UotI Diplomacy Thread

[Zim]

Dumfries is in the best location. Despite its small size it commands a large section of southern Scotland. No Scottish settlement on the west coast is located as centrally between factions...

We had thought a diplomat would be sent to acquire it. It can also be abandoned to local rebels for your men to take over.

[Nightbringer]

I believe that would be quicker as it will take a few turns for our diplomat to arrive.

[Zim]

It shall be done.

[Myth]

The King is dead! Henry III of England has met his demise on the field of battle. Long live King John of Nottingham!

To the Welsh we say - when this war is over only one of our peoples shall have a future.

[Zim]

Hagar the Addled, commander of the Norse Diplomatic Corps, takes a look around the empty room. Hmmm, more for me then he thinks to himself as he gathers any not yet empty bottles of mead together and starts drinking directly from the first.Several bottles in he raises his cup and makes a toast.

"To the Norsh *hic* and English, soon to be rulers of these great isles!"

[Nightbringer]

The Irish diplomat, who has retreated to a corner with the Welsh one, scowls over at the Norsemen.

"If it is to be so, it is only because your people where bought off by a tyrannical dictator who would commit genocide against both the Welsh and my own people."

[Myth]

The English diplomat raises his head from a map that has been laid down in front of him. "HEAR HEAR!" he bellows, and returns the toast with his goblet of French wine.

[Nightbringer]

"Glad to hear that the Englishmen hates his King as much as I do." The Irishmen comments, smirking.

[Myth]

The Englishman raises his eyes, with sincere surprise written on his face. That, or he is unnaturally good at mocking his opponents. "Still here friend? I thought you had turned tail after the news of King Brian being tossed about by our troops like a rag doll, and Ireland being set on fire by the brave Norse!"

He took a sip from his silver goblet and continued with a calm voice: "We have bought nothing, the alliance between the crowns of Norway and England is based on warrior's honor and virtue, things your King Brain knows little of."

[Zim]

Hagar stands up to address the Irish diplomat but, surprised to find the world spinning around him, falls to the floor with a crash.

[Myth]

*story*

"Your Majesty, the army will be upon the town of Shaftsburry come morning." The captain's voice was raspy, that of an old soldier who shouts every day and drinks every night. He sounded like he had a bad tooth, and someone was directly responsible for it.

King Simon, first of that name, king of England and Wales, duke of Normandy and Defender of the Faith, sat in his crimson throneroom, the walls adorned with the three golden lions of England that seemed to move with the flickering torchlight.

The King was a medium sized fellow, lean and with a crooked nose. A severe scar ran from his right brow to his upper lip, courtesy of a Welsh axe that had nearly split his head in twine at the battle of Nottingham, back when he had been naught but John's first in command. Simon was dressed in a plain black and grey grab - breeches and padded dublet, and wore his hair short trimmed, as was his beard. The only regalia upon the King's person was the golden chain that had been recovered from Llywelyn's coffers, which the Welshman in turn had pillaged off of Henry III's dead body.

"Good. What of the Prince and Ambrose?" Henry's voice was unremarkable. Not what one would expect from a King of England. Though people's expectations of their Kings rarely had roots in the reality of their situation.

"They have been precise and will merge their armies with ours. Together we shall advance on Wales and root out the rebels from their hiding holes. With the help of these cannons we shipped from France we'll be able to tear trough their walls with terrible swiftness!" the Captain sounded excited, as much as he could possibly be, given the fact that he had burried two sons and a wife during the past decade of war. King Simon was apathetic - he felt nothing, apart from maybe the need do loosen his bowels. Perhaps he had to feel the righteous wrath of John, or the noble contempt of Henry, but there was naught but silence in his heart.

England had burried Henry III and Edward I long ago, their stone tombs now adorning the inner sanctum of St John's Chapel below the White Tower. With them, the true royal bloodline of England had ended, though there were many a Lord who claimed kinship to Willam I in one form or another. None of them had the power or influence to take the throne however, not at the present, when the King had the whole of the realm's levy raised and doing his bidding, commanded by loyal generals. Simon had England by the throat and the Welsh by the balls, yet he felt nothing.

It had never been his desire to be King, as much as his advisers seemed to think otherwise. John had been eager and hot-blooded, wanting to prove himself and to win glory, and perhaps in some fashion he had beleived himself to be King. Simon however, had no such delusions plaguing his mind. He was, and always had been, a Knight of the realm and a soldier. He had won his spurs at the age of seventeen, he had commanded his first men at the age of twenty and two. Yet he had never approached King Henry's grace and eloquence, Edward's zeal or John's skill at arms and battle lust.

Yet it had now fallen to him to finish what greater men had started, and it seemed that he, the least likely and able, would be the one to reap the fruits of victory in the end.

Henry had failed due to pride - he had thought his armies invincible, untill Llywelyn had set his camp ablaze in the dark of night, and massacred his men. Edward had fallen because of his unyuielding nature and honor. People tell the story of how he single handedly held the battlements of the inner keep of Gloucester castle and it had taken two score Welsh archers to take him down.

But the people were a supersticous lot that needed heroes as much as they needed giants and witches. Edward had died face-first in the mud, his trhoat cut by an unnamed Welsham, after being pulled down from his Destrier. "I suppose it was more valorous to defend the gate from the back of a horse." Simon thoguht as he waved off the servant and poured his own wine, something that still sparked surprise in the staff.

John... John the Bastard, as he had called himself, never claiming to be the rightfull King of England. Yet he had been the saviour of a land that had been put to the torch and sword for the better part of a decade. At a time when England's armies had suffered defeat after defeat by the alliance of Ireland and Wales, when the smallfolk scared their children with the name "Lllewelyn" instead of with goblins or ghouls, John had come, and with his band of Knights, had raised such an army and won such ferocious victories, that were unmatched by any other King of England after William of Normandy.

Yet Simon suspected that John the Bastard was now the monster with which the Welsh milkmaids and mothers scare their children. For all his mighty victories and amazing skill as a tactitian and strategist, John had none of his former liege's regard for chivalry or valour. So many heads on spikes, so much torture and death, so many wailing women and crying children had filled Simon's nightmares, that he had doubts whether it had been worth it in the end.

It had been, that much was obvious, as now England was thriving and London had never fallen to the enemy. Yet John lay no more alive then Henry or Edward, in his plain grave behind Westminster Abbey. It had been his explicit desire to be burried as a common man would be, he had spoken this whilst on his deathbed, while the Irish assassins's poison ate his guts and set his blood on fire.

King John, who had never lost a battle, had died not from sword or spear or axe, but from a flask of wine. So much for heroes and the hope of the smallfolk.

Simon had been more cautious after he had been awoken one morning in his tent to be notified that John, his old comrade at arms, had now named him King. All the servile curs and scheming Lords did naught but hastily pledge allegiance, John's iron fist still gripping their man-parts from the grave. Simon had been John's first in comand and had slaughtered his fair share of Welshmen and Irishmen. He had no more chivalry than your average soldier, which meant when he found an enemy down he would put his sword trough his throat instead of help him up. That perhaps, had the nobility frightened - one who had the loyalty of the armies despite most of them being pledged to that liege-Lord or other. And still many of the petty Lords and most of the Midlands were wtih Simon as well. He had been an undesirable target to challenge, particularly now when John's momentum had halted with his death.

Simon had been careful, taking his time, building his forces, and waiting for the Welsh to starve themselves out in the barren hillside they called home. England was rich and if there was one thing Simon took pride in, was that he had made it that much richer after his ascension to the throne. He had built shipyards and warehouses, he had sewn fields and established marketplaces. All while slowly pushing Ireland and Wales further back. The smallfolk loved the wealth he had bestowed on the realm, his enemies feared the armies he had raised, yet Simon still lived in the shadow of his predescessors.

That is why, even now, his throneroom in Nottingham castle had been decorated with enormous portraits of Henry III, Edward I and King John II "the Bastard". At least Simon had fared better then the ill-fated John I, whom the smallfolk had dubbed John the Lame, because he had been put down by Llewelyn within a year of his ascension, as if he had been a farmer's lame horse.

Llewelyn, the name still evoked a mixture of hatred and respect in Simon's gut. The King paced nervously from his throne to the window, staring at the darkness of the castle below. Llewelyn the Raider, Llewelyn the Just, Llewelyn the Brigand - it all depended on whom you asked. Simon had been glad he did not have to face the Welsh commander in battle, elsewise England would have been lacking one more kngiht and Llewelyn would have had one more coat of arms to hang in his great hall in Caernavernon.

John had beaten him, him and Brian of Ireland, in a bloody pitched battle that had not been won or lost until sundown. The only thing that Simon remembered was hacking left and right like a madman, his sword arm aching, his mail dented in several places by Welsh arrows, and a swirl of crimson blood, orange torchlinght and gleaming of armour around him. Someone had knocked his helm off, and Simon's ears had been ringing for what seemed an eterninty, which he later mused had been a boon, because it prevented him from hearing the screams of the dying men and horses.

A nightmare of a night, a massacre worthy of a thousand butcher's shops, a river of blood, entrails and faeces, and somehow John had emerged victorious and Llywelyn and Brian had ran like whipped curs. John the Bastard - Simon's brother in arms, a man whom he both had loved and hated. The Archbishop of Canterbury had approached him the other night, suggesting John as a martyr for the faith. He had even prepared a letter for the Vatican. That had provoked such a belly-aching laughter from Simon that he had snorted a mixture of wine and half chewed boiled meats onto his Eminency's fancy purple robes.

"John? A martyr? That's like suggesting a bear to be named Princess of England! Simon had bellowed, and his retinue had laughed - all men who had served under John. They knew it to be true, and if John had been alive he would have pissed himself laughing. The servile curs in the feast hall had laughed as well, albeit nervously and only after Simon. The Archbishop had not, but then again men of the cloth rarely did. Too much praying would do that to a man, and worse. Edward would have been still alive if he had been capable of deceit and threachery, but he had chosen the righteous way and paid for it. Yet the Chirch wanted to name John the Bastard as martyr, because he was popular with the small folk. He had been the saviour of England after all.

Simon stood in his throne room, his hands clasped behind his back, an old wound aching in his right thigh and his scar itching like a line of ants crawling across his face. "Do you think I will be remembered as a good King, Edgar?" he asked the captain.

"Without a doubt Sire, you will be remembered as the man who defeated Wales and unified England."

"John deafeated Llewelyn. I'm just the man who is kicking his corpse." Simon remarked in a flat tone. He supressed the urge to reach for the cup of wine on the edge of the window. Wine had killed his predescessor.

"Maybe so. Then be remembered as the man who rebuilt England from the ashes of war and devastation."

"That..." Simon turned around, a cold rage building inside him. Wales. The very nation was like a pus-ridden sore on his side. "Or be remembered as the man who removed Wales from the map of Europe. Not defeat them, nor subjugate them or make them our vassals."

"What is your meaning, sire?" Edgar sounded confused. He had been a simple soldier, and his skill with the sword did not at all match with his ability to read.

"In Oxford I read a historical account of the old Romans. Have you ever heard of Carthage?"

"No Sire, I'm afraid I'm sorely lacking in knowledge of the ancient world. Things that happened before the birth of Lord Jesus Crhist, why who can say what really transpired back then."

"The scribes can, those who can read and write Latin. Let me tell you a story, of how a nation can rise to power behind one storng leader, and then be reduced to dust upon his demise..."