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Thread: Fitzjohn

  1. #1
    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    Part one: Red banners, blue banners

    The watchman, Thomas Style, first saw the riders. He awoke the bleary-eyed sergeant, a Scotsman who grunted and pronounced, “Bloody Lancers. See how they ride, Thomas? They always ride like that, hurtin’ the poor horses.” He looked out through the passing night, still half-asleep, before repeating, “Aye. Bloody Lancers.”
    “What’s wrong with Lancers, Rob?” the watchman asked. He was still just a boy, and was not aware of the infantryman’s contempt of the mounted wing of the army.
    “Rich buggers, that’s what’s wrong with ‘em. ‘Lord Fitzwilliamson, Duke of somewhereorother and commander of the King’s army’” the sergeant mocked, striking a stupid pose as he did. “‘Sides, they’re arrogant an’ all. ‘You, commoner, fetch my horse some hay’ they says” he looked down his nose at the watchman as he said this, again mocking the upper classes.
    “Should I light the watchfire?” asked Style,
    “Go on ‘en.”

    The messenger stood in front of the Englishman, Baron Hugh Fitzjohn.
    “Lord Stephan de Toulouse sends word, monsieur, zat ze armies of ze English King occupy ze land of Aquitaine against ze will of ze French people. ‘E asks zat you remove your armies from zis province, or ‘e will be forced to revert to crude warfare.”
    “Tell the Lord Stephan, that this land belongs to King Henry II, and any attempt to take it will be resisted by the King’s armies. Now go!”
    “My Lord, ze Lord Stephan de…”
    “GO!” Fitzjohn interrupted fiercely. The messenger took the hint and left. “Damn their eyes. Langland!”

    “Wrong arm, yer fool!” the sergeant laughed as the boy struggled to put on his chainmail coat.
    “I knows. I knows.”
    “Yer don’t, or yer’d put it on right the firs’ time!”
    “What’s these Frenchies like anyway?”
    “Same as you English. Knights in fancy armour and ord’nary men in no armour. Rich men leadin’ poor men.”
    “But…”
    “But nothin’. All comes down to who’s got more men, or better weapons, or wha’ever. No, the shield goes on the left arm ye eejit!”

    A calm, fine day. A lovely day, were it not for the French. A month had passed since the messengers had left, indignantly trotting out of the castle as though it belonged to them. Soon, God forbid, it might thought Fitzjohn, surveying his men.
    “Frenchies forming up in the valley, sir. #Looks like about 5,000 men, sir.” Panted the scout, out of breath from the run up the hill that the English army was positioned on.
    Damn their eyes 5,000! That’s twice what we have! Let’s hope those Welshmen do their jobs right.
    “Those longbows are frightening, sir.” The scout seemed to know what he was thinking.
    “Hmm… Cavalry on the flanks, Langland?” he turned to his squire.
    “Yes, sir”
    “Good. The whole battle rests on those Welshmen.” He gestured to the longbowmen forming up behind the wall of spears, “God help us.”

    They could see the French now. Their blue banners swayed in the air above blocks of blue soldiers. The sun glinted off their spears, swords and shields. All was still. The French commander was probably still deciding whether to launch the cavalry scouts, or just attack. Rob Ross and Thomas Style stood close to the centre of the English line, two of the ‘lucky’ ones. The front row, about as lucky as the pox. They rested their heavy spears on their shoulders, like all the other soldiers. Their teardrop shields were attached to their left forearms, creating a form of the old ‘shield wall’ their ancestors had fought in. The line seemed to stretch forever to their left and right. Behind them were the longbowmen, those tough Welshman who held their massive bows down by their sides. Off in the distance, they could see the scouts trading the first blows of the engagement, the horsemen now attacking each other, now withdrawing, now attacking. It seemed so far away, down there in the valley, as though the battle was just there, and didn’t apply up on the hill. The English horsemen withdrew first. First blood to the French, it seemed from the line. The initial skirmishes were over, now, and the French began to advance.

    “Here they come, sir.”
    “Hmm… Move the line forward ten paces.” Fitzjohn stood at the back, just to the right of the centre, as the ancient generals had done.
    “Aye, sir.” Langland then shouted, “LINE WILL MOVE TEN PACES FORWARDS!” The various officers and sergeants along the line repeated the order, and slowly the line shuffled forwards.
    “Faster, damn you! My God, I hope they move their mangy, pox-ridden hides a little faster when the French arrive!” Fitzjohn rode forward his ten paces, and then said, “Langland, I’m going to the longbowmen. Who’s commanding them? Anyway, I’m going to give the orders there. Whoever it is, they’ll probably end up firing far too early.”

    The French were at the foot of the hill, now, and behind them Ross and Style heard Fitzjohn roaring orders they didn’t understand, his sword raised. Suddenly, he swept his sword down, and the sky went black. The bodkin arrows shot overheard. The young ones crouched and covered their heads. The veterans just stood, knowing that the longbowmen were better than that. The arrows struck the front row of the French line, and bodies fell, the line weakening for a second, but then the men behind stepped forwards, and the line kept marching up the hill as though nothing had happened.
    “Merciful Lord” Style, pious to the end, exclaimed to Ross, who just stood, facing forward. He was waiting for the French reply. There, the French crossbowmen stopped, took aim, and fired. But the morning air had dampened their strings, and those that did fire fell short. A few lucky shots, a few dead, but nothing serious. The longbows answered, their strings better looked after, their arrows doing real damage. Again, the French stepped over their dead, and kept going.
    “Name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Protect me, Lord, from those who wish to do me harm. Amen.” The Scotsman looked up again, reassured now.

    “Send the Cavalry out wide. We’ll hold them, then flank them.”
    “Sir.” The cavalryman rode back to the body of armoured, mounted Knights.
    “When the Frenchy gets to that point,” Fitzjohn gestured to a piece of scrub twenty paces ahead of the English line, “charge.”
    “Sir.” The spear officer did as the cavalryman had done, walking back to his line.

    The longbows had fired about ten volleys at the enemy line, now, and they would have to stop soon, Fitzjohn knew, as he swept down his sword, ordering the eleventh volley at the French line. They were getting close, and the longbows would soon be forced to concentrate on the enemy crossbowmen, as the spears of both lines would be locked together, inseparable.
    “You!” Fitzjohn gestured to the man who was supposed to be in command. What was his name? Never mind. “You have command of these Welshmen. Target the crossbowmen.”
    “Sir. The crossbowmen, sir.” The man knew not to aggravate Fitzjohn with questions. That just made him angrier.
    “Don’t repeat it, DO IT!”
    “Yes, sir Bowmen, present!”
    “Now where are those damned cavalrymen? Langland!”

    “Where are those cav’lrymen? Rich buggers…” Ross scanned the horizon, always returning to the French line, always looking for the second when the enemy spearmen began to run, when the fight began.
    “Gone, Rob. Gone.” Style looked distraught.
    “Better off without ‘em. Now look for’ard, boy!”

    There, they were at that piece of scrub he’d shown. Why isn’t that spear officer charging his men? And where are those damned cavalry? Damn them all! Fitzjohn dismounted, shoving the reins of his horse at Langland. He was running through the longbowmen, who were now duelling with the enemy crossbows. There, the line of spearmen. He kept running.
    “Charge! Charge, damn your eyes! CHARGE!” #He reached the front row, “Damn you all Charge, you pox-ridden, stinking cowards” he screamed as the men reacted to the heavily armoured Baron in their front row, and began to run forwards.

    “Come, on Thomas! Let’s go!” shouted Ross as the Baron came up level with them. They began to run at the French, the gap closed, and then the two lines struck.

    Fitzjohn was still with the spearmen, swinging his huge sword at the blue spearmen in front of him. To his left and right, he could see the line was holding. A Frenchman thrust his spear at him. Fitzjohn batted it aside, snarled, and reversed his parry into the man’s neck. Prising the sword away from the limp body, he stabbed at the Frenchman to his left. He twisted the blade free, and glanced to his left and right. Still holding. Good. He parried another thrust, this time hacking down at the man’s shoulder. He had to get out of the spear block if he was to command the battle, but he couldn’t leave, the men would think he was running away. He stabbed a Frenchman in the guts, twisting the sword to free it as the man slumped. He couldn’t leave the fight. He’d have to leave the other aspects of the battle to his subordinates. Damn.

    Ross and Style were close to Fitzjohn, still in the centre of the battle line. They thrusted their spears at the French, parrying and deflecting blows on their shields as they did. Ross was fighting like a demon, screaming Highland war cries. He caught a spear on his shield, stabbing the man in the ribs. The spear stuck. He let go, still catching blows on his shield. He thrust the end at a Frenchman, catching him in the stomach. He then used the metal boss to smash the man’s skull. Scrabbling for a weapon, he picked up a French spear. Screaming a challenge, he got up, driving the spear up into the ribs of a Frenchman about to skewer Style. #Men were falling left and right. Out of the corner of his eye, Ross saw one of the red banners fall. It was quickly hoisted up again, and brought back into the third rank, where it was safe.

    Casualties seemed even to Fitzjohn, it was a case of who lost their nerve first and ran. A few men running would send the rest flying. That could not happen.
    “Hold firm! Hold Firm!” he hacked and slashed at the blue soldiers, snarling like a madman. A Frenchman lunged at him; he parried the blow and stabbed the man in the neck. The man behind him did not step forward into his place. Instead he turned and ran. The men next to him, seeing their comrade flee, also ran. Just as Fitzjohn had hoped, the enemy had lost their nerve first. The rout snowballed and soon the French battle line was in full flight. He saw some men about to chase the routing French.
    “Hold position! A pox on any man who chases!” he could not give up the high ground. Fitzjohn turned, heading back to the command position to find out how the rest of the battle was going.

    “We beat them back Rob! We beat them!” Style was elated.
    “They might not even come back.” Ross did not believe this, not for a second, but he had to keep Style from panicking.
    “Line will move back five paces.” Said the officer, repeating the orders he had just been given. Although they could still see the bodies of their comrades and enemies, they needn’t stand on them, so the line was moving back. Ross and Style turned and shuffled back, hearing the worse educated soldiers counting the steps aloud on their fingers.

    “THE BAGGAGE TRAIN? THEY’RE LOOTING THE BAGGAGE TRAIN?” Fitzjohn’s face was a most unhealthy shade of deep purple. “WELL TELL THEM TO GET THEIR ARMOURED BACKSIDES BACK HERE. NOW!” the cavalry officer, in his infinite cavalryman’s wisdom, was miles away, looting the French tents and wagons. Damn him. Damn the cavalry. Damn everything. Climbing back onto his horse, he saw the French; now back at the bottom of the valley. The crossbows and longbows had long run out of arrows and bolts, and the lines of spear were slowly reforming, far back from the lines. If only he had the cavalry, Fitzjohn could charge downhill, routing the crossbowmen and cavalry, who would then rout the spearmen, again. The battle would be over in minutes. But his only horses were himself and his bodyguards. He stared at the Welshmen, taking off their bows and empty quivers, sitting down on the grass. The Welshmen! They don’t have armour to slow them down, and we can catch the armoured crossbowmen easily Yes, he would turn the bowmen into a scratch light infantry unit. He would have preferred Highlanders, those tough clansmen. Oh, for a few hundred clansmen!
    “Langland! Tell those idle Welshmen,” he gestured at the bowmen sitting on the grass, “to leave their bows, quivers, and anything else they use for archery. Swords and round-shields only.”
    “Sir?” Langland did not understand
    “They’re going to charge.”
    “Charge, Sir?”
    “Yes Charge, Langland”
    “Sir.” Langland gave in, “LONGBOWS, DROP ARCHERY EQUIPMENT. SWORDS AND SHIELDS ONLY!”

    “Eh? What’s happening, Rob?”
    “I don’t know laddy. I don’t know.”
    “Company, loose formation. Let the Welshmen through.” The order was passed along the line, and a low murmur spread down the line.
    “The bowmen, Rob?” Ross simply shrugged, and took his two paces right before facing forwards again. Style, who now understood he wouldn’t get an answer, did the same.

    “Bowmen, on me Charge!” Fitzjohn and his bodyguards galloped down the hill, not even looking back to see if the bowmen were following. #They needn’t have bothered, anyway. The bowmen, confused by the orders as they were, were running down the hill, looking menacing. About the first time I’ve ever seen a Welshman look menacing, let alone hundreds of them! thought Fitzjohn as he levelled his cavalryman’s lance, ready for the charge. He and his bodyguards were far in front of the bowmen. But by the time the Frenchy had reacted to my charge, those Welshmen would have arrived. The spearmen behind closed and began to run down the hill. What? That wasn’t what I told Langland! Damn him to hell!

    “Line will charge!” the officer shouted, once again merely the messenger, the relay from senior officers to men. Oh, but to be a general He thought as the men began to jog down the hill.

    “We’re off, sonny” Ross was still confused as to the bowmen, but it felt good to be the one acting, rather than reacting. He jogged, trying to avoid the bodies that lay where the French attack had been. Style was looking sick. Getting past the bodies, they saw the general’s men strike the line of crossbowmen.

    Fitzjohn thrust his lance at the nearest crossbowman, skewering him. The lance splintered. Damn! He unsheathed his sword, hacking to the left and right of his horse. A Frenchman aimed his crossbow, with a bolt he had found on the ground at Fitzjohn, and fired. But the bowstring was damp, and the bolt did not fire. Dropping the unwieldy crossbow, the man scrabbled for his dagger. Fitzjohn snarled, and slashed at his throat. The man fell. Stabbing another, he twisted the blade free as the Welshmen arrived. The crossbowmen wavered, then ran.

    The spearmen were not far behind the bowmen, and soon the battle line had reformed, spear then bow, ready to meet the cavalry. Except they didn’t.

    Fitzjohn had the initiative; he had to press the charge home. His men hacked at the fleeing crossbowmen.
    “Knights! To me!” the bodyguards soon reformed. “Their general! Twenty gold pieces to the man who kills him!” he put his exhausted horse into a last gallop, whispering to it “Just this one more, Copenhagen, then you can rest.” The French general (What was his name? Lord Stephan de somewhereorother) and his bodyguards were up ahead. As he closed, he saw the cavalry arrive from the baggage train, straight into the fleeing spearmen and crossbowmen. That’s the one thing they can do right, he reflected, chase down routing troops. And people call them chivalrous #He closed with the French general’s men, again hacking left and right. #However, the French lord turned out to have nothing to back up the tough words he had sent the previous month. He and his men turned and fled, and he saw one of his men cut down a knight with a plume in his helmet. Damn. I’d hoped to kill the man myself, save the expense. That’s twenty pieces gone. #

    Fitzjohn dismounted in front of the men, walking along the line of spears, rapping his knuckles on their breastplates.
    “You did well today, men. The glory of the crown and the army is preserved!” he reached to end of the front row of spears, and walked past the others to the bowmen behind “And you lot did reasonably well, too. I’m pleased.” a cheer broke out among the ranks of Welshmen.

    “Hey, he rapped his knuckles on me breastplate, Rob! And yours, too!” Style was ecstatic.
    “Aye, he did. Said we did well. He may be a rich bugger, an’ he may have the temper of a rabid wolf, but I like that Baron Fitzjohn. Brave rich bugger.”

    *EDIT* had to put in italics for the thoughts
    *EDITY EDIT* am the king of typoes...
    *EDIFICATE* reitalicising for new thread
    Last edited by Axeknight; 08-10-2004 at 21:48.

  2. #2
    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    Part two: Men of the night

    “Monsieur, monsieur!” The man walked slowly through the street, always looking to his sides. He pretended to shrug off the attentions of the local woman, looking to profit from his apparent loneliness, and slipped the note into her hand without breaking his stride. The night was dangerous; the man had to be careful. He wore a large, ill-fitting cape, with a pair of breeches with the stripes that were fashionable the previous year, and a shirt that was fashionable two years previously, and a sword in an ever so slightly rusty scabbard. In all, he looked like a not particularly well-off man at arms, not nearly so rich as a Knight or Lord, but not a peasant, either. He headed down the street, still nervously touching his sword from time to time. He had to keep up the ‘poorish man at arms’ act, or he would arouse suspicion. And ‘poorish men at arms’ were all afraid of being robbed. There were plenty of professional soldiers in the town, men who could not afford their own armour and had taken theirs from dead nobles. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a soldier accept the offer from the woman he had refused. They went into the inn. The man kept on walking. The soldier was Celine’s business now.

    “I will do it, monsieur. Now money, monsieur.” Celine looked nervously about her,
    “Good, good. Here it is, my Celine, here it is.” The man spoke soothingly, and handed over the cloth bag.
    “Thank you, monsieur, thank you.”
    “Now go. Make sure no one sees you. Go back to your corner. The militia knows you, they won’t pester you.”
    “Yes. Thank you, monsieur!” the woman walked quickly away, hiding the bag. You can always rely on them, reflected the man, to do anything for money. After all, that’s how they make their living.

    Baron Hugh Fitzjohn was now known to his men as ‘Hero of Aquitaine’, or, in quieter company ‘The Rabid Baron’, due to his unquestionable battle prowess and even less questionably short temper. Although the men feared his anger, they also liked him. He sat at his oak table, reading and rereading the letter he had been sent.


    # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Year of our Lord 1260,
    # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Royal Estates


    Hugh Fitzjohn, of the Barony of Saint-Jean-de-Luz,

    His Highness King Henry II, Lord of England, Ireland, Wales, Scotland and rightful Lord of France, recognizes your glorious victory of late. His highness is pleased, and has decided, in his divine-given wisdom, to grant you a contingent of five hundred of his majesty’s knights, that you may better defend the province of Aquitaine against those who would falsely claim France for their own.

    Your humble servant,
    W. de Montfort, King’s secretary



    After the fourth reread of the letter, Fitzjohn finally spoke,
    “Langland! Our food provisions; how are they?”
    “We can just support what we have, Sir, little more.”
    “Damn them! Of all the reinforcements I could have been sent… Welsh longbowmen, spearmen, men-at-arms… Of all the reinforcements, they give me knights! Five hundred infantrymen I could feed, but five hundred well-fed knights and nigh-on a thousand horses with them! Langland, how goes our economy?”
    “The crop was less than expected last year, Sir, though a trading expedition set out from our harbour last year, they may be back soon, God willing.”
    “Let us hope they come back, and with something expensive!”

    The man rode swiftly through the forest, his scabbard clanging against his boot. He held on to the scabbard with his free hand. He couldn’t be caught now, after all these months spent without suspicion. Breaking out of the forest, he saw the border, and the fort. The watchfire was dull, untended. Good. That meant the watchmen were distracted. #Riding closer, he heard her laughter. Celine was inside. The man broke into a gallop, rode past the fort, and down into the valley below. Safety.

    He had ridden hard, and got to Toulouse two days later. After a night’s restless sleep, filled with the nightmares, he was on the streets. He was dressed normally; he did not need the man-at-arms disguise anymore. He turned right down a filthy back alley, the walls foully discoloured by blood and vomit, and saw the Alehouse. Or rather, heard it. The best way, he had learnt, to find an illegal Alehouse was to listen for the brawling that perpetually went on. Bracing himself, he stepped inside. #Half expecting a sudden silence to fall when he entered, he was relieved when he saw all the customers watching the brawl in the far corner. Both of the fighters were obviously drunk to oblivion, and one seemed to have broken his ankle. The other threw a haphazard punch at the first’s face, connecting with his jaw. The first fighter fell heavily into one of the tables, shattering it. At this, the bartender ran over, apparently to break up the fight. Instead, he kicked the first fighter in the groin.
    “Don’t touch my tables!”

    The ship docked, and a great cheer rose up from the sailors. It was a small duel-sail-square-rigged galley designed for speed, and had left Bergerac port last year brand new, with barely a scratch on her gold-leafed finishings. She now arrived home with barely an inch of her original sailcloth remaining, the mizenmast gone, reducing her to a single sail, and dozens of holes, some left unplugged. The captain clambered down the netting, jumping onto the pontoon with an air of total relief. He dusted himself down, his ‘best uniform’ now looking like something left to the moths for a number of years, and with the blue colour and green facings faded. Striding down the pontoon, he saw the Baron waiting ashore.
    “Captain Stephen Cresacre, captain of his majesty’s ship Cecilia reporting, sir.”
    “Never mind that. What have you? Pray it is expensive!”
    “I bring spices, Sir, from the land of…”
    “I do not care what God-forsaken corner of the heathen world it comes from,” interrupted Fitzjohn, “is it expensive? I have one thousand horses to feed, on top of the rest of the army’s pay.”
    “These spices, Sir, are exotic spices. I bring you, for example,” he brought out a jar from his jacket, filled with black granules, “pepper. Smell it, sir.” Fitzjohn snatched the jar from his hands, and brought it up to his nose. He immediately jerked his head away, and sneezed.
    “My God, and what do you believe can be done with that? Smelling salts?”
    “No Sir, ‘tis a spice for the seasoning of food.” Replied the Captain. Fitzjohn looked at him incredulously,
    “I swear the devil himself would not something so foul-smelling on his meals! What else have you?”

    “I have a job for a man like you.”
    “What?” the second fighter asked
    “There is a lot of gold for you if you do it.” The man took out the cloth bag and dangled it in front of the fighter. He stared at it, then lunged. It was a drunken, uncoordinated lunge, and the man sidestepped to the left, leaving the fighter unbalanced. He hit the floor without even seeming to try to stay upright, out cold. The man shook his head, and moved to the next table.
    “The job is still open.” Again, he dangled the bag in front of the butch-looking Spaniard with the bloodstains on his shirt
    “What do I have to do?” asked the butch-looking Spaniard. Sitting down at the table, the man hushed his voice to a whisper,
    “I want you to kill someone.”

    “Langland! Set up a meeting with the Duke. I must ask for further supplies, if we are to feed these horses.” Fitzjohn had sat up most of the night, by the fire of his office, so still a passer-by would assume he were a statue. With nothing useful on the ship, he had no other option than to go and ask for more supplies. He hated that, as he hated asking anyone for anything.
    “Yes, Sir.” Langland hurried off to find a messenger.

    “The Duke says that the Baron must attend in two days’ time.” The messenger told Langland, before riding off to the stables.
    “The Duke asks that you attend in two days’ time, Sir.” Langland told Fitzjohn, in his office, subtly changing the words used so as not to send the Baron into a flying rage. Langland had been the Baron’s squire in battle and assistant in peace for years, and knew how to keep him calm, for the most part. A lot of the Baron’s rages were inevitable, however, and Langland had learnt, over the years, how to deal with those too. He merely stood, agreed, and didn’t offer any suggestions. Rather like a sergeant to his officers, thought Langland to himself with a smirk. Once he found the messenger, he told him,
    “The Baron will attend.”

    The Spaniard’s name was Diego, and he had fled his home in Navarre years ago, when he was called up to fight in the King’s armies. He had decided becoming a pincushion for enemy arrows was not for him, and ran. Once in Toulouse, he had tried to get a job as an apprentice to a metalsmith, but had had little luck and now spent the few gold pieces he got as a rat-killer drowning his sorrows in the Alehouses. But now that had changed. The mysterious man at the Alehouse two days ago had offered him more money than he had ever seen in his life, and he was sure, with the limited military training he had received before his desertion, that he could survive after he had done the deed. Now, he skulked in the bushes around the castle. Although he had not wanted to attack in daylight, he had intercepted a rider on the road away from the castle. The messenger had told him the Duke was leaving the next day, after a meeting with a minor Baron. Checking the outer walls behind him for guards, he began to move, running hunched over until he reached the wall of the keep. The guard was still gone. He took out the oriental grappling hook provided by the Alehouse man, swinging it around his head, before throwing it at the window. He began to climb.

    Fitzjohn rode through the gates and up to the keep. When challenged at the doorway, he responded with an angry ‘Fitzjohn!’ not breaking his stride as he walked into the keep. Having been to Bordeaux Castle before, Fitzjohn knew that the Duke’s office was on the second floor. He jogged up the spiral steps, his sword clanking against his boots. On the first floor, he was again challenged, and responded,
    “Fitzjohn! I have an appointment!”
    “The Duke is busy, you shall have…” the squire told him
    “I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT!” Fitzjohn interrupted savagely, again not breaking his stride.

    The Duke of Aquitaine, Henry de Bourneville, walked into his office. He walked slowly, which allowed Diego to creep up from his hiding place behind the door without hurrying. He got close to the Duke, drew his knife, and stabbed him in the back of the neck. The Duke retched; Diego clasped his hand around the Duke’s mouth, and twisted the blade. Henry de Bourneville died quietly. Diego slowly released his grasp, letting the Duke down slowly so as not to make a noise. At that point the door burst open.

    “My Duke, I am here…” Fitzjohn strode in talking, then stopped abruptly. The first thing he noticed, due to the fact he had his head bowed, was the blood. He looked up to see a tanned man with a dagger who had been dragging the Duke’s body, but had stopped, paralyzed by shock. Diego lunged, dagger drawn. Fitzjohn crouched low and grabbed Diego around the ankles, dropping him to the ground. Fitzjohn drew his sword, pointing it at Diego’s throat.
    “Who are you? Answer, you devil!” Diego rolled sideways, grappling for his dagger. He stood facing Fitzjohn. This time Fitzjohn lunged with his sword. Diego parried with the dagger. Fitzjohn, still trying to break Diego’s parry, dropped his left hand down by his side. He drew his own dagger from his boot and thrust it into the assassin’s stomach.
    “WHO SENT YOU?” Fitzjohn repeated,
    “…Sounded…French…” Diego died as the guards came rushing in to the office from their posts at the stairwells.
    “Damn your eyes! God damn your eyes! Why did you not hear, you fools?” Fitzjohn’s gaze flicked from guard to guard, then back to the body of the Duke. “God damn you all!”

    The advisor rushed into the throne room, panting,
    “My Lord, my Lord Terrible news!”
    “What? Speak man.” King Henry II looked up from the war reports written by his generals
    “The Duke of Aquitaine, my Lord. He is dead! He was assassinated! Baron Fitzjohn of Saint-Jean-de-Luz sends word of his death, and of the assassin’s testimony before death that the French filled his purse.”
    “He had children?”
    “No, my Lord. He was a bachelor.”
    “Then we must appoint a successor. What was the Baron’s name?”
    “Fitzjohn, my Lord. Hugh Fitzjohn, of the Barony of Saint-Jean-de-Luz.”
    “The same Fitzjohn who defeated the armies of the French in Aquitaine?”
    “Yes, my Lord.”
    “Appoint him Duke.”

    Langland stepped into the Baron’s office holding a letter.
    “Sir, a letter for you. It bears the Royal seal.”
    “Oh, God, not another thousand Knights’ horses to feed?” Fitzjohn sighed as he took the letter. Breaking the seal, he opened the envelope and read the letter.


    # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Year of our Lord 1260,
    # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #Royal Estates


    Hugh Fitzjohn, of the Barony of Saint-Jean-de-Luz,

    His highness King Henry II received your letter informing him of the death of Henry de Bourneville, Duke of Aquitaine. As the Duke had no sons, his highness chose a successor the title of Duke. After careful consideration, and owing to your victory in battle of late, he has appointed you as successor to the Duchy. You are now to take full control of the province of Aquitaine, and shall govern it at the King’s pleasure until death or King’s decision to withdraw his title. He also grants generalship of all armies, excluding Royally commanded armies in the province, that you may defend the King’s holdings or pursue any offensive action your King sees fit.

    Your ever humble servant,
    W. de Monfort, King’s secretary



    “Langland?”
    “Yes, Baron?” asked Langland, confused as to Fitzjohn’s sudden cheeriness.
    “In future, Langland, you must answer ‘Yes, Duke’.”

    *EDIT* trying to get 2 letters right
    *EDITOID* will get letters right if it kills me
    *EDIFYING EDITS* have failed
    *TOUCH MY EDIFICATIONS, BABY* reitalicising for new thread
    Last edited by Axeknight; 08-10-2004 at 21:38.

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    Thoughts and comments so far

    frogbeastegg

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    Somewhere in UK Posted: Mar. 30 2004,17:25

    --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
    Things move slowly around here, and comments can be quite rare so don't feel disheartened.

    Nice piece, it reminded me a bit of Bernard Cornwall. About the only useful thing I can pass on is something my own proofreader told me (he goes through the stories after I post them). The first word inside any speech marks should be capitalised, after those speech marks you don't need to capitalise the non-speech stuff...er, bad explanation. Demo:
    I fear I shall die of old age before this demo finishes downloading exclaimed frogbeastegg, Good thing I have a story to read while I wait or I would be in danger of dozing off at the keyboard.




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    Isle of Man Posted: Mar. 30 2004,17:39

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    Thanks Lady Frog Yeah, I read alot of Cornwell, and I'm really enjoying the Aubrey/Maturin tales of Patrick o' Brian. Bit of a historical fiction nut.

    Dang I knew that speech mark thing Just forgot while writing. I can be so stupid

    I now know what you meant when you said that the characters in your Princess Eleanor (sp?) series just told you what was going to happen and you wrote it. My characters didn't even have the decency to tell me They just ran off, insulting me as they went Ross and Style were going to be bit characters - just there in the first scene to start it off - but then they turned up at the battle, in the spear line. And Fitzjohn was supposed to stay put, the idea being that the story could be told from the point of view of the commander, ordering people about, and the ordinary soldiers (Ross and Style), following the orders. But then the spears didn't charge, and he just ran off I couldn't call him back, so I had to have him fight.

    P.S For extra points, guess the V&Vs Fitzjohn would have if he were in MTW...

    *EDIT* Gah, typoes

    Edited by Axeknight on Mar. 30 2004,18:15




    Ludens

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    Nagashino, behind the Palisade Posted: April 07 2004,18:04

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    Creative critisism? I am sorry, but I am not good at that .

    Good job, Axeknight. A nice battle report. I liked the way you kept switching between perspectives, although you might have done it a little too often at the end. Fitzjohn's character was also good.
    The only thing that is required to make this a real story, in stead of 'just' a battle report, is a theme. You need to give a reason for the story. Why is this battle? Why are the characters here? Why do they do what they do? But such a thing is hard (and not really necessary) when writing a battle report. But anyway, you did a fine job, and I look forward to reading more from you.



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    Isle of Man Posted: April 07 2004,18:26

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    First off, thanks for your comments, Ludens Any creative criticism is appreciated.

    Erm... When you say 'battle report' do you mean MTW-related? Cause this battle has never happened to me in the game, 'twas just 'sumfing wot I wrote', so to speak.

    Yeah, I want to write more for these characters, as I like them, but at the moment they're about as deep as your average paddling pool. Hopefully, if I get round to it, I'll finish the next bit.

    As far as a 'reason', I'm hoping to turn this one battle into a campaign, where Fitzjohn (Word kept changing the name with spellcheck to 'Fit John', v. annoying) rises in station from being a Baron in charge of a small garrison force in a far corner of France, to... well, you'll see. The same goes for the two soldiers, Ross and Style. They're tied to Fitzjohn and will also rise in station. I want to make more of Style. He doesn't actually do much in this bit, except be a bit annoying. I really like Ross, though. Expect more anti-rich, anti-knight comments from the Scottish one...

    But I'm going to write more than just battles (this is all if I get round to it, BTW), there'll hopefully be spying, assassinations, raiding and pillaging, politics, etc.




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    Nagashino, behind the Palisade Posted: April 07 2004,18:52

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    Quote (Axeknight @ April 07 2004,18:26)
    When you say 'battle report' do you mean MTW-related? Cause this battle has never happened to me in the game, 'twas just 'sumfing wot I wrote', so to speak.

    What I mean with 'battle report' is the kind of story which gives the events from one battle, perhaps with a few actors to liven things up, and thats it. Indeed, they usually originate from MTW (or STW in my case). They tend to be rather dry because the only one who is really interested in the battle is the one who fought it.
    A real story is not a dry summary of what happened. A real story always has a underlying 'reason' or pattern. This 'theme' of the story lets it make sense: events in the story do not happen without a reason.

    Quote
    As far as a 'reason', I'm hoping to turn this one battle into a campaign, where Fitzjohn rises in station from being a Baron in charge of a small garrison force in a far corner of France, to... well, you'll see.

    Well, this is a theme. I hope you can find time to write a story about it.
    Anyway, this was a battle report so I didn't expect a theme in the first place.

    Quote
    Word kept changing the name with spellcheck to 'Fit John', v. annoying

    You can switch of auto-correction for spelling errors with extra > auto-correction and then removing the tag at the bottom of the window. This is how it works in Word 2000.

    And I completely forgot to thank Froggy for the tip about speech marks
    Thank you
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    nick_maxell

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    US East Posted: April 09 2004,08:27

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    Very nice axeknight

    I liked the multiple charakters narrating from their point of view but I have to go with Ludens that an underlying theme or reason for the battle would have made the story much stronger (disregarding the MTW connection). I found your highlanders not very convincing as even today the language they call English is very different and at that time was for most commoners gaelic - so drop in the gaelic word for fat rich man on horseback to spice them up a bit. Also nobles spoke french so your hero fitz should have known the exact name as it was possibly his first cousin ;) - just my 2 cents keep up the good work



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    Isle of Man Posted: April 09 2004,14:48

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    Thanks for the comments Nick

    I like the idea of using gaelic - shall try to get Ross to curse in Scots gaelic... And Fitzjohn shall learn some French swearwords too

    The next part is 25% done. Not much of Style or Ross in it, not so much action either, but its coming together nicely, if slowly.




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    Posted: April 22 2004,22:00


    First off, sorry about the 2 letters. They looked OK in Word, but I couldn't get them to align properly here.Although some bits of this second part may seem pointless, I thought it might be useful to show Fitzjohn having to deal with the other stuff that nobles had to deal with (supply problems etc), so he's not just some uber-general who spends all his time fighting. Also, I wanted him to make his first move up the food-chain in style, so I had to have the Duke assassinated. Also, I wanted to do the Alehouse scene. A lot. The 'mysterious man' wasn't given a name cause I didn't want to humanise him too much - I wanted to give the idea of a shadowy, nameless figure. That said, writing 'the man' all the time made me feel 6 years old again Diego, the assassin, was humanised a bit more (well, as well as I can), I filled in his background a little to show why he'd accept such a dangerous job. The ship bit was designed as some light relief, Fitzjohn condemning pepper as something 'the devil himself [would not] put on his food'.Ross and Style are conspicuously missing from part 2. Any Ross or Style fans (anyone? No ), they'll play a bigger role in part 3 (I'm thinking maybe a crusade or offensive into French territory).Once again, any thoughts/comments are more than welcome

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    Het gewest Holland
    Posted: May 01 2004,22:15


    Well, a nice story. Well written, but sometimes you kind of have trouble keeping up the pace. If you succeed in doing that, I think we're in for a ride. ~Wiz


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    Posted: May 01 2004,23:53


    Thanks for the comments, Wiz Rereading it, I can see your point about the pace. Shall have to think about that more when I get around to writing part 3. I'm hoping to have 'The Rabid Duke' do some invading next . Lotsa pillaging for Ross and Style, then




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    Okay, new thread, new start. Old topic needed a name change, and this was the only way. Thanks again, Monk

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    Quote Originally Posted by [b
    Quote[/b] (Axeknight @ May 09 2004,21:21)]Old topic needed a name change, and this was the only way.
    Um, I hate to be the bearer of not so good news, but topics can be renamed by mods...I know because I renamed my beginner's guide last week. You need to be a full mod to to it though.
    Frogbeastegg's Guide to Total War: Shogun II. Please note that the guide is not up-to-date for the latest patch.


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    Quote Originally Posted by [b
    Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ May 09 2004,17:21)]
    Quote Originally Posted by [b
    Quote[/b] (Axeknight @ May 09 2004,21:21)]Old topic needed a name change, and this was the only way.
    Um, I hate to be the bearer of not so good news, but topics can be renamed by mods...I know because I renamed my beginner's guide last week. You need to be a full mod to to it though.
    I suspected as much but i just didn't know for sure, and for some reason i was doubtful of my first thoughts (like always). I guess it could have helped in keeping the mead hall a tidy place if the topic had just been renamed, but eventually that closed topic will fall off the page and there shall be much rejoicing.

    The Mead hall isn't that messy...well my little corner is a bit dusty, aside from uploading screens i havn't been doing a lot of Mod work; which for me means reading, reading, and... well more reading. :grabs broom: might as well clean up a bit while i'm here.

    Thanks for clearing that up froggy, i'll be sure to remember that from now on.

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    And so the Gods of the Mead Hall saw what the errant member had done, and they were not pleased. The illustrious Hall of Stories had been befouled by the sinner Axeknight, and they sent a great flood which destroyed the foul board-ruiner and his satanic topics.

    V. sorry




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    Part three: Hunting for the Banquet

    The drums from the parade ground filtered up to the Duke’s private study. Tossing the farming reports aside, he went to the window. He watched as a group of the soldiers who had fought with him the previous year fell back into their place around the outside of the parade ground, and another unit stepped into the hollow space. The drum rolls began again, and the unit started marching, their officers keeping them in perfect line, bellowing orders. #Out past the curtain walls, the light cavalry were changing formation at speed. At the sound of a bugle, the cavalrymen spread wide; at another, they formed a tight wedge. The Duke’s mind wandered, to gently rolling plains, to forests, to the countryside. He swore, in French, thinking of the reports he had to read, the orders to sign and seal, and the annoying people he had to see. He swore again, using his preferred French for swearwords.
    “Langland! Our horses, if you would. We’re going hunting.”

    The two fast riders arrived at Bordeaux Castle not long after the Duke had left. They had presented the King’s seal when challenged, and had asked after the Duke at the gate.
    “Message for the Duke.”
    “Gone ‘unting. In th’ forest” Ross had the gate, and had been sharpening his spear point. Style was in the next room, and came running in.
    “A message fer the Duke? You’ll be lucky. He’s ‘unting, and he’s in one of ‘is rages. He won’t take kindly to disturbin’, an’ he might jus’ kill yer.” Ross and Style both bit their tongues to suppress the laughter as the riders looked at one another. Life under the Rabid Duke had its plus points.
    “We…we’ll stay here until he gets back. The gate, if you please.”

    Langland dismounted, gave Fitzjohn his longbow, and took his own. The Duke had had them made after seeing the Welshmen use them in battle. He dismounted as well, took a bodkin from the quiver, gave another to Langland, and notched it into the bowstring. Pulling the heavy string back, he aimed at the boar. He let the string go by his ear, and arrow flew straight into the boar’s flank. It squealed, fell, and Langland ran and dispatched it with his short sword.
    “The next is yours, Langland.” Fitzjohn put back his longbow, dragged the boar to a large oak tree so it could be found later, and remounted. They set off, looking left and right for another boar, or, better, a deer. Though he had spent the best part of five years in France, he was still not sure if there were deer in the countryside. He had decided never to ask anyone, but to find out for himself. Perhaps I shall find the French deer today; he thought idly, I shall bring it back myself.

    Langland had been trying to build the necessary courage for days, now, and was still unsure as he opened his mouth,
    “My Duke?” he had drawn attention to himself, now, there was no going back. The Duke reined Copenhagen in, and looked at Langland quizzically.
    “Yes, Langland?”
    “I humbly request, my Duke,” he took a deep breath, “permission, Sir,” another deep breath, “to marry, Sir.”
    “I am sorry. What did you say, Langland?” Fitzjohn stared at him
    “Nothing, Sir. Nothing” Langland tried desperately to salvage the situation.
    “No, I heard you, Langland.” Fitzjohn smiled ruefully,
    “I am sorry, Sir. Not the time, should never have asked, Sir. Please forgive me.” Fitzjohn laughed out loud,
    “Langland, my man, betrothed? I had no idea! My, this is a surprise! Ha, ha ha, betrothed, Langland! Betrothed! What is her name?” Langland let out a mighty sigh of relief, and reflected that this was the best mood he’d seen Fitzjohn in since he had been made Duke last year.
    “Her name is Catherine.” Langland smiled, and Fitzjohn smiled too, recognizing the look on the young Squire’s face. His mind wandered briefly to Elizabeth. Before he could cut the thought off, the memory which still, six years later, kept him awake at nights resurfaced, his dear, dear Elizabeth, on the bed, the pox taking it’s cruel course. She put up a fight, a truly spirited fight, but…
    “Sir?” Fitzjohn looked up, his face ashen. He blocked the memory off again, stared at Langland’s face, and his smile returned.
    “Why are you asking me permission to marry? Surely a matter for the priests?”
    “ ‘A soldier must ask permission from his officer before he marries’; I am a squire, therefore a soldier, and you are my officer, Sir.” Langland’s smile faded.
    “Granted, Langland. Granted! Granted! Granted! And the boar,” he gestured back to where the last animal had been left, “is for the banquet. Your banquet, Langland! Yours! Ha, ha ha! On, Copenhagen. On to fetch boar for Langland’s banquet, Copenhagen!”

    Fitzjohn sent some of bodyguards out for the five boars they had killed, reflecting on how Langland’s aim dropped drastically when he was talking about Catherine. The gate guards, two men he remembered from the battle on the border last year, let him in. Wondering, no doubt, why I’m in such a good mood. #Thought Fitzjohn idly. The news of Langland’s wedding had left him feeling that for once, something simple and good was happening around him. Apparently, Catherine was a dressmaker, who worked in the castle, and Langland had said that had Fitzjohn never become Duke, he would never have met her. Ever the charmer, Langland. At least he’s happy. Langland was a loyal man, a handsome man, too, and Catherine was, by Langland’s account, a beauty. and Fitzjohn prayed that the two would not be so cruelly separated as he and Elizabeth. The gate guards had spoken of two riders, bearing a King’s message. They rounded a corner in the courtyard, and saw them waiting.
    “King’s message, Sir.” The first rider held it out, his hand trembling. Fitzjohn took it, checked the seal, opened it, and read the message as he walked to the keep.

    # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Year of our Lord 1261
    # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Royal Estates

    Hugh Fitzjohn, Duke of Aquitaine,
    # # #The King is pleased with your conduct governing the province of Aquitaine, and favours you by ordering you to lead an attack. The King wishes you to attack the French army garrisoned in Toulouse, and take possession of that place. He will send a small force to garrison Bordeaux castle in you and your army’s absence.

    Humble servant my Lord,
    W. de Montfort, King’s secretary


    “We go on the attack, Langland. Into Toulouse.”
    “Your armour, Sir?” Langland asked,
    “No Langland. I shall get it. Sadly, your wedding must be delayed. Say your farewells to your fiancé, Langland.” Fitzjohn was grim. Although the opportunity for battle was always to be looked forward to, he hated having to delay Langland’s wedding. He must be devastated. Fitzjohn shook his head.

    A few days later, the garrison army arrived. Just five hundred men strong, and without cavalry, it was lead by a distant cousin of Fitzjohn’s, who had taken the family name shortly after cousin Hugh had taken command of his first army. He walked confidently up to the Duke, and spoke.
    “Cousin Hugh, a Duke now, eh?”
    “Cousin William.” Fitzjohn spoke awkwardly. His opposition to William’s adopting the family name was well known. Not worthy of the name, Fitzjohn thought, looking at his cousin. a court jester, perhaps, but never a Fitzjohn. William straightened, and touched the brow of his helm in salute.
    “Count William Fitzjohn, reporting Sir. Ha, ha!” He nudged the Duke
    “Indeed, cousin. I must be gone. If you would, please leave my private chambers alone, take the guest room.” Fitzjohn said, then, “‘Tis comfortable enough, cousin.” #to pre-empt any jibes his cousin could make.
    “I am sure of it, cousin. I shall look after the house while the Duke goes raiding. Ha ha, I am reduced to common housewife!”
    “Of course not, cousin.” Fitzjohn let traces of irritation slip into his voice.
    “Cousin, calm yourself! I jest.”
    “That I noticed, William.” Fitzjohn’s composure was slipping fast
    “So, Hugh, when do I get the honour of dining with the Duke?” William smirked.
    “I have eaten, William. And I must go, my troops wait for me.” Fitzjohn hurried this excuse, making it sound false. His face was contorting with the effort of keeping civil. William did not take the hint.
    “Ah, I see. Rush off, dear cousin. Leave your fellow Fitzjohn with the castle, and off to glory, eh? Ha ha!” the count had misjudged the last comment, and it slipped Fitzjohn over. He spun around, walked back to his cousin, mail armour clanking. He stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder with his cousin, and began the onslaught.
    “Never, ever, ever talk to me in that tone again, dear cousin,” he spat the last part, making it sound like an insult, “Lest I take offence. Do you hear me, cousin?” William began to splutter an apology, but ‘The Rabid Duke’ cut him off.
    “I don’t care for your apologies, William! For my quarrel with you goes further. You are a Fitzjohn at my pleasure, William. I am Duke, and if you displease me, I can make you remove the name!”
    “But, dearest cousin, you…” again he was cut off.
    “I let you be a Fitzjohn! I LET YOU! Yet you dishonour the name with your jesting. YOU DISHONOUR MY NAME! MINE! And you dishonour my father, his father, his father, back to the first days of England and Fitzjohns. YOU DISHONOUR THEM ALL! #You are nought but a clown, a fool, and Fitzjohns are NOT clowns, cousin. Do you hear?” Fitzjohn’s rage had drawn a crowd, but he would not stop in mid-flow. “Your humour goes too far, cousin. Look at your soldiers! An undisciplined rabble if I ever did see. They need a firm hand, cousin! Not a joker, a leader, cousin. #Now, if we are done, I must go. My soldiers wait on me.” Fitzjohn left his stunned cousin in the street, and headed for the gates.
    Last edited by Axeknight; 08-10-2004 at 21:32.

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    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    Gah - miles behind with part three, so I've split it into parts three and four.

    Lot of soppy nonsense here, especially in the forest (that sounds bad), but I thought it was necessary to flesh Langly out a bit, so he's not just an object for Fitzjohn to scream at.

    The scene with Fitzjohn's cousin was great fun to write, building Fitzjohn up to boiling point. I reckon it's been too long since he's had a proper rage - and after that display of soppiness in the forest, he needs to get back to his old self Don't expect the castle to stay pristine under cousin Will after that outburst.

    Part four (continuation of this), soonish. I hope.




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    As a rule frogs are no good at commenting, but I didn't find your soppy forest bit to be too soppy...maybe I am getting immune to the disease with exposure?
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    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    *breathes huge sigh of relief* Thank god

    Though I think I'll stick to sharp things being lodged in heads next part (poor Fitzjohn's gone almost a year without a battle - he must be going crazy).

    I've just realized where I got Fitzjohn's horse's name from - Copenhagen was Wellesley's charger. Damn, I'll have to explain that one in part 4. Never mind, shall just need to put in passing that he visited the city, and bought his first horse there.

    Not sure what the significance of 'Elizabeth' is yet; though her death may turn out to be the reason for Fitzjohn's rages. I'm not sure yet.

    *EDIT* I'm a duke Cool




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    Tovenaar Senior Member The Wizard's Avatar
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    Er, sorry for the late reply, but I finally remembered to get round to it.

    Quite a nice chapter, I liked the part where ol' Fitzjohn became angry at his stereotype lanky lazy country bopkin cousin.

    Keep it coming



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    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    Thanks for your comments

    Country bumpkin Will's not gonna stand for this one Expect some Think I'm jesting now, cousin? MWHAHAHA lines next part...

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    ooh i like this one
    Formerly ceasar010

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    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    Thanks Caesar

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    I'm putting a little 'Easter egg' into part 4. Pay attention to names when I post it

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    Part four: Burning bridges

    “Halt!” Fitzjohn called. The cavalrymen stopped. “The border forts.” The forts could not be seen from the path, but Fitzjohn knew where they were. If the forts were three miles away, that put the border three and half miles along the path. He would have to suppress the French forts on the other side of the border before he could march on
    Toulouse. “Langland, halt the infantry a mile from the border. We shall press on and take the French forts.”
    “Sir.” Langland wheeled his horse, and headed back down the path towards the infantrymen. Fitzjohn took his bodyguard forward.

    They reached the first line of forts a few hours later. This was the English line, and Fitzjohn went into the nearest tower. The ground floor split off into three rooms, with a staircase on the immediate left. One would be the armoury; the other two would be sleeping quarters. Fitzjohn thought of the solitary life the border guardsmen lived. He almost envied them. He walked up the stairs, which instead of being spiralled, turned right at right angles every five steps, so as to make a square staircase. This made every corner a choke point for attackers; something he hoped the French did not do with their forts. He found the garrison commander on the roof of the fort, along with two other guards. He was a tallish man with dark brown hair rather like Fitzjohn’s, and a broken nose.
    “Duke Fitzjohn, Sir. Fort garrison commander Fitzwilliam, Sir.” Said the commander,
    “A pleasure. Now, what of Frenchy’s forts?” Fitzjohn was not one for niceties.
    “Have not seen much from them, Sir. Oddly quiet.” Fitzwilliam shook his head.
    “Hmm… I shall tread carefully. My thanks, Fitzwilliam.”

    The best way to do this…Damned if I know. Rush them? Surprise won’t be on my side; their spies will have sent word by now. But what other choice do I have? If I send the infantry, they’ll suffer losses. Which I don’t need before I move on Toulouse. We’ll get there faster by horse. And the faster we get there, the fewer crossbow bolts they can kill us with. Fitzjohn hated border forts. Once, when he was his father’s squire in the Holy lands, he had seen a group of twenty knights storm one such fort, only to find it empty. The first knight had walked not three steps away from the abandoned structure when Turkic sappers detonated a mine, killing all of the unfortunate cavalrymen. He had heard the ‘crumbling staircase’ stories and listened to accounts of the ‘crossbow butler’, an ingenious method of connecting a crossbow trigger to the hinge of a door with steel wire, so that the person who first opened the door was welcomed by ‘the crossbow butler’, who took more than your coat. But at least one fort had to be taken, or the army could not pass through.

    Fitzjohn remounted his horse, Copenhagen, briefly remembering the time when his father had taken him to the Danish city. The breeder there got horses all the way from Spain, and bred the toughest horses short of the steppes. Unlike most nobles, who rode different horses for battle and campaign marches, Fitzjohn rode Copenhagen everywhere. He was a tough old bay, and Fitzjohn needed the other horse for Langland, anyway. Langland was a squire, and so should have marched on foot, but Fitzjohn felt it necessary that he be mounted. Once he got his knighthood, Fitzjohn would make Langland his provincial marshal. I will need to invent the post first, though…he mused, riding towards the nearest fort.

    Fitzjohn and his twenty picked cavalry bodyguards were at the bottom of the hill on which the fort was situated. They still had not been shot at, and Fitzjohn was worried. He led Copenhagen into a trot, scanning the hillside for traps and ambushes. The path began to wind, and Fitzjohn tried to look over the hedges to either side for enemy soldiers. The fort was close now, and Fitzjohn involuntarily held his breath as he began to canter. They were well within killing range for a crossbow now, yet still nothing from the imposing structure. Why? Damn them Those bolts that tore straight through chainmail, and if the defenders were good, they would fire as a volley, almost certainly cutting him down, as he was at least four feet ahead of the others. No sense in dying at a canter. Fitzjohn turned the breath he had been holding in to a roar, and began to gallop.

    Fifty paces. Forty. Thirty. The defenders were not firing. Twenty. Ten paces, five paces, and safety. He was underneath the arrow slits. Why didn’t they fire? Fitzjohn dismounted. His bodyguards did the same.
    “Half of you stay outside. The other half, with me.” He drew his broadsword, holding it double-handed in the absence of his shield. I should start to bring it on the march. What good is it in the baggage train? Fitzjohn rode light on the march, in case of ambush. A heavy lance wasn’t much good when dismounted on a narrow, stony path. Neither was horse barding.

    The door was on the other side. Fitzjohn, with a thought to the butler, kicked the door down, and pressed against the wall. Nothing. He used his sword as a mirror to look through the door. The butler wasn’t home. He walked through the doorway, first running his sword around the edge of the doorframe to check for loose stones or the like. His men fanned out behind him. The fort was similar to the English ones, three rooms and a square staircase.
    “You, at the door. Three in that room” he pointed to the first room on the right, “Three in the next room, and three in the one on the left. Go” the cavalrymen checked the rooms, and Fitzjohn stood at the bottom of the staircase. One by one the men shouted that their rooms were clear. Fitzjohn called outside, “Five more men inside One man guard the horses, and the other four at the door.” The fifteen cavalrymen gathered in the hallway. Fitzjohn began to climb.

    It took a long time, as Fitzjohn stamped each step before putting his weight on it. But it was already obvious the fort was abandoned. There was no one on the roof. Fitzjohn sent a cavalryman to inform Langland he could resume the march. Toulouse had been left wide open.

    “Right, lads. We’re off.” The squire shouted from the head of the column. Ross and Style, who had just got comfortable, groaned.
    “Come on laddy. #You heard what little Langly said.” The two spearmen took their places in the column. The drumbeats started. Ross hummed in time as the men began to march. Style turned to Ross,
    “Rob?” he asked
    “Yes, lad?”
    “Why you in this army anyways? Ain’t Scotland got it’s own king?”
    “Alexander the third, lad. But I’m ‘ere because Henry the second, Englishman though he may be, pays a quarter piece extra a week. ‘Sides, lad, you English need at least one soldier ‘can fight his way out of a wet cloth bag.” Ross grinned.

    The road had been empty. Not even a peddler with a handcart had passed the marching army along the road. The town militia had surrendered their arms, and now Fitzjohn was trying to arrange rooms for himself and Langland. Most of the soldiers were in the stables.
    “Two rooms. Ten pieces.” Fitzjohn spoke very slowly to the innkeeper.
    “Pardon, monsieur?” the innkeeper asked with a Gallic shrug.
    “Deux chambers. Dix piéces.” Fitzjohn repeated angrily in French, slamming the coins on the table for effect. The innkeeper nodded, took the coins, and handed two keys over.
    “Le deuxiéme et le troisiéme chambres á gauche. Deux biéres?”
    “Non, merci.” Fitzjohn had looked at the colour of the beers, and decided against them. He turned to Langland.
    “I am the second room on the left, you are the third.”
    “I must pay you for my room, Sir.” Langland said. Fitzjohn grinned.
    “Keep your gold for your wedding, Langland. You will need it all!”

    Three days later, and Fitzjohn’s army had still not seen the enemy. Each morning, the Duke would send out cavalry patrols, and each day they would come back without a sighting. It was after one such patrol had come back to Toulouse without sighting that a fast rider arrived in the main plaza looking as though he was about to collapse. Fitzjohn was sat at a small table with Langland, drawing tactics on the dusty tabletop, when he saw the man. The rider hurried over to him, touched his helm, dropped a scrawled note on the table, touched his helm again, and rode off.


    # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #Bordeaux castle

    Cousin,
    You must come at once. The deceitful Spanish have attacked! A mere raiding force, but I am in need of your help. Please, cousin, forget our troubles for now and come to my aid.

    William



    “Damn him! God damn his eyes!” Fitzjohn thumped the table. “Langland, assemble my bodyguard.”

    The river Garonne stretches from the Pyrenees to the Bay of Biscay, and Fitzjohn followed it downstream for two days before he got near to the bridge. The path briefly strayed from the river before getting to the bridge, and the Duke and his men were within half a mile from the bridge before they saw what had happened.
    “Good God. It’s on fire, Sir.” One of the cavalrymen said in disbelief. The bridge was burning, the wood supports consumed by the fire until they broke and were swallowed by the Garonne. As they watched, one of the four main supports broke and a section of the bridge fell into the river. Fitzjohn hurried them forward towards the rapidly sinking bridge, broadsword drawn. As they got closer, Fitzjohn saw the hay bales piled onto the bridge and around the supports. A voice came from behind a hedge.
    “Ironic, wouldn’t you say, dear cousin?” William said, leaping over the hedge.
    “Cousin William, what is this?”
    “Would you say it was witty, Hugh? Would you say it was ironic, Hugh? Would you say it was funny, Hugh?” William looked pleased with himself.
    “What was funny? Where are the Spanish? Answer me, damn your jesting!” Fitzjohn did not understand.
    “There are no Spanish raiders. I think it is very funny, actually.”
    “What is? Damn your eyes, cousin!”
    “The bridge burning. I have stopped you by burning the bridge. And by stopping you here, I am in fact burning a bridge, albeit a metaphorical one.”
    “I still do not understand, William!” At that moment, the hedgerow seemed to jump as fifty crossbowmen dressed in French livery leapt up from behind, their crossbows loaded and aimed at Fitzjohn’s men. “Traitor!” Fitzjohn spat. William began to laugh.
    “You see! Burning a bridge to burn a bridge! Ha, ha ha!” William laughed, before adding, “Your men may go. My quarrel is with you, cousin Hugh.”
    “Go. Go now, warn Langland!” Fitzjohn shouted. His men wavered. They did not wish to leave the Duke here. “Go Warn the army!” repeated the Duke, and his men turned and left.

    Count William took Fitzjohn further downstream, to a small jetty where there was a raft. They crossed, leaving the crossbowmen on the other side. The soldiers could still shoot Fitzjohn, he knew, even from the other side. His cousin had let him keep his sword and horse. Once they were no longer within earshot (though still within bowshot) of the soldiers, William spoke.
    “Firstly, Cousin, this has nothing to do with our discussion in Bordeaux. This is not a petty personal agenda, this is not revenge. This is mere, how should I say,” he searched for the word, “tactics. A tactical advantage for my new King’s soldiers.” Fitzjohn spat at the mention of his cousin’s changed loyalties.
    “You disgrace the name of Fitzjohn, cousin.”
    “I disgrace the name of a man dead for one hundred years, whose name is taken by each line of his descendants so that they can bask in his reflected glory? Every time a direct descendant is born, your family name him Fitzjohn. Son of the great John de Saint Jean de Luz. Ha! It is pathetic.”
    “Do not insult his name!” Fitzjohn drew the first inch of his sword.
    “Not a wise course, my cousin.” William gestured across the river to where all fifty crossbowmen had their weapons aimed at Fitzjohn. The Duke took his hand off the sword.
    “A tactical advantage, traitor?”
    “Ha! The name traitor means nothing to me. The French King was very generous. Two hundred gold pieces! #And I can rejoin the armies of King Henry when I am done. Two hundred pieces just for this!”
    “For what?”
    “For taking you away from your army while the French ambush it.” Fitzjohn stared at William with a look of disbelief.
    “Ambush? My God, you villain! God damn your treacherous eyes, William! God damn you to hell!” He resisted the urge to lunge at his traitorous cousin.
    “And afterwards, I can go back to the army, with nothing to prove I was ever away from your castle.”
    “Except my word.”
    “Except the word of a defeated general, desperately seeking to blame someone for his shame. If you survive the ambush, that is. No, there is nothing to prove any of this happened. So I am letting you go. Take the raft across, ride back to your army. You cannot reach them in time to stop the attack, but you can die with your men at least. Go, cousin Go to your death and my fortune" Ha, ha ha!” And with that William Fitzjohn rode away, back to his cousin’s castle, a very rich man. But not for long, vowed Fitzjohn, not for long.
    Last edited by Axeknight; 08-10-2004 at 21:27.

  18. #18
    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    A gold star to whoever can find the Easter egg name

    Good fun writing this bit. Did I go OTT on the bridge scene? Was the raft scene cliched? I have my suspicions that they are, please tell me.

  19. #19

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    Broken nosed FitzWilliam sounds familiar in description, if not manner.

    The bridge scene did go over the top, but in a good way...Would you say it was witty, Hugh? Would you say it was ironic, Hugh? Would you say it was funny, Hugh?” is over the top but oh so evil loony like it makes William more colourful. After reading poncy posturing like that I can imagine William having a high pitched, giggly laugh that annoys everyone who hears it...a really detestable man
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  20. #20
    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    Correct A gold star for the Frog. Fulk's got a job Ran out of names for bit characters, that's why there are so many Fitz-somethings...

    Glad it was Ok. I imagine William like that, too. Detestable, but a useful plot tool to take the Rabid Duke where I want him to go. And fun to write - the witty, ironic, funny speech was great fun to write.

  21. #21
    Arrogant Ashigaru Moderator Ludens's Avatar
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    Good job Axeknight. I still am impressed by the way you infuse Fitzjohn's thoughts in the story without interrupting the flow.

    Technical detail: I read somewhere that the staircases of castles were actually spiraled to make them more defensible. The way they were spiraled gave the man above (the defender) more space to wield his sword while the man below would find it blocked by the pillar.
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  22. #22
    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    Thanks, Ludens.

    Actually, because it's only Fitzjohn whose thoughts I'm probing, I just do the thought in italics, and say '.... thought Fitzjohn' only once per episode. Then it's obvious whose thoughts they are and I don't have to say 'he thought' after every thought. That means the flow isn't interrupted too much. I'm glad you like it.

    I didn't know that about spiral staircases. I knew they spiralled them so that the defender could use his right hand freely, but I thought they were just spiralled for compactness. Thanks for the info, Ludens

  23. #23
    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    Gah - part 5 is taking longer than I thought. A difficult bit to write, this one. It'll hopefully be done in the next few days (I hope )

  24. #24
    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    Part five: Last stands, and last repects

    Fitzjohn swore in French. The lack of sleep and food was getting to him, the sun was beating down on the back of his neck, and the army was still a day’s ride away. Damn him to the gate of hell. Damn him to the lowest level of hell. “Keep going, Copenhagen, keep going,” he mumbled, as he touched his boots on the horse’s flanks. Fitzjohn did not use spurs. He had trained the horse so that he did not need to inflict unnecessary pain. Using spurs could only be bad in the long run. Wouldn’t want to have to pay for a new charger. And Copenhagen’s too important tome to kill off prematurely. It was then that he saw the bodies on the road. Merde!

    At almost the same moment, half a day’s ride away, Thomas Style swore as well. The middle son of a farmer, he could not speak French, and so he swore in English. “No bleedin’ honour in ambush. None at all, eh Rob?” The Scotsman sat next to him grunted, not opening his eyes. They were currently away from the road to rest, and had broken into a deserted house. The soldiers on duty were in the street below, guarding the makeshift crossing over the Garonne. The crossing was a hastily built pontoon thrown together shortly after the Duke’s departure. Most of the nobles were across now, but the common soldiers kept staggering back towards the river, often harassed as they went by French cavalry. So far, none of the light horsemen had attacked the spearmen guarding the crossing. But it was just a matter of time before they came back with infantry. Style half-heartedly swatted at a fly, squirming in his hot chainmail. “When do we get over the river, Rob?”
    “When the rest o’ the army’s across, lad. Or when the Duke gets back, if he’s coming back.”
    “The rest of the army? So are we the last across?”
    “Yes, lad. That is, unless the Frenchy has his way.”
    “What then?”
    “We don’t ever get across, lad.”

    The French cavalry had struck two hours before dawn, ransacking the poorly guarded baggage train just outside of the town. The fires could be seen for miles around, and cavalry and infantry had been sent out. On getting to the pyre where there was once a baggage train, the men had found nothing. The officers had been searching the wreckage when the mine blew. Then, when the English were virtually leaderless, the French infantry appeared. The skirmish had lasted mere minutes before the first Englishmen fled. At first a trickle, then a full-blown rout as the line crumbled. The cavalry harried the routers back into the back alleys around Toulouse. It was midday, and though scattered pockets of soldiers unable to get across were still this side of the river, the remnants of the companies send to deal with the baggage train raid were mostly across now. Ross and Style’s company of spearmen had not been sent out of the city the previous night, and having been billeted the area around the crossing two nights before, they had been chosen to guard the pontoon. Style was suffering in the baking midday heat, and walked over to the window for air. Looking out, he saw the fast approaching soldiers in their blue livery, and swore again.

    It made him sick, but it had to be done. The Duke gently lifted the bodyguard’s corpse off the horse, setting it down on the ground. He reflected on the waste of it. He had hand picked his guards from the hundreds of cavalrymen under his command. As well as being the best fighters under his command, he had seen the spark of leadership in them. They would have made fine captains; perhaps some would have risen to generalship with the proper tutelage. But not now, and not in this life. He knelt and paid his respects. He stood and remounted, his face like thunder. As he began to trot, he looked back. “I will kill him! Fear not, fear not I will kill him!”
    Last edited by Axeknight; 08-10-2004 at 21:08.

  25. #25
    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by [b
    Quote[/b] (Axeknight @ June 25 2004,18:46)]“I will kill him Fear not, fear not I will kill him”
    Warning: This part has tested positive for cliches. If you are allergic, rinse eyes with warm water.

    Gah - This part took so long to write, and I've only done half of it . i'm splitting this up into two parts (mainly so this series isn't forgotten ), part 6 should continue on from this bit.




  26. #26
    Member Member mambaman's Avatar
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    its all good Axe-your writing style is excellent and the story gripping-are you following the game quite closely or not?

    kinda inspires me to get back to writing my history of england-prob is that if its a choice between writing and playing the game i always opt for the latter-lol

  27. #27

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    Quote Originally Posted by [b
    Quote[/b] (Axeknight @ June 25 2004,18:51)]
    Quote Originally Posted by [b
    Quote[/b] (Axeknight @ June 25 2004,18:46)]“I will kill him Fear not, fear not I will kill him”
    Warning: This part has tested positive for cliches. If you are allergic, rinse eyes with warm water.
    Ok, so it isn't in the main story, but I loved that
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  28. #28
    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by [b
    Quote[/b] (Ashantiwarrior @ June 26 2004,23:53)]are you following the game quite closely or not?
    Firstly, thank you Ashanti (I hope that's the right smiley - there are two 'bow' smilies). I'm glad you like it so far. I'm actually not following any game on this, though I'm thinking of getting Gnome editor and modding Fitzjohn into the game .

    The inspiration came, really, from one of the heroes in MTW, Strongbow FitzGilbert. I liked the idea of an English commander in France, but I found the MTW representation of FitzGilbert a bit boring. So I decided to make an entirely new character, around 100 years after FitzG's time (this story is set 1260-12__, the end date will depend on the length of time it takes for the story as I want it to be at the moment to pan out). The character is evolving all the time - when I first created him in my mind, he was shortish, balding and calm. Now he's tall, with dark brown hair, and is prone to incredible rages .

    My original plan was for Fitzjohn to rise from minor baron in France to King's marshal, over many years of campaigning in France, Spain and the Holy Lands. But that storyline would mean that each part (or maybe every other part, at a stretch) would have to have him promoted or rise in station somehow. And that would be a real pain to write in. So I created cousin Will, basically as a punchbag for Fitzjohn to chase after and beat up . Still not a great storyline, but it means I don't have to bump him up the food chain all the time, but still have something for him to do (motivation, a reason for traveling to Jerusalem, etc).

    Thanks Froggy

    EDIT - two pages and a 'hot topic' Cool




  29. #29
    Member Member mambaman's Avatar
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    all good fella-yes Sir Strongbow is featuring in my story at the moment too-kewl guy in terms of attributes

    look fwd to next installment

  30. #30
    Rock 'n' Roll Will Never Die Member Axeknight's Avatar
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    It's coming on nicely - I have a bank holiday monday, so hopefully it'll be up by tuesday at the latest

    Quote Originally Posted by [b
    Quote[/b] ]all good fella-yes Sir Strongbow is featuring in my story at the moment too-kewl guy in terms of attributes
    Great guy to have in your army - by late era, his successors (farmed for hundreds of years), are usually 9 star field attack and defence specialists, good at defending and taking castles, legendary warriors with natural leadership, great stewards, and magnificent builders

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