Excellent AAR 
just one tip if you save screens of chars from the game save as png...you'll get better looking pics than jpg
just one tip if you save screens of chars from the game save as png...you'll get better looking pics than jpg
The Atheling Chronicle - A King without a Crown
- Thread starter AllmyJames
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Wise words, indeed.
Excellent AAR
just one tip if you save screens of chars from the game save as png...you'll get better looking pics than jpg
Glad you like it. I'll try the tip in the next post.
Sine I spent much of the weekend muttering stanzas under my breath in the supermarket, I have plenty of material for another update.
What? So soon? Shouldn't there be a month between posts? How ever will we keep up?
Chapter 68 - The Battle of Carthage
The Siege of Tunis, 13th Century
1205-6
The Siege of Tunis, 13th Century
1205-6
From The Song of Wulfnoth
Africa ahead – a frightening shore, (49)
Carthage’s Castle, ne’er captured before.*
Yet still sailed young Scipio* onwards (50)
Heaven sent, headless of hopelessness’ voice.
Wulfnoth’s warriors its walls surrounded, (51)
Its defenders durst not drive them away.
‘Twixt two troubles tottered the Aenglish – (52)
Without enough weight the walls to capture; (53)
Too little time the Tunisians to starve.
So day after day they dithered anew - (54)
No plan was proposed, by Prince or fyrdsman.*
As down shone the sun, they sweated and bled, (55)
As hope fled their hearts, now heavy with dread.
The Arabs arose, and readied themselves (56)
To fight off their foes in front of the walls.
Thus the Aenglish angst emboldened Allah.*(57)
Inspired by Ishmael* they issued a cry
“Allahu Akbar!”* – what ululation! (58)
The Condittori cowered, as in rout, (59)
The Romsfolk* faltered, fearful of that shout.
Nought like it they knew; a nightmare made flesh. (60)
Alone the Aetheling abade quite still.
Releasing his rage and raising his axe, (61)
Countered their chilling cry: “Olicrosse!”*
Charged into the crowd, careless of danger: (62)
With fi’ry fury, he fought through the horde.
Severed heads, hacked off hands and rent in twain: (63)
Thus the tide was turned by a titan’s blade.
The blood-soaked bodies build a gateward road: (64)
As the Saxon surge full cityward drove.
And they swept through streets soon slick with gore, (65)
Blinded by bloodlust , brutality reigned.
The men were murdered, their mothers despoiled: (66)
A tide of tears from Tunisian women!
Yet the Prince’s prize – and pride – had been saved, (67)
The Confessor’s Cross o’er Carthage waved.
Carthage’s Castle, ne’er captured before.*
Yet still sailed young Scipio* onwards (50)
Heaven sent, headless of hopelessness’ voice.
Wulfnoth’s warriors its walls surrounded, (51)
Its defenders durst not drive them away.
‘Twixt two troubles tottered the Aenglish – (52)
Without enough weight the walls to capture; (53)
Too little time the Tunisians to starve.
So day after day they dithered anew - (54)
No plan was proposed, by Prince or fyrdsman.*
As down shone the sun, they sweated and bled, (55)
As hope fled their hearts, now heavy with dread.
The Arabs arose, and readied themselves (56)
To fight off their foes in front of the walls.
Thus the Aenglish angst emboldened Allah.*(57)
Inspired by Ishmael* they issued a cry
“Allahu Akbar!”* – what ululation! (58)
The Condittori cowered, as in rout, (59)
The Romsfolk* faltered, fearful of that shout.
Nought like it they knew; a nightmare made flesh. (60)
Alone the Aetheling abade quite still.
Releasing his rage and raising his axe, (61)
Countered their chilling cry: “Olicrosse!”*
Charged into the crowd, careless of danger: (62)
With fi’ry fury, he fought through the horde.
Severed heads, hacked off hands and rent in twain: (63)
Thus the tide was turned by a titan’s blade.
The blood-soaked bodies build a gateward road: (64)
As the Saxon surge full cityward drove.
And they swept through streets soon slick with gore, (65)
Blinded by bloodlust , brutality reigned.
The men were murdered, their mothers despoiled: (66)
A tide of tears from Tunisian women!
Yet the Prince’s prize – and pride – had been saved, (67)
The Confessor’s Cross o’er Carthage waved.
Notes:
(49) Not correct – the city of Carthage changed hands several times in the 7th century between Roman and Arab forces, before being destroyed. The newer, nearby city of Tunis, however, had not previously been taken by Christian armies.
(50) Cornelius Scipio Africanus was a Roman consul and ordered the first destruction of Cathage in 146BC.
(54) The fyrd was originally a levy of able-bodied men within a shire. But since Wulfnoth’s men were not technically part of fyrd (most being either huscarls, mercenaries or volunteers from Italy), the word seems to have been used here in the sense of a lowly man-at-arms.
(57) An early use of the Islamic name for God in an English text; reflecting the influence of the more diverse Baghdad court.
The Arabs claim to be descendants of Abraham’s son Ishmael by his slave Hagar, who were sent to wander in the dessert. The term Ishmaelites is a common synonym for Arabs or Muslims among early Christian writers in the East.
(58) Literally God is Great – a common Arabic war cry.
(60) Romsfolk is a word not found elsewhere, meaning People of Rome. An allusion, perhaps, to Senatus Populusque Romanus, the motto of the Roman Empire.
(61) Literally, Holy Cross – reported in some chronicles as the cry issued by the English at the Battle of Hastings, and later adopted by the English in Judea, especially when fighting Muslims.
Interesting. I see there's quite a bit of rhyming in this one. At least in its' English "translation". I guess the "translator" couldn't quite resist injecting elements of traditional poetry into the words.
One minor quibble. I think you meant "heedless", not "headless". That would be awkward.
One minor quibble. I think you meant "heedless", not "headless". That would be awkward.
Is this foreshadowing a general English move into Tunisia, or just a one-off act of piety from Wulfnoth?
I like to think the rhymes just add extra layers to the text
And yes, headless would be awkward. Even Wulfnoth's not that stubborn.
A one-off move for now.
Indeed. It's Baghdad.
Chapter 69 - The Burgundian Alliance
1205
1205
From The Song of Wulfnoth:
The sun was shining on streets filled with folk, (68)
As returned to Rome, the righteous soldiers,
Well-laden with loot, and laughing with joy, (69)
Wulfnoth’s warriors wound through the city.
With purple pennants and pride in their eyes, (70)
The men who marched were much-changed by the fight.
Of vagrant villains he’d veterans made, (71)
From fickle sell-swords firm loyalists forged.
To Peter’s Palace* they all proceeded (72)
To gift the German his gilded demands.
Carthage was captured by Crusading hands, (73)
The Cardinal’s case* now carried no weight.
Certain Cerdic’s* Crown could now be restored, (74)
The Ænglish approached, in affable cheer.
In vain the viceroy* still vacillated – (75)
Loathe to lend Wulfnoth legitimacy.
The persistant proud Prince pressed and affirmed; (76)
The rigid rector reluctant remained.
“St Jerome’s* jawbone,” rejoined the plaintiff, (77)
“And relics of Rome, returned to their home.”
“But why bring me bones? Bullion I want! (78)
“The church covets coin, to combat its foes!”
“True, thou took’st Tunis, but too little else, (79)
Still Sicily’s ships suffer from pirates*.”
“What more dost thou want?” Wulfnoth demanded, (80)
“Invade India? I implore thy sense:”
“Acre, Antioch, Aegypt* we’ve given” (81)
“Alone we appealed our ancestral rights.”
“Have care and caution,” the Cardinal warned, (82)
“’Gainst taking that tone to threaten a Pope.”
“When Conclave is called, and Cardinals meet, (83)
“Methinks one man will merit God’s choice.”
Such grossness of greed! Such godless disdain! (84)
What pious prince could proceed without ire?
“Peter’s Pallium*? I’ll not permit thee! (85)
“By my breath, my blood, my body, I swear this!”
“Why garner thy graces? God’s servants you’re not, (86)
“But a base bandit, a blackguard for sure!”
Such words, once uttered, will not be undone, (87)
‘Twas by a blessing no blood was shed then.
Electing exile, the Englishmen fled, (88)
Followed in flight by few faithful others.
To Genoa gone, in galleys they sailed, (89)
To Burgundy’s breast,* bent fast on revenge.
In the von Franken fastness, safe and sound, (90)
Two kings* connected, compelled by their foe.
To advance their aims, an alliance signed, (91)
A marriage was made, a melding of blood.
The sovereign’s sister* was served to the Prince, (92)
Blessed by the bishop, their bond was assured.
Whatever their wish, to wait out the storm, (93)
They durst not delay, in dread of pursuit.
With barely a break, the bridegroom set out, (94)
No retreat, not East – but North – to England*.
As returned to Rome, the righteous soldiers,
Well-laden with loot, and laughing with joy, (69)
Wulfnoth’s warriors wound through the city.
With purple pennants and pride in their eyes, (70)
The men who marched were much-changed by the fight.
Of vagrant villains he’d veterans made, (71)
From fickle sell-swords firm loyalists forged.
To Peter’s Palace* they all proceeded (72)
To gift the German his gilded demands.
Carthage was captured by Crusading hands, (73)
The Cardinal’s case* now carried no weight.
Certain Cerdic’s* Crown could now be restored, (74)
The Ænglish approached, in affable cheer.
In vain the viceroy* still vacillated – (75)
Loathe to lend Wulfnoth legitimacy.
The persistant proud Prince pressed and affirmed; (76)
The rigid rector reluctant remained.
“St Jerome’s* jawbone,” rejoined the plaintiff, (77)
“And relics of Rome, returned to their home.”
“But why bring me bones? Bullion I want! (78)
“The church covets coin, to combat its foes!”
“True, thou took’st Tunis, but too little else, (79)
Still Sicily’s ships suffer from pirates*.”
“What more dost thou want?” Wulfnoth demanded, (80)
“Invade India? I implore thy sense:”
“Acre, Antioch, Aegypt* we’ve given” (81)
“Alone we appealed our ancestral rights.”
“Have care and caution,” the Cardinal warned, (82)
“’Gainst taking that tone to threaten a Pope.”
“When Conclave is called, and Cardinals meet, (83)
“Methinks one man will merit God’s choice.”
Such grossness of greed! Such godless disdain! (84)
What pious prince could proceed without ire?
“Peter’s Pallium*? I’ll not permit thee! (85)
“By my breath, my blood, my body, I swear this!”
“Why garner thy graces? God’s servants you’re not, (86)
“But a base bandit, a blackguard for sure!”
Such words, once uttered, will not be undone, (87)
‘Twas by a blessing no blood was shed then.
Electing exile, the Englishmen fled, (88)
Followed in flight by few faithful others.
To Genoa gone, in galleys they sailed, (89)
To Burgundy’s breast,* bent fast on revenge.
In the von Franken fastness, safe and sound, (90)
Two kings* connected, compelled by their foe.
To advance their aims, an alliance signed, (91)
A marriage was made, a melding of blood.
The sovereign’s sister* was served to the Prince, (92)
Blessed by the bishop, their bond was assured.
Whatever their wish, to wait out the storm, (93)
They durst not delay, in dread of pursuit.
With barely a break, the bridegroom set out, (94)
No retreat, not East – but North – to England*.
Notes:
(72) Peter’s Palace – Probably the Lateran Palace, the traditional palace of the Popes, until their removal to Metz.
(73) The Cardinal Henry had previously refused to recognise the English kingdom by citing their lack of enthusiasm for the Crusade to capture Tunis. See 28.
(74) Cerdic was the mythical ancestor of the English Kings, including Wulfnoth himself. ‘Cerdic’s crown’ was used here metaphorically, as there the term never seems to have been applied to a specific object.
(75) Though this was not his official title, Cardinal Henry was, in essence, acting as Pope Alexander’s viceroy in Rome.
(77) St Jerome, one of the ‘Church Fathers’, is famous for translating the Greek New Testament into Latin, the text now known as the Vulgate. However, it is not recorded whether he ever traveled to North Africa. His death took place in Bethlehem.
(79) The disruption of Sicilian trade and shipping was the prime concern of the church in calling for the crusade against Tunis. The Moorish rulers of North Africa were actively encouraging piracy in the southern Mediterranean.
(81) While Antioch and Acre were certainly conquered by English armies, the claim that Egypt was in this way ‘liberated’, was something of a stretch – a few cities in the Nile Delta had been taken during the reign of King Theodorus, but Alexandria, Cairo and much of the rest of the country was captured by Norman crusaders.
(85) The Pallium was the traditional headpiece of the Popes.
(89) Genoa had become the stronghold of the von Franken ‘anti-Emperors’. When the imperial electors had called for the deposition of the Emperor Sighard in favour of Henry von Wittelsbach, Sighard had resisted, and his descendents had refused to recognize the Wittelsbachs as legitimate sovereigns. The current anti-Emperor was Berengar, a fifteen year-old dominated by his chancellor, Roger de Berteuil.
(90) That Wulfnoth was able to find an ally in Berengar and his Norman chancellor can only be explained by their mutual enemy in Pope Alexander and, by extension, the Emperor Vicktor. That Wulfnoth is referred to here as a king is a mistake.
(92) Walpurga, Wulfnoth’s bride, was the older sister of Berengar, and second child of his father Engelbrecht.
(94) Why exactly Wulfnoth decided to set out for England instead of returning to Judea remains unexplained by contemporary sources. It has been postulated that, having failed in his mission to secure Papal sanction for the conquest of Antioch and legitimacy for his family, the prince dared not return to his father, instead preferring to seek his uncle’s support in England.
Another strong poetic instalment
How much influence does the branch of the family in England still have over affairs in the East?
How much influence does the branch of the family in England still have over affairs in the East?
Thanks! It might be the last segment of the Song of Wulfnoth for a while; it takes a lot of words to cover each event, which is not very efficient. But I haven't abandoned it altogether, so we'll see more of it at some point in the future.
As to the English branch of the family, I think it's safe to say that John hasn't been too interested in the Eastern Kingdoms, and David and Romanus have been happy to keep it that way. Even if an ambitious king wanted to rule the two disparate halves more centrally, he'd have a difficult time, given the communication lag between England and Judea.
Patience young padawan, patience.
*****
The next update concerns a twist of fate dealt to me by the game engine. I love these kinds of surprises; it threw off my whole imagined story arc.
I may try to squeeze in a bonus 'Christmas Special' by the end of the week. We'll see.
Chapter 70 - The Passing of King John
St Michael carries a soul to heaven, c.1300
1206
St Michael carries a soul to heaven, c.1300
1206
From The Glastonbury Chronicle, by Augustine of Gloucester
September 2nd, 1206
I received summons from the King to Winchester this day. It has been some time since the King has requested my presence; of late he has seemed more concerned with the opinions of his Greek scribes and Jewish moneylenders than those of English churchmen. Nonetheless, I feel my duty keenly, and will attend upon our liege.
September 10th, 1206
Upon my arrival in Winchester, the reason for the King’s summons has become clear. The wounds he received in Mommouthshire have continued to trouble him, and he grows weaker by the day. In addition to myself and other clergymen, the King is surrounded by several Hebrew physicians and even Moorish alchemists. That he has survived this long despite their ministrations is a miracle. Even at the end, the King refuses to commit his soul decisively.
When I was granted an audience, after much waiting I found myself shocked by the appearance of our lord. King John is much paler and gaunter of frame than I have ever seen, and his beard is thin and contains a great number of grey hairs. It appears to be a struggle for him even to sit upright. Nonetheless, his eyes and words still convey the fire and iron within his heart.
When I asked him if there are arrangements to which he would like me to attend, he waved off my suggestion. My careful probing towards the issue of succession (even the Greeks whisper concernedly about this in the corners of the palace) was likewise dismissed. When I finally asked him outright whether he knew he was dying, the King merely laughed at the suggestion, and replied that he would be back on his horse within the month. Nonetheless, he asked me to sit with him a while that afternoon.
September 17th, 1206
The King’s situation continues to deteriorate, but his stubbornness is as strong as ever. He continues to insist that he will recover, despite all evidence to the contrary. If he is hoping for divine intervention, his past behavior is likely to mean that he will be disappointed. The scribbling foreigners have revealed that the King’s succession is to be determined by his brothers in far-off Judea, yet when I suggest that a missive be dispatched to that Kingdom, they are too afraid to contradict King John’s orders. At the same time, they make every move to block me from communicating with the other abbots and the shire reeves. My fear is a return to the dark days of civil discord of ten years previous. May God have mercy upon us all, should that come to pass.
September 19th, 1206
Once more I spent many hours with the King in chambers. He was not conscious for much of the morning. When the Jews suggested letting his blood for a further time, I dismissed them angrily. The King’s only salvation now lies in prayer.
September 20th, 1206
I was woken before Matins with an urgent summons to the King’s beside. He was conscious, though feeble, and I was asked to deliver the last rites unto him. Many of the servants and clerks were openly weeping or shivering with fear. Mindful of the delicate state of the realm, I again asked if he required the presence of the reeves or earls. Instead, he granted that we should send an emissary to Judea, and await the decision of his younger brothers.
“On no account,” the frail King said, “should my succession be decided by anyone other than my own family.” Despite the obvious difficulties in leaving the fate of England in the hands of men we had never met living many hundreds of miles distant, no-one present dared contradict our monarch. Instead we each murmured assent. For many minutes, the King was seized by racking coughing spasms, and we could see flecks of blood upon his coverings. Then he recovered himself, and looked around the room.
“Where is my crown?” he demanded of us all, “If I am to perish, I shall at least die a king.” A servant presented the golden diadem which I had placed onto his head many years earlier at Glastonbury, and the King held it in his hands for a moment, staring silently. Then he once again looked at each of us. “Not this. Where is my crown? Where is the crown of England? The crown of my forefathers?” We glanced at each other in confusion, and then in despair. Perhaps, we feared, the mind was following the body into the next life, at last.
Then a young man from the chancellery dared to answer. “Sire, King Edward’s crown remains in London, sire, as it has some twenty years now.”
King John frowned at this, and then sighed. “London.” He spoke, with his voice barely above a whisper. Shifting his head painfully, he gazed through a window into the night in the direction of the far-distant Thames. “Whyever did this elude me?” The question was asked to himself, or perhaps to Our Lord in Heaven. “Which man is a king, who lacks a crown?” With this he slumped in his bed, and gave a shuddering breath. The golden circlet slipped from his weakened hands and fell to the floor. And in that moment, John, King of the English, passed from this world and into the next, having been in this land as ruler some eleven years, and twelve days. He was thirty-eight years of age.
In his time as king, he had reclaimed the Kingdom of his ancestors from the Norman, King William the Proud, and recovered some thirteen shires from foreign rulers or local tyranny. He entered these lands as an invader with little knowledge of our customs, but upon his death he had begun the reforging of a kingdom, and the rescue of a people. To his enemies he was known as John the Rash; to many of his followers, among whom I now number myself, he was John the Lion-Hearted.
There is a reason why there was never a second King John...
Yeah... all the toilets were named after him.
Oh, wait, wrong John.
So what, was England's succession law Salic Gavelkind or something?
And it took you 19 pages and 140 years before you emulated the James Bond series and put a reference to your title in someone's speech. Just sayin'.
There is a reason why there was never a second King John...
Because his dynasty switched back to Saxon culture which doesn't have that name in its file?
I did wonder if it might be too cheesy but, all things considered, it was too good an opportunity to miss.
Salic Consanguinity is the succession law (I changed it around 1200 or so). At least, it should be. Unfortunately, when you TAG-switch, the AI always reverts to the Kingdom's default tag, i.e. Semisalic Primogeniture. In this case, David, King of Arabia (as oldest) technically inherited, but I simply granted away the titles as I pleased.
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Indeed. Just something the game threw at me. In my head, there was going to be a mentoring of the young prince by his uncle - and then John drops dead, so they never even met. Interesting times ahead, methinks.
Þe Christesmaessan Saga (Part 1)
Adapted from a folk story, thought to date from the 13th century
The grandson of old King Theodorus, the newest King of the English, was shivering. Wulfnoth had been raised in the river valleys of Mesopotamia, and was accustomed to warmer temperatures. And yet now, he found himself in Winchester, surrounded by flakes of slowly-falling snow. As he wrapped his fur-lined cloak tighter around himself, and stamped his way along the battlements, he reflected on the path that had brought him so far from home to this windswept hill on Christmas Eve.
When he had set sail from Tyre many months ago, surrounded by churchmen and diplomats, the young prince had never assumed that he would play much of a role in the embassy’s mission – to negotiate the minutiae of Papal legitimacy for the English kingdom. But something in the voyage to Rome had changed him from the shy, nervous youth coddled by his father and secretly mocked by his peers. It was, he thought, the effect of watching his father’s emissaries belittled and humbled, first by the Prince of Armenia, his own cousin Eadward and then by the Pope’s household. And the decadence and impiety he had witnessed in Rome would have been enough to make any man weep. But would it have caused another man to act? To oppose the most powerful man in Christendom? Perhaps not. Wulfnoth had discovered within himself a moral code as strong as an iron spear, and the passion to enforce it as fierce as the flaming sword of St Michael.
But when the red mist had cleared, Wulfnoth had had to face the consequences of his actions. Whatever the moral rightness of his actions, he had now made a mortal enemy in the Cardinal Henry, who would surely chase him to the ends of the Earth. And so he had fled. Not homeward, shamefully, to his disapproving father and hostile uncle, but northward. First to find an ally in the Emperor Berengar by marrying his sister, and then to find sanctuary with his uncle, King John of England. Even in Judea it had been well-known that King John was, if not excommunicated, hardly a friend of the Roman church. It had been Wulfnoth’s hope that his uncle would provide him with some means of shelter.
However, fate had once again laughed at the plans of men, and Wulfnoth had disembarked in Southampton only to find the town in mourning for the dead king, who had passed away weeks earlier. Looking around for some authority figure, it had soon become clear that the kingdom was drifting without leadership. In his dead uncle’s palace, in the castle built by Norman knights and now inhabited by Greek bureaucrats, Wulfnoth had discovered the flimsy machinery of government established by King John still operating, but aimlessly, without purpose nor authority. Being easily able to prove his identity, Wulfnoth had therefore taken the only reasonable course of action. Seeking to save the Kingdom from dissolution, he had persuaded the monks and scribes, with the help of his huscarls, that the presence of a King was more important than the procedures of succession.
And now it had come to pass. He was, indeed, a king. By all the rituals of the English people he had been anointed as their lord and master. A local abbot had been promoted to fill the vacant see of Winchester, and place his uncle’s crown upon Wulfnoth’s head. At seventeen, he had risen further in a few months than many men might do in a lifetime. Yet there was still something missing. It took more than a golden circlet and an ermine robe to create a ruler, and the new King knew it. He had never before so much as overseen an estate, let alone an entire island, as he now claimed the right to do. Even in battles, as before the plains of Carthage, his leadership had been inspired more by raw emotion than by rational strategy or charismatic inspiration. His new subjects may have been relieved simply to have anyone sitting upon their throne, but he was troubled by his own inexperience. If only there had been an example for him to follow…
At the moment he was thinking such thoughts, the wind howled through the trees. It was dark now, just after sunset, and the air had grown cold. The movement of the winds seemed almost to resemble the scream of a dying man. Shivering once more, but this time less from the cold, Wulfnoth hastily made the sign of the cross, and made his way swiftly back towards his chamber. As he passed beneath the walls of the main keep, he heard a voice cry out “Beware!” Stopping in his tracks, the king turned to look for the source of the exclamation. Finally, looking above him, he saw a gargoyle twisting its face, as if in agony. Shaking his head in disbelief, the young man looked again, but the statue was still. Once more making the sign to ward off evil spirits, the King hastened inside.
*
The cupbearer closed the door to the King’s bedchamber, and Wulfnoth was left alone with only the fire in the hearth for company. The walls in this room were still largely bereft of tapestries; a sign of the state of poverty to which the kingdom had fallen. As a result, the entire castle was always cold and damp. Tonight, however, there was an additional icy grip in the air. Outside the wind was still howling. It was a night for evil spirits to be abroad, on the night before Christmas, when all sane men were inside.
Just as Wulfnoth felt the warm hand of sleep upon his shoulders, a gust of cold air blew open the door to the chamber and snuffed out the flickering light of the candle by the bedside. The fire grew dimmer. Sitting up in startlement, the King saw before him a horrible vision. A gaunt and skeletal man stood before him, clothed in tattered finery and bound in chains of iron, with a tarnished brass crown upon his head.
“Who are you?” Spake the young King, his voice quiet and hoarse.
“Nay, thou ask’st the wrong question,” replied the figure. “Ask not who I am, but rather, who I was. In life, I was your grandfather, Theodorus, and, like you, I, too ruled over the English people as King.”
“That cannot be so. Ghosts are mere witchcraft. Perhaps you an angel? Or a demon, sent to torment me? I shaln’t be cowered by your servants, Satan!” Wulfnoth’s voice was louder, but its trembling belied the strength of his words.
“I am no demon,” Theodorus replied simply, “and though my enemies might have thought otherwise, neither am I well-acquainted with hell. I am a shade, sent into this life merely to issue you a warning. Whether you choose to heed me or not. In life, I was a King, just as you are now. I, too, was young, and inexperienced. I let my enemies and even my relatives take advantage of this, and I was king in name only. You see my appearance now.” At this, the spirit gestured to his ragged clothes and brazen crown. “For my weakness, I have been punished. Until eternity I will wear these pale imitations of kingship, for they reflect who I truly was in life –not a ruler of men, but the plaything of my subjects. And these,” he held up the iron chains which Wulfnoth now observed to be composed of sheets of parchment, quills and codices, yet each forged from metal and correspondingly heavy, “These are the chains of my legacy – the weight of historical judgment which will cling to my soul forever. Avoid my fate, young prince. Even now I can see your chains being forged.” Wulfnoth looked around him, but saw nothing. The ghost continued. “Three spirits will visit you tonight – and in this lies your scant hope. Heed the lessons of the spirits, and learn well from them. My time is over – but do not forget my warning!”
With that, the figure turned to look Wulfnoth straight in the eye for the first time, and in his eyes the young man saw visions of indescribable suffering and torment. A low moan escape the shade of King Theodorus, which continued to reverberate throughout the room long after his shape had faded into mist.
Once again, everything was quiet. Wulfnoth had never met his grandfather, having been born several years after his death, though the spirit certainly bore a likeness to his image. That is, if one could imagine the image of a king made gaunt, pale and filled with sadness. Moreover, the apparition’s words had rung true. What reason was there for Wulfnoth to disbelieve? As he lay there pondering these thoughts, and dreading the prospect of further visits, sleep overtook the King, and he slumped to the bedsheets.
[To be continued...]