevant. So it all comes down to me, again..." He trailed off, deep in thought.

Raynaud simply sat and listened. The Kaiser was certainly on a roll here. Raynaud wondered exactly how long he had this on his mind. He wondered if he was drunk.

Heinrich picked up again, this time half-talking to Raynaud. "That's the thing, isn't it? I don't even care. This whole war with France, this is just one big distraction, one big joke to me. I'm throwing away countless resources and lives into a diversion. ..." He trailed off again, before looking at Raynaud and, for the first time in a while, addressing him directly. "Tell me, Sir de Xaintrailles, are you a religious man?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," Raynaud said without hesitation. "The Word of the Lord means more to me than anything."

"Good boy," Heinrich said, like a teacher to a pupil that gave the correct answer, but was clearly leading somewhere. "Do you follow the word of the Bible and God's representative on Earth, the Pope?"

"Naturally," Raynaud said.

"Ah, but what if I were to tell you that the current Pope was in fact not God's representative on Earth?"

Raynaud leaned forward in his chair, taken aback by this. What was it? Blasphemy? He would have to once again choose his words carefully. "I'd say that would imply a lot of things, Your Majesty. Questioning that office is akin to questioning the Lord himself."

"Indeed," Heinrich said. "However, I speak not of the office, but of the office holder. Ever since the birth of the Reich, there has been a system in place where the Emperor appoints the Pope, who in turn appoints the next Emperor. This is the way the process has always been, you understand. It is willed by God himself. The current Pope, unholy abomination that he is, refuted this traditional system and in the process created an ecclesiastical oligarchy by transferring the power of investiture over to the Church instead of its rightful place. This means that ever since Gregory has taken office, the entire Catholic flock has been without a shepherd."

"Interesting," Raynaud said, trying to sound neutral.

"Now, let me ask you something, Raynaud de Xaintrailles. If the highest office in the land can be so corrupted, what does that say about the institution as a whole?"

Raynaud was silent for a long while, pondering the implications of the Kaiser's statement. "I... I do not wish to go down this line of discussion any further," he said finally. "The Church is salvation, everyone knows that. A great majority of mankind is forever doomed to the fires of Hell anyway. To say that even the faithful are as well because of one man's what you call 'usurpation'..."

"The Church is not salvation if its leader is an interloper who manipulates everybody," Heinrich said with finality. "Until I right this terrible wrong for good, I suggest that you hold by your own definitions of what is and is not holy and just instead of what a potentially corrupt body of men who mistranslate the Will of God say. To get back to my original point, this is my priority. I am trying to reform Catholicism itself; to save it forever from the whims of individual men. I have no time to get into an extended war with a man who clearly has an unsubstantiated vendetta against me, yet alone to deal with the matter of where some foreign girl ends up with."

"Your Majesty..."

"Go ahead Sir de Xaintrailles, take her. Take her back to France and rid me of the extra problems she causes. Tell your Dauphin and King that I have granted her and your unconditional releases as a gesture of good faith. I am trying to save the soul of every single man, woman, and child in Catholic Europe and restore Investiture to its proper place. I cannot be bothered with all of this additional, uncalled-for pressure. Tell Philippe to lay off and to pick another target. Tell him that, Frenchman."

Aware that the conversation was wrapping, Raynaud took that as a sign to stand up and bow. "I will, Your Majesty. Thank you."

At the other side of the table, Kaiser Heinrich did the same. "Go in peace, Raynaud de Xaintrailles, and may our paths never cross again."

Raynaud bowed once more and exited the room, not saying a word for a very long while, thoroughly disturbed by the conversation that had just taken place.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Co-op between GeneralHankerchief and myself.

[Cecil XIX]

Dijon, 1081 AD

It was decided by the Duc that the duel would take place at dawn, in front of Dijon's eastern gate. That morning the two nobles meet outside the walls, with a horde of spectators lining the walls on one side, and surrounding them on all others. Each of the combatants speaks with their retinue one last time before taking their swords and marching onto the field. The Duc speaks first.

"Well, met, Chevalier! Is there anything you wish to say before we begin our duel? For my part, I can only say that it is a privilege to participate in such a fine contest as this."

"I don't really do words, mon duc," replies Raoul, "but thank you for the hospitality and the honour of fighting you this day."

With that he raises his blade in preparation for the first exchange of blows.

The air seems still for a few moments, each knight cautiously approaching the other, silently sizing up their opponent. Then with a shout both men sprang forward. The sun glints off steel as they swing their swords. Both aim high and put all their strength into the swing. At first it seems as if each will take a blow but then the ground under Raymond de Provence's forward foot, softened by that morning light rain, yields. He loses his balance and his sword swings wide.

The next thing Raymond notices is the clanging sound of his opponent's sword striking his helmet. It was a savage blow, and nearly knocks the Duke down. For several seconds Raymond stands dazed, hearing nothing but a ringing in his ears. Luckily Raoul is caught slightly off guard by the degree of his success, giving Raymond time to steady himself and raise his sword. The Duke is not out of the fight yet, although he might worry about the warm feeling of blood trickling from his right ear, and the persistent but softening ringing in his head.

Raoul backs off a few paces, frowning slightly as he examines his opponent.

"No offense, mon duc, but you look pretty hard hit. I will not hold it against you if you pull out, it was a lucky hit on my part anyway."

Raymond shakes his head a bit, partly to decline and partly to clear the ringing from his ears.

"That's a noble sentiment Chevalier, but I can still fight. Let's give this duel a proper ending!"

The two combatants circle each other, looking for an opening. Suddenly, both move in for a swing. This time no mishap gives either an advantage, and their swords meet. The two men strain, each pushing his blade against that of the other. Raoul's strength begins to give him an advantage, and slowly he pushes the Dukes sword back. Then, suddenly, Raymond shifts the direction he is pushing his sword. Raoul finds next to no resistance forward, but his weapon is being pushed to the side, where it swings harmlessly past Raymond before Raoul can compensate for the change.

Raymond takes the split second advantage he has gained and swings. His first swing chinks Raoul's mail on his left arm, and then the latter is able to bring his sword up but not in a good position. Raymond presses the attack and for several moments Raoul is forced to back up, desperately trying to block each blow. Finally Raymond's furious attack is too much, and he is unable to block a second blow to his offside arm, which sends several chain links flying and draws a deep gash in his limb.

"Sir Raoul, this time I ask whether you'd like to yield. There would be no shame, for we seem to be evenly matched."

Catching his breath, Raoul wheezes a laugh, waves Raymond's question away and raises his sword:

"Have at you, mon duc!"

The two combatants circle each other, occasionally making a feint in an effort to find a weakness in the other's defenses. Finally Raoul takes his chance and commits himself to an attack. Raymond has been waiting for this moment, however. Even as Raoul begins his swing the Duke is already ducking under the arc of his opponent's swing. Raymond strikes hard and quickly, his sword smashing the chain rings of Raoul's mail along the upper part of his left leg. Blood gushes from the wound, and although Raoul attempts to continue the fight, he can no longer keep his footing and falls to the ground. The fight has ended.

Wincing, Raoul crawls on his knees to the man who has defeated him. As he looks up, he speaks under pain.

"I offer my fealty, Duc Raymond. Give an order and it shall be done. I will follow you even into death."

Raymond offers Raoul his hand, smiling.

"It was a fine contest, Sir Raoul. Let's get you patched up, and then we can go exchange oaths formally.”

With a nod Raoul lets Raymond hoist him up, and with the Duke shouldering the weight of his left side they both begin the trek back into the city.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Descriptions of the fight provided by ZIM; intro, epilogue and mid-battle dialogue by deguerra and Cecil XIX.

[_Tristan_]

Calais, 1093

The inn was not among the most renowned of the city. It catered mostly to merchants and craftsmen. Most sat huddled at tables discussing the rising prices of wool or copper, gulping down large tankards of ale. But the establishment was also cozy and clean, two criteria that had made him the choice of the men sitting at a table in the back of the room. If the folks assembled in the tavern had known who those men were, the content of their conversation would have been very different.

For sitting at the corner table were Guillaume, called the Conqueror, King of England, and Philippe, King of France, his cousin and rival. Their apparel didn’t distinguish them from any well-off merchants and nobody had taken any notice of them, as they knew they would.

Guillaume was just off his ship, having crossed from Folkestone and braving the fierce winds of October to be at this meeting. Philippe had ridden hard from the German border, leaving the siege in the capable hands of Tancrède, a veteran of many campaigns.

The two kings shared a bottle of fine Burgundy wine, while their escorts discreetly scanned the room for any threats.

Philippe raised his glass for a toast. “Here’s to you, cousin… May your line reign on Albion forever…And Albion alone, I may add…”

“And yours be faithful to the dream of Charlemagne, Philippe” answered Guillaume, raising his glass and drinking it in one gulp. “A thing which is well underway if I’m to believe the reports from my “scouts”… The Kaiser will soon bow under the French yoke if you continue like this…”

“If only… The man must rather be a direct descendant of the Goths that conquered Rome than an heir to Caesar to go to war with the Pope… It’s a conduct France and her King cannot condone… Do you believe he even stooped so low as to abduct my daughter? While she was under Papal protection?”

“I do not contest your right, Philippe… But it seems you bit more than you can chew… Staufen lost, Antwerp under threat… You badly outnumbered at Frankfurt… Heinrich may be the one to fulfill the dream of Charlemagne in your place…”

“Never!!” Philippe cried out, drawing glances from some of the other patrons. Those quickly returned to their talks and drinks under the glare of the sovereign’s escorts.

“God will never let this happen… And you talking of overextension reminds of the purpose of this secret meeting.”

“Indeed, why the need for secrecy? What do you wish to propose that cannot be said in public? I would much rather be in one of my castles than an inn, however cozy it might be… I would regale you with food and drinks, with girls… I would tell you about the disgusting customs of the Scots… I would take you to hunt fox and boar… All things that make life bearable as a king…”

“I may well call you up on that, Guillaume… But what I wish to propose is not for all ears and should we not agree on it, I think it best left unheard, as it may cause some tension between our Royaumes.”

“Hmm… I must admit, Philippe, that you’ve whetted my appetite for more…

“I came here to propose an alliance between our Kingdoms. We are brethren us Franks and Normans, we share the same heritage… We even share the same lands, much to my dismay, I’ll admit…”

“An alliance? And what of the Scots? You’re allied with them as well? What if they decide that our presence is unbearable? Who will you support?” Guillaume asked seriously.

“I will make everything in my power to prevent such a war from happening… The Scots will not be able to win against you without France’s supporting them, so it seems that point is moot.”

“So allies, we may be but I feel you’ve not told me everything, no?”

“True, I told you that we share our heritage and our lands… Right now, we hold each other by the throat… You hold lands in France, so much so that it looks sometimes as you’re its true sovereign. But I know hold Wales and threaten to take Dublin, providing our Scottish allies do not take before us… Then all avenues of expansion will be closed to you... And you’ll be cornered… South and West by France, North and West by Scotland, with territories easily cut off from Albion and then left to their own devices.”

“You paint a grim picture, Philippe… But I assure you that should it come to war, you’d find us much more resilient than your Imperial neighbours.”

“Who talks of war? We both have something the other wants… So why not trade? I thought.”

“Trade? Trade what?”

“Here’s what I propose: you abandon your claims to Angers and Caen and I’ll hand Caernavon to you.”

“Seems like a lopsided deal to me” Guillaume answered, somewhat puzzled.

“Let me finish… I know of your expansion from Aquitaine through the Pyrenees in Spain. Valencia could make also a fine addition to your Spanish holdings and I’m willing to give it to you as well.”

“And Zaragoza?” asked Guillaume, a greedy look in his eyes.

“No, Zaragoza will remain French for now… But it could still be open to further negotiations… Once we’ve begun, there’s nothing from stopping us… We may even set an example that will help us come to terms with the Germans.”

Guillaume drew another large swallow from his glass, considering the offer that had been made.

“I may agree to the deal on principle…” began Guillaume.

“But?”

“But I’ve incurred costs garrisoning those castles, building barracks, improving the port in Caen… I’ll incur more costs yet when I’ll need to bring my men back to England. Rufus, my son, is still in Angers and I can tell you that knowing him his baggage train will require an entire fleet.”

“So how much are we talking about?” Philippe inquired, not at all surprised by Guillaume’s true nature coming to the front.

“Let me count…” said Guillaume, beginning to mumble and count upon his fingers. “Let’s see: which would you prefer full payment or regular tribute?”

“Tribute, of course… We’re at war and our coffers are not as full as I would wish them to be…”

“Tribute, then… My estimate would be for a payment of 1400 florins of gold for the next 14 years…”

“What?” a nonplussed Philippe exclaimed “Do you think that French chickens lay golden eggs? My treasury could never afford such a burden for so long… I’m not Croesus.”

“Well… Since you’re my cousin, I’m willing to make a gesture for family’s sake… I’ll halve it down… Say 800 florins for the next 10 years… Is that good enough for you? I’m losing an arm in this deal…” Guillaume said with a wily smile.

“Acceptable” Philippe said grudgingly.

“My, my… Acceptable, only… You almost hold me at ransom here, Philippe… So do we have a deal or not?” Guillaume asked, extending his hand over the table, having spit on it in merchants’ fashion.

“Deal” answered Philippe, spitting in his hand and taking the proffered hand. “I’ll have my Senechal draw up a treaty which will be then sent to receive your royal seal. Now let’s drink to our Kingdoms.”

Philippe raised his glass, imitated by Guillaume and they both emptied them in one gulp, before refilling them.

[_Tristan_]

Rome, St Peter’s cathedral, 1088

Fra Matteo hurried through the nave towards the transept where the Swiss Guards guarding the gates to the Cathedral had told him he would find His Holiness, oblivious to the ornate decorations, rich tapestries and lifelike statues that made St Peter the most beautiful church of all creation.

Pope Gregory was kneeling in front of the altar, hands joined, eyes closed, his lips moving ever so lightly, seemingly lost in prayer. Fra Matteo stopped a few paces behind the Vicar of Christ, awed as always by the power the man held in his hands. Matteo had just come back in Rome from the northern reaches of France when he was summoned to present himself before his Superior.

Sensing a presence behind him, Pope Gregory stopped in his prayers and called to Matteo “Here, help me stand, Matteo… I’m not young anymore and these cold stone floors are not good to my aches…” Matteo stepped forward and extended his arm to give the Pope support. Gregory extended his hand to a kneeling Matteo that kissed the large ruby ring, symbol of his function.

“Your Holiness, I come to make my report on our negotiations with the French King…”

“Matteo… We’ve known each other long enough to dispense with honorifics… Call me Gregory, like you did in seminary.”

“Yes, Gregory… It is only that I have sometimes difficulties remembering you ever were a simple human... Even I stand in awe of your power…”

“And you should know better… We’ve both done our share of drinking whoring those years ago, si?” Gregory said with a wink.

“Si, we drove the brothers mad, didn’t we?” answered Matteo, a fond smile upon, his lips.

“Yes, these were good times… But enough of these fond memories… I’m anxious to hear your report of how our trap worked.”

“I think it should be up to your expectations, Gregory, though it didn’t quite work as I thought it would…Anyway, if Philippe displays the same bravery he did in Champagne for the whole campaign and if the French nobles have but only a fraction of their King’s valour, we won’t have to fear Heinrich for long…”

“So it worked? It truly worked?” an amazed Gregory asked.

“Yes… it seems so… We’ve lit the spark to Philippe’s kindle…Now it’s a bonfire that rages in him.”

“Yes, that I can believe… He always seemed to hide a raging fire behind this outward calmness and severity… And he’s always been a strong supporter of the Church… Our plan was bound to be successful. How did you manage it?”

“Quite simple in fact… I arranged to meet Philippe at an abbey in Champagne and paid a hefty sum in gold to some German company in the vicinity. I had them believe I was in the employ of some minor noble of the region and that my master wanted to get rid of his neighbor who was visiting the same abbey. I pretended to hire them to abduct that minor noble to have a ransom paid to my master, his rival. My plan was to have Philippe abducted which would have caused a war between France and the Reich. But he was forewarned of the Imperials assault on the abbey and had time to assemble his retainers and ride out against the assailants… Truly, if that man wasn’t such a staunch supporter of our Mother Church, I would believe him to be the Devil” Matteo said, signing himself.

Gregory reciprocated the gesture “So he came out free of the ambush?”

“Yes… But the fact that the ambush only existed is excuse enough for him to go to war… That added to the fact that Heinrich contest your right to St Peter’s Throne is enough to have him wage war against Heinrich…”

“Good, good… And is there any way this whole business can be traced back to us?” Gregory asked.

“No… The German “mercenaries” were paid in Spanish Reals, taken from the Vatican coffers. “I thought it fitting as the French Prince was recently in Spain… The man is outwardly supportive of his father but they stand at odds on most subjects… Louis is almost a devil-spawn such dreadful is his conduct… It should help keep him in check if his father thinks he’s out to usurp his throne with German help.”

“Well thought, Matteo… I knew you had what it took to bring this to a successful resolution… It prevents us from excommunicating Heinrich, something which would lead to lots of doctrinal discussions on the wrongs or rights of his allegations concerning his right to choose the Vicar of Christ in Rome. Discussions I would rather do without… But there’s something else on your mind, Matteo, I can see it” said Gregory, considering the anxious frown on his subordinate’s face.

“Yes…” said Matteo, anxious to take the burden off his shoulders “I believe we have created a monster… Now unleashed, Philippe will be hard to bring back in chains… I fear the Reich may be doomed… This will alter the balance between the Kingdoms…”

“Don’t you worry, Matteo… Leave this to me to deal with… And remember, excommunication is a double-edged sword… It can strike on both sides of a border.”

Gregory took Matteo by the arm, leading him towards the gates of the Cathedral. “ So tell me, how do these French women look ? And the wine… You must tell me about the wine…”

The two men headed into the sunlight shining on Rome, discussing the merits of women and wine.

[AussieGiant]

Caernarvon 1095

Alain stood on the battlements of Caernarvon castle as it overlooked the Irish sea. In his minds eye he could see the English ships blockading the port of Dublin while the English troops ringed the city itself.

Was it fear, was it prudence, he could not tell what it was that had made him hesitate in attacking the city when he had the chance. The feeling of doom was certainly upon him from the journeys very beginning. His nights were broken by dreams of his death in Dublin, he would wake covered in sweat, swiping at an imaginary spear being driven up into his heart, his steed Cyril too late in crushing the spearman’s head with his hooves.

He was broken from his revere by his veteran retainer.

“Sire, the kings report has arrived. You should return to Paris for the Council.”

Alain took the report and read. It was short, it was damning. He had failed to achieve the objectives laid out by the King and now was being held accountable for that failure.

Without turning from his wind swept view, he spoke. “Thank you Julien, that will be all.”

He resumed his watch of the ocean, thinking back to a time when he was younger.

William had sired Alain on his fiftieth naming day. As a result even in Alain’s youth, he was an old man, in addition to this he was a bitter, aggressive but he was still his father.

The old Duc of Bretagne was half English, half French and he never seemed to forget that and as a result William seemed to hate the world for this twist of fate.

He would goad Alain in public, calling out sarcastic hurtful words in sword practise while in front of the assembled knights and tutors.

“Get a butterfly net Alain!!” he would shout when his eldest son would fail defending himself correctly.

Alain had slowly learned to hate his father, it would fester and simmer under the surface, exploding occasionally under severe stress or public humiliation. The Ducal house would become an icy place while the two fought. His mother Janice and his younger brother Stephen would make every effort to smooth the waters. Thankfully the old Duc was as quick to anger as to forget and things would return to normal quickly. However it was the constant sniping and snide comments that soured everyone eventually. That was the real and insidious effect his father had on everyone.

His mother, once beautiful and vibrant, was slowly reduced to a woman of few words, lines of worry and concern etched her face. She rarely spoke to her husband in the presence of others, fearing they would argue or William would explode into a rage while disagreeing with her on some matter. It was excruciating to watch.

His father’s specialty was public humiliation, he was relentless, vicious and utterly without compassion. He seemed to pride himself in being able to force people to lose their temper as his will demanded, or simply having to leave his presence because they could take no more.

Yet he had found himself trying to please his father all his life. Striving to hear just one kind word, just one encouraging sentence, one act of compassion or love.

In reaction to this Alain was a young man of two characters. One was created to ignore or appease his father, providing a public face to those watching the family. He was witty, oblivious, unconcerned and carefree to such an extent Alain would surprise himself.

The other was developed to fight fire with fire.

Explosive, quick to anger, ruthless, mean spirited, this “Alain” was as sarcastic, humiliating and aggressive as his father. It was this “Alain” that would rise and take over for short periods. This was the person that would be taken with rage at the hateful words of his father and react in kind, this was the person who would smash the knights instructing him, beating them until they cried for mercy. This was the person who would lash out at his mother at some small word, or beat and kick his brother when taunted or provoked.

That Alain had seemingly died at the same time as his father had passed away, the same day his brother Stephen had fallen from the walls of Rennes to be paralysed in both legs, the same day his mother had left the family home and walked with bare feet to a church in Paris to disappear from his life.

Even in death the hate for his father still burned.

The Kings words echoed in his mind.

[GeneralHankerchief]

Bologna, 1093

Constance was half-dragged, half-carried out in the paved streets of Bologna. The late afternoon sun glimmered over the horizon and already lampposts were being lit on the street. Once in the open, the princess moaned softly and averted her eyes from the light, parts of her face were bruised and her bliaud was nearly in tatters.

A minute later, Raynaud de Xaintrailles strode out, this time without the assistance of any Imperial guards. While he was physically in much better condition than the Princess, he was still lost in his own thoughts after his conversation with the Kaiser and thus paid Constance very little heed, if any at all. The two of them walked silently through the streets of Bologna to where they would eventually emerge and head for Rome, Raynaud in a little shuffle and Constance in a perpetual stumble as she tried to make the sudden adjustment to her freedom. Both of them were far gone in their own thoughts. There would be conversation, but not on the first day.

For the better part of the evening, she mutely followed him, stealing a few glances in his direction, but mostly keeping her eyes on her own feet and concentrating on every step. Even with her blurry red eyes, her burning forehead and her exhaustion, she never once complained. Constance walked when Raynaud walked and rested when he rested. On the next morning, when she rose, she collapsed to the ground and remained deathly still.

Raynaud, who had risen only ten minutes prior and, while in a better mood than the previous day, was still groggy, emitted a soft groan as he saw the princess faint. Trudging over to his water skin, he took a short swig, paused, and then emptied it over Constance's face. It was enough to wake her, as she started cough and sputter, her hands waving wildly in the general direction of her face, bracing for another impact of water that did not come. Eventually she let her guard down, and for the first time, Raynaud got a look at her face. The bruises were still there, but they did not totally hide who she was. His eyes widened in shock.

"You..." he muttered. "In the church..."

"Yes." She replied with some measure of shame before propping herself up with great effort. Her feverish eyes seemed glazed over and yet they bored right through Raynaud.

"Why did you come?" Constance queried in a raspy voice.

"My reasons for doing so are my own," said Raynaud. "However, chief among them is the fact that I felt I could make a difference in this situation. My presence on the Iberian front was not critical, and the Seneschal's other diplomats were otherwise occupied. I felt that this would be a better use of my time. I also believed that I would be able to connect with the Kaiser on a level that the diplomats would not be able to, as they are apt to forget their roots, lost in the foppery of eternal pampering. Unfortunately, I did not realize exactly the level that the Kaiser and I would connect on, but that is a story for another time." He paused, making sure that the girl was still coherent, probably his first act of compassion in a long time. Then he continued.

"Your disappearance has been greatly discussed in the Conseil. Tell me, Your Highness, how did you come to be in the Kaiser's possession?"

"Hermann... He wanted me and he..." She choked on the word before sobbing and collapsing back in the dirt. "You shouldn't have come." She muttered in between the sobs.

Raynaud just stared at her. "Evidently I should have, considering the state you've been in ever since you were released. You are a Princess who, frankly, looks like a mess, and I need you to be more helpful than you currently are for everyone's sake. Your Highness," he added on hastily at the end. "Now, you were mentioning a gentleman by the name of Hermann. Did he violate you in any way?"

For the first time her eyes focused and her plaintive voice turned sour. "Everyone will just have to find someone else. I am..." At that moment her body was wracked by a violent series of cough. "I am dying and I do not care anymore. There is nothing left for me in this world."

"Snap out of it," Raynaud said, now more annoyed than anything else, despite the Princess's predicament. "You're not dying, you've just been mistreated, and I need to know the extent of this mistreatment. You may continue to moan and feel self-pity, but then all you will get is more of the same. Your Highness. Or, you could tell me exactly what happened, and I can help you feel better. The choice is yours, although I hope for your sake that you choose the later, for if you don't, so help me God, I will leave you here and go back to Paris myself, and good luck finding anyone else that will get you where you need to go. What you are doing now amounts to suicide, and I have no pity for those who would so quickly forsake the Lord's ultimate gift. So, Princess, what will it be?"

Constance gave out a hoarse laugh which ended with another series of coughs. "I am tired, battered, sick, defiled and I have blood on my hands. Face it, I am damned." She paused and asked earnestly. "What would you have me do?"

"I would have you answer my original question," Raynaud said, "and then I will deal with the matter of you being damned or not. What happened to get you in this state?"

"Hermann took me as his... thing." Disgust crept in her voice before she continued with downcast eyes. "I wasn't strong enough to get away and there were consequences to my attempts."

"So he violated you," said Raynaud. "Do not worry about it, for he is a sinner. He will eventually burn in the fires of Hell for all eternity for his act, but he will get his justice even before that. Not now, though, for this is a cursed land for you and it would be best for everyone if we departed it immediately. There is a patch of woods about fifty yards to the right. If you can make it there, we will rest there for one day. Do not do anything; I will see to feeding you, setting up shelter, and the like. Just relax and regain your strength. Do not worry about your tormentor. The Lord will see to his destruction. Does this sound acceptable to you, Your Highness?"

"For now..." Constance struggled to rise and on shaky legs made her way to the woods where she sat, her back resting against a tree. She watched Raynaud in silence with some fascination before speaking up once more. "You never gave me your name, and please drop the formalities, I am not the one here who deserves respect."

Raynaud gave her a short, sharp bow. "I am Raynaud de Xaintrailles, Knight of the House of Aquitaine."

Upon hearing this, Constance lost her short-lived mellow attitude and looked at him sharply. "My brother sent you didn't he? I should have known... We are heading back to Rome after all. You are taking me back to that prison and here I thought you would be the one to save me. All along, I should have realized..." By sheer force of will, she stood up on shaky legs, using the tree as support, she continued with a grim determination to her tone. "...only I can save myself. I was weak Raynaud de Xaintrailles, but never again. I am not going back there, no matter what."

Raynaud looked at her and shook his head. "The Dauphin did not send me here. He is preoccupied with other matters that I will not relate to you out of respect for my liegelord. I admire your resolve, but you are still, as you put it, 'tired, battered, sick, defiled,' and, if you continue with this course of action, alone. Now, I can help you out, as I mentioned. I can make you strong, and eventually, I could perhaps assist the Lord in His work of disposing of your Hermann. But first, you need to come along with me."

Constance narrowed her eyes and seemed confused for a moment. Her mind told her that Raynaud was bad news, that all this was some sort of ploy and yet, her instincts screamed at her to trust him, that this man, unlike the others, would not betray her trust. Slowly she sat down and took a deep breath, oddly enough she seemed better. There was no more coughing and her pale visage had regained some color. She looked at him with genuine regret.

"I am sorry. Yes, I will come with you."

"All right," said Raynaud, still without the hint of a grin on his face. "But first, we go over to that patch of woods and rest up for the rest of the day." She nodded reluctantly, and he slowly helped her along to the woods, where they spent the rest of the day. In spite of the turnaround/breakthrough compared to the day before, there was still very little talking, mostly because of Raynaud's usual demeanor. The following day they set off for Rome, where they would charter a ship back to France.

...

Rome

Ever since the two of them passed Florence, Raynaud felt as if they were being followed. Now that they had crossed into the Eternal City, where a ship was waiting to take them back to France, he was sure that something was going to happen. Constance, although mostly recovered from her ordeal, was still not at full health and thus vulnerable. By this point in his life Raynaud knew better than to distrust these flashes of intuition, as he viewed them as signs from God. In a small village about halfway between Florence and Rome, he had exchanged his fine diplomat’s clothes for less-obvious earth tones for himself and Constance. He still wished he had his skulls with him, but they were lost somewhere along the journey to Bologna.

The two of them had moved as quickly as possible through the city on Raynaud’s orders, not bothering to stop and hear the latest gossip (that Kaiser Heinrich had rode north for Frankfurt and was now under siege). It was a beautiful city, with equal wonders from classical and modern days, but Raynaud was in the mood to see none of it. In rudimentary Italian, he asked for and received directions to the docks. Constance, keeping with her ordeal as well as her disguise, said nothing. Twice, Raynaud has stopped abruptly, turning around and drawing his sword, but he quickly realized there was nothing there and moved on. After the second time, the city’s denizens started to give the both of them a wide berth.

Finally, the docks were in sight. When Raynaud and Constance saw their designated ship – really, just a large boat – the two of them broke out into a jog. The city had just been too spooky for them to be there any longer. But they abruptly skidded to a halt as five men appeared, blocking their path to the ship. While they didn’t look German (in fact, they looked just as Italian as everybody else in the city), Raynaud still saw their eyes on the Princess. Turning to Constance, he said very softly, “Run, but eventually lead them back to me. Do this now.” She nodded, and took off in the opposite direction, back into the city. Raynaud turned back, seeing that all five men had already drawn their swords. They now ran directly for him.

Not having enough time to draw his own sword, Raynaud instead dropped into a crawling position. This maneuver partially worked, as it sent two of the kidnappers sprawling into the hard stone ground. However, that still left three men to pursue the princess. Praying for a miracle, Raynaud got up and drew his own sword, preparing to face down the men he had drawn away from Constance.

He feinted left, and then went right before abruptly drawing back to parry a blow that never came. The trick was in the opening phases to keep the enemy off-balance, after all. A split-second after the phantom parry, he went forward again, raining a flurry of blows, before drawing back momentarily. While the two Italians were stopped, trying to figure him out, Raynaud want low, causing the two of them to stumble back and lose their balance once again. Quickly disarming them, Raynaud grabbed the two of them by their hair and bashed their heads together once. They were out cold, hopefully unable to remember anything that had gone on. Raynaud ran to the ship to prepare for departure in case it was a footrace between Constance and her pursuers.

Meanwhile, Constance, quickly realizing that she wouldn’t be able to outrun three physically fit men, dodged into the first door she could find, praying that nobody would throw her out or take advantage of her. She was fighting a desperate battle with her emotions, hoping that they wouldn’t overcome her, hoping that all the bad memories she had accumulated with Hermann wouldn’t come washing back in a tide, threatening to break her down once and for all.

She won the battle, her breathing slowly returning to normal… until the door crashed open. Unable to help herself, she screamed and darted to a new hiding place, overturning a table and crouching behind it. She could hear Italian voices laughing, saying something, “ bella principessa”, drawing ever nearer to her.

Finally, they entered the room she was hiding in.

Summoning all of her strength, both physical and emotional, Constance took a deep breath and broke all four legs off the table, one by one. Holding two in each hand, she threw them as hard as she could at her three pursuers, and then jumped out and started running low.

It bought her just a second of time as the Italians swatted at the table legs with their swords, but it was enough. She cut between two of them, darted out the door, and then broke into a full sprint back to the docks. This time, she knew, she had to make it. This time, it wasn’t an obsessed Imperial suitor that she had prior experience with, this time, it was a group of Italians, purpose unknown, and Europe was a very large continent. She had to get to the docks, to the ship, to Raynaud, or otherwise she knew she could kiss any chance at seeing France again goodbye for a very long time.

And there Raynaud was, on the ship already, spotting her and screaming, waving his hands in exaggerated motions, “Venez! Venez! Venez!” and somehow, she found some extra speed, for the Italians were right behind her and still gaining…

She dove onto the boat just as Raynaud was pulling it away from the docks, but one of the Italians was right behind her and also managed to get on. She screamed, but Raynaud was there, grasping the man on the head and them kneeing him right back into the sea. The two dry, conscious Italians could only watch as their prey was sailing away, sailing back towards France. They were going home.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Co-op between TheFlax and myself.

[Braden]

“How many years have we been here Andreas?” Prince Henri sat casually at the table and leaned back whilst examining his erstwhile tutor and now confidant.

“Only 18 months my Lord, not so long.”

Andreas also sat at the table in the main hall, hunched over uninterestingly picking at a plate of cheese and grapes.

Henri continued “Well it seems like an age! I grow tired here, I am not even consulted in governance any longer” Henri stood and slowly paced to the fireplace, lit as always, and stared into the low flames.

It was mid-morning in the residency given over to the Prince and his entourage, whilst it was not cold outside the building itself was constructed mainly of stone so held the evening cold….the hearths were constantly lit as a result.

“What has become of me now?” Henri was barely audible to Andreas now, clearly talking as much to himself as to his long standing tutor “I am a Prince, 2nd in line to the throne and yet I remain here as if under house arrest, to do nothing of worth, of valour. I know I am still young but am I to stagnate here until all chance of adventure or chivalry has been pushed aside with increasing age?”

Henri, still only 17, had been in Andreas’ care for the last 7 years nearly. Half Italian and Frank, Andreas was well versed in sword-play and the machinations of court life, he himself had been a minor noble in the North of Italy until those very same “machinations” had forced his family into poverty once the Germans had started their political games against the Italian states of Milan and Rome. Using the name of his Frankish mother he had managed to steer what remained of his family to a comfortable living under Phillips nation and once his mother had died, he found employ in the Kings household and then into Henri’s circle as a general tutor of arms and protocol. He liked the boy he’d known since before his 12th birthday, studious but kind, naturally chivalrous but woefully overshadowed by his older, boisterous and frankly unappealing brother Louis.

“Take heart Lord, your stay here will not be that much longer. Your father himself only instructed you remain here until you had completed your further training.”

Henri turned again to look at Andreas “I know, but have I? Will I ever complete my training?”

Andreas shrugged “That is not for me to deem my Lord but know this, the skills of sword and honour cannot ever be learned fully…you will continue to learn long after I have joined God, all you can do is achieve a level of dignity that you, yourself, can be proud of.”

Henri chuckled to himself “Heh…there is not much comfort in such words for a hot-headed young man such as myself Andreas. Perhaps you would be more at home speaking with the embalmed at the cemetery with such morose lines.”

The statement was no threat, as usual, just a jest in poor taste…the Prince had developed quite a black sense of humour as he turned the journey into adulthood. Andreas mused that it might just hold him in good stead when the blood and the screaming of battle started.

[ULC]

1096, Outskirts of Bern

A lone figure wound his way through the slowly fading light of a late autumn afternoon, the first flakes of winter carrying on the air. He approached a lone church, where the monks could be heard praying and where a warm hearth and good food resided. He ignored that - he did not come out this far and into Imperial territory for something so simple and earthly as that.

No, instead he made his way to the rear of the church, where several graves were, with all but two made of wood. The two that are not were made of well crafted marble, each engraved with the names of their occupants - Lionel and Beatrix.

Gaetan brushed away the the snowflakes which had gathered upon the marble markers, first the girl's, then the boy's. Opening his cloak, Gaetan pulled out a beaded necklace and placed it upon the girl's marker with gentle care. Pulling his cloak tight about him, Gaetan dropped to his knees and breathed out a sigh, his breath condensing in the air.

"It is good to see you two again, I missed you dearly. I brought you something Beatrix - a necklace from Outremer, sold to me in Italy by a most "trustworthy" merchant. I suppose it is the thought that counts." Gaetan paused. "I bet you wonder why I was in Italy...I went too far again. I'm too used to wearing my feelings out upon my sleeves I suppose - I insulted the Dauphin, and suffered both the consequences, and paid for them later on...yet another harsh lesson I seem to refuse to learn. You always said I was too stubborn Beatrix, an-"

In a flash, Gaetan was upon his feet, his sword drawn and ready to fight. "Who goes there!"

A brief silence, and then a shadowy figure stepped out from behind the entrance to a mausoleum. Gaetan could not quite make out who it was in the moonlight. The figure paused, giving Gaetan a once-over, and then spoke in a neutral voice.

"Hold, Frenchman, for I am your kinsman. Be lucky that this is the case, for I hear that speaking this language in Imperial territory is not usually smiled upon." Gaetan cringed at being discovered for what he was, but said nothing immediately. Judging by the way the man spoke to him, he was clearly of the upper class back home, but his identity still remained a mystery.

Gaetan relaxed his stance, but did not sheath his sword. "Kinsman or not, you still have no answered my question. I am not exactly welcome back home, and one of my "Kinsmen" has already demonstrated that he was more then happy to do me harm. Why is a fellow such as yourself here, in Imperial territory, following someone such as me?"

"I am here to provide you with a means to return home," the figure said smoothly. "There is a task that needs completing, the type of task that usually smooths over all rough patches and forgives any past indiscretions." The figure paused, wondering if he had Gaetan on the hook yet and mulling over his next choice of words.

"But yet here you are chastising me for being in Imperial territory and following you," the figure said, without any trace of humor. "And here I am wondering why I did not have to venture farther to find you. I might ask you the same thing, Gaetan de Rethel, that you asked of me. Why are you here instead of with the Varangian Guard?"

Gaetan stiffened and bitterness creeped into his voice. "So Hermant sent you? Or did he openly tell everyone in the Royuame how he drugged me and tried to be rid of me?" Gaetan seemed to stand protectively in front of the markers, his face determined, his figure resolute. "I fight, that's what I do - I am but a soldier, a killer of men, and a good one at that. But I am not a mercenary - my wage is not paid in gold, but in gratitude. I spill blood not on command, not for someone's ambitions - I fight for them."

Gaetan gestured towards the markers. "Peasants, Serfs, Freemen, Merchants. Men, women, children. I fight for lost souls and the damned. Not nobles, not land, not a sack of gold. So go tell Hermant the next time he would send me off to serve someone's greed and political ambition, remember to not befriend me first." Gaetan pauses for a moment, clearly riled up, and waves at the stranger. "Leave me be, I have much to contemplate..."

Gaetan could make the figure turning around to depart. "Fine then," he said, already walking away. "But if you ever do wish to return home again, and in the way you describe, I only need to remind you that these opportunities do not come around often. Good evening, chevalier."

"Wait - you still have not answered my question. Why have you come out this after me? To what purpose do you risk your life? What opportunity do you speak of?"

The figure turned around once more, this time with a flourish, as if he were expecting nothing less than what Gaetan had just said. "I see no reason for answering these questions... for the moment," he said, much to Gaetan's chagrin. "I will grant you the information you desire, plus more information about your opportunity, but I must receive an answer first, Gaetan. You are making a decision based on very little information, and I understand that. However, there are some things in life that one must take on faith, such as hoping that your lord will provide for you or that your deity of choice is in fact the One True God. This is one of those times. You have already heard from me that this opportunity will provide what you desire: restoration, and in the proper way. All that is required from you now is your simple faith that I am leading you in the right direction." The figure paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully.

"I either need a 'yes' or a 'no', chevalier," he resumed. "If it is 'no', then I will leave you to your ponderings in this holy graveyard and go back my own way. If it is 'yes', however, then I will consider your faith a binding commitment and expect your deliverance in return for my information. So, what shall the answer be?" he asked.

Gaetan stood postulating as the cold wind whipped around him, silence permeating the graveyard. He seemed ready to say no, when the necklace he had laid upon Beatrix's marker suddenly flew off towards the direction of the stranger. Gaetan panicked, reactively snatching at it, but he missed it at first, and only managed to catch it as it flipped through the gathering snow at the base of the stranger's feet.

Finding himself kneeling before the stranger, necklace in hand, Gaetan looked at the necklace, and back at Beatrix's grave. Closing his eyes, he made his decision. "Yes..."

"Rise, Gaetan," the figure said. "You are not my bondsman, you are my kinsman." Waiting for Gaetan to do so, he continued. "The heathen Moorish Empire stretches from Iberia to Egypt, eclipsing even the ancient Carthaginians in size and threat to the civilized world. A great many of their lands have been long lost to the loving embrace of Christianity, but Iberia... Iberia is a different case. In Iberia, the great Catholic factions share a land border with the heretics and do nothing. Their brothers cry out from the brutal repression of the Sultan, begging for a return to the light, for salvation. And yet, these factions do nothing, forever damning half the peninsula because of their own petty squabbles, or because they fear Moorish reprisal."

The wind continued to whirl around them as the conversation continued. "I think these factions forget that if you have the Lord on your side, then there is no threat of reprisal," the figure said. "These Catholic Iberian factions have lost their way, then, and I aim for them to rediscover it. I asked the Conseil for permission to do this once more, and was rebuffed - though barely. This time, I am doing it the right way. This time, I am gathering a base of support beforehand. And once we do get approval - for we shall, one way or the other - we will set out and purge the good people of Iberia of any Moorish influence whatsoever. We shall cleanse the Peninsula and save countless thousands of souls."

The figure finally stopped, regarding Gaetan with a look. "And now, you should have enough information to deduce who I am."

Gaetan's face tightened in strained disgust. "Raynaud de Xaintrailles...I should have known - yet another lackey, or should I say opportunist? Somehow I don't think you follow Prince Louis blindly." Gaetan breathed out, relaxing in the face of reality. "But my word is my bond, and I shall support you however begrudgingly. But I wish to know why you followed me into Imperial Territory to ask this of me, why you would disturb me in my place of solace."

"Think of me as you will," Raynaud said, once again delaying answering Gaetan's main question. "I seek no recognition or reward for my actions other than what lies ahead in the next life. I do wish that you would see my side of things, but I suppose that is too much to ask too soon. Perhaps farther down the road."

The wind finally died down, and, overhead, the moon poked through the clouds, finally illuminating Raynaud's visage for Gaetan to see. He sighed, finally providing a straight answer. "Think of me as you will," Raynaud said once more. "But do not dispute that this mission is incredibly important to me. I believe in the values that I profess - redemption, for some, justice, the True Faith - and I will go whatever length necessary to see this task through. This includes seeking you out, to provide you with the opportunity you need. As for your place of solace, it just so happens that this was also my place of solace, at least for tonight. I was asking the Lord for guidance on how best to approach you, and as I was leaving I spotted you in the graveyard. Did He provide me you? Perhaps. But I suppose that's all part of the journey, isn't it?"

As Raynuad turned and left, Gaetan remained a few moments longer in that cold, moonlight graveyard, slightly stunned, yet deep inside the fierce embers of his heart blazed again.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Co-Op with GeneralHankerchief

[OverKnight]

York, 1096

Severin de Brie was not a happy man. It seemed to him that he had been on this accursed Isle for an eternity. The weather was horrible, the food was worse and the locals, boors. At least he was in England now, marginally more civilized, after several futile years among the savages to the North. The only word of french the Scots seemed to speak was "non", for they would not have an alliance.

Of course the Normans were just as bad, they spoke more French, if with an atrocious accent, but were just as obstinate. No exchange of land was good enough for them, no matter how Severin had cajoled or begged. Even worse, the diplomat knew that his failure had become fodder for the latest Seneschal election back home. He winced each time he received news about the Conseil from Geoffroi in Paris. His name was known among the powerful, but for all the wrong reasons.

As Severin sat in his rented room in York, physical evidence of how bad it had gotten lay before him. On a table, illuminated by a single candle, were two letters, both opened. One had the seal of the Seneschal, the other the King. Each had a very different and contradictory task for him.

Severin sighed the sigh of a defeated man. The Seneschal commanded the diplomats, but the King was the King. Whatever he did, he would make a powerful enemy. This terrible exile in a cold, sodden backwater might last forever.

"How could things get any worse?" he said aloud.

A sudden breeze from the window behind him snuffed out the candle.

"Touche," he muttered, reaching for the tinderbox.

Suddenly a gloved hand clamped over his mouth. Severin tried to scream but only a muffled squeak escaped. The hand pulled his head back and up. Severin thrashed, staring up at the darkness of the ceiliing, eyes wide, when he suddenly felt cold steel at his throat.

"Things can always get worse, de Brie. I would suggest that you cease your struggles, or you may get cut," whispered a voice at his ear.

Severin froze, but swallowed nervously. His adam's apple scraped the blade, and he could feel a spurt of warmness travel down the skin of his throat.

"Tres bien," the voice continued, "Quite the dilemma you seem to have before you. I anticipated such an event since the election, and traveled north to personally consult with you."

The hand over his mouth roughly moved to his forehead, "You may speak, but remember one scream and. . ."

Severin shivered, "I'll make the deal! The alliance! I will!"

The voice tsked in his ear, "You are quite mistaken, there will be no alliance. You are being removed from those negotiations."

Severin's bladder let go, and the stink of urine filled the room, "Please no! I'll do anything you ask, just tell me what to do!"

There was a dark chuckle behind him, "How felicitious. Be sure that you follow all instructions from our beloved Seneschal, because I will be watching."

Severin could feel movement around him, and then the knife was gone from his throat. Clasping a hand to his wound, he turned toward the window.

A figured, outlined by moonlight, crouched there.

"Perhaps a study of magyar would be in order," the shadow said.

And was gone.

When Severin relit the candle, the royal letter was as well.

[Braden]

Metz castle.

Henri, Prince of the realm sat in the quarters allocated them at Metz. Across the table, Andreas idly prodded the last of his meal whilst he listened to Henri talk. They had just received a letter from the King, Henri’s father.

“It changes nothing Andreas, nothing. This is an old trick of my fathers, one he has used these past 5 years to continue to keep me side-lined whilst he groomed Louis for succession, promises Andreas, nothing but the empty promises we’ve both had these past years…I grow weary of all.”

Andreas nodded. He’d hoped, for the good of Henri, that this may have been different but it was hard to believe after so many false starts, especially now that Henri had decided to take things into his own hands…regardless of his Fathers instructions. Was the letter in response to Henri’s actions or had it just coincidentally arrived with them at this time and offered a genuine olive branch? Even Andreas, knowledgeable of court politics couldn’t be sure.

“Then what is my lords wish?”

Henri turned from Andreas and stared at the fire thinking, as he was often to do, before replying.

“Come with me?”

“Pardon my lord??”

“Come with me, to the borders. My father waits with an army there and there is where we will not only have our answers when I see my father face-to-face again after so long but we will be in a position to be unavoidably placed in harms way.”

Henri’s eyes flashed with youthful excitement at the thought of seeing an army, let alone the thrill of potential danger so near to Imperial forces. However, Andreas was of less of an accommodating nature.

“My lord…” he started as diplomatically as possible “…whilst I am your tutor, I am under the direct employ of your father and I do not feel this would be his intention.”

Andreas diverted his eyes from Henri, well aware that he’d perhaps spoken out of turn. However, it seemed that Henri was more tactically astute than he’d thought and had already come up with an answer…

“It is not just I who has been left to rot Andreas. What of your mother, passed by this last year? Did you have permission to see her in her illness, or even to attend her funeral? Do you not have reason…as much as I…to move your life forwards in the presence of the King?”

Andreas thought for long moments. It was true indeed, he had personal “grievance” with how he had been treated, and whilst as a lowly vassal to the Royal household he should perhaps expect no less, he couldn’t help but feel the pressure building in his heart for more or at least a half-chance for something greater.

Now looking more fully at the young Prince he resolved himself.

“Indeed, it is as you say my lord. I will follow you.”

“Then that is settled. Rest well now, I will start making arrangements for our travel. If my Father is in anyway genuine in his compassion, or at the very least wishes it to appear so, it may be an opportunity for us to provide more than just our horses.”