Stories Thread

[Zim]

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

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

[econ21]

The Ballad of Hermant Mauvoisin


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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

“What meat is in this?” he demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

[GeneralHankerchief]

Toulouse, 1080

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[deguerra]

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

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

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

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

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

[ULC]

Reims, 1080

"These are my chambers?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[OverKnight]

Reims, 1081

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[AussieGiant]

Rennes, 1081

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

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

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

"All right you 'ethens!!

Were going to Pariee!!

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

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

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

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

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

[TinCow]

1060 AD

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

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

“Which one of my sons did this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[woad&fangs]

1079, Manor of the Earl of Kent

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

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

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

1080, suppressing a revolt in the countryside of Kent

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

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

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

1080, at the manor a few weeks after the battle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will do my best, Uncle.”

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

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

[Rowan]

French Countryside, 1080

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

[KnightnDay]

1080AD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Rowan]

French countryside, 1080

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

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

[Cecil XIX]

Provence, 1020 A.D.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Knights and peasants."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[TheFlax]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

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

Paris, 1080. One day before the tournament.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My apologies father for my unwarranted tardiness."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turning to the King, Louis continued,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Ignoramus]

Bourgogne, 1080

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Ituralde]

South-Eastern France, 1079

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Andres]

Near Rochefort - 1079.

Thierry looked at the group of peasants in the distance.

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

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

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

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

"Oui seigneur," the older man said.

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

***

Near Rochefort 1079 - later that day.

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

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

A peasant was brought forward.

"Why is he still alive."

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

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

"But, seigneur."

Thierry grinned.

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

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

***

Rochefort - 1080

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

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

"You imbécile! You moron!"

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

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

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

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

His father stood up.

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

***

Paris - 1080

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

"Je suis libre, finalement!"

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

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

[TinCow]

1069 AD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Cecil XIX]

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

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

[Cecil XIX]

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

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

[Ignoramus]

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

Certainly, my Duc! It will be an honour.

[AussieGiant]

Paris 1080 shortly before the tournament

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

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

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

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

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

"Well no...'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[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.

[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.

[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.