Sorry you feel that way, because there is going to be a lot of wasting in this AAR.
I, Rodrigo: The Annals of the Orient
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Sorry you feel that way, because there is going to be a lot of wasting in this AAR.
Are we all getting so wasted?
On a side note, a pretty hefty update is in the works. And as a special treat... take a look at the brand spanking new characters profiles in the Cast Thus Far interim update. CK profiles are so freaking ugly that I had to do something... I hope you all enjoy.
Also, I want to prod all of my readers to vote in the AARland Choice Awards. I want you guys to vote, but I do not want you to vote for me! Oh the humility! What I am saying is, I, Rodrigo is WAY too young to be thinking about any high-stakes awards like that. May the best AAR win!
Also, I want to prod all of my readers to vote in the AARland Choice Awards. I want you guys to vote, but I do not want you to vote for me! Oh the humility!
What I am saying is, I, Rodrigo is WAY too young to be thinking about any high-stakes awards like that. May the best AAR win!
Chapter Two, Part Two
Chapter Two: Affairs of the Heart
Under the Crescent Moon
During the siege of Zaragoza, in a most bizarre turn of events, Rodrigo asked for Agnes’ hand in marriage. With their relationship tested through the toil of war – the Duke graciously accepted. Instead of arranging a marriage to a powerful noble, one had come to his doorstep and had completed the tedious task himself. A marriage between the Spains’ greatest general and his eldest daughter not only secured Rodrigo’s trust and allegiance, but also his permanent service within the Duchy of Barcelona – having agreed to come to the Duke’s court since he had no real estate of land back at Burgos. After a ceremony at Albarracin, the marriage is consummated and soon Agnes is pregnant with Rodrigo’s first child. While the House of Sunifred celebrates the new married couple, the Duke’s personal crusade against the Spanish taifas continues, and a certain someone pouts in displeasure over the addition of a new possible heir to Barcelona.
Zaragoza, The Spains
January 19, 1069
The capture of Zaragoza, fortunately, was bloodless. From late October to early January, the armies of Castille and Barcelona laid siege to the Emir's city, starving its people into submission. Hunger inched up the societal ladder - forcing the Emir's hand when he too began going hungry. Unable to watch the suffering anymore, the Emir surrendered, opening the gates to King Sancho and Duke Ramon Berenguer. Their respective armies, in respect to the circumstances in which they were entering the city, were only allowed one day of general looting. A prisoner in his own palace, the Emir now awaits his sentence.
The Emir's Palace at Zaragoza - a testament to the height of Islamic civilization.
“I always imagine what it would be like to live in this place,” a Sancho Jimenez, most esteemed King of Castille, said to Duke Ramon who was sitting across from him, “I am almost glad that he didn’t spend as much coin on soldiers as he did on servants.”
“I am most inclined to agree,” the Duke said, ripping a piece of bread from the load he had in his hand. After eating Barcelona’s poor excuse for bread, it had been nice to consume something that was at least half-way decent.
“Perhaps we should return to the business at hand,” the Emir, sitting in a circle with his two conquerers, guards standing on either side if he decided to try anything.
“Of course, of course,” Sancho smiled deviously, enjoying the mental torture of his esteemed guest as he swirled the milk in his cup – taken from the Emir’s dairy cows upon entering Zaragoza.
The three men sat in silence for a few moments, all of them collectively pondering their next move. It would be easy to execute the Emir, but not without angering all of Moors under Barcelona’s yoke. However, letting him live could allow him to serve as a rallying cry for a renewed defense of the surrounding Taifas. None of the men could seem to offer a solution, but something had to be done as God demanded submission to the One True Faith. All of them, however, turned their heads as the large wooden door closed quietly – Ferran Certores and Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar entered, their hands resting firmly on the hilts of their swords. King Sancho immediately stood up to greet Rodrigo, extending his hand in a firm handshake as friends would greet one another. Rodrigo and Ferran both bowed their heads, addressing the men of higher office by their respective spoken titles.
“Please, take a seat!” King Sancho exclaimed, snapping his fingers and gesturing to servants standing on the outskirts of the room to fetch chairs. In a matter of moments, the circle of warriors widened, with Ferran and Rodrigo sitting beside their liege.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Rodrigo spoke, bowing his head.
“I would like to play a game, Rodrigo,” King Sancho said, the general’s name slipping off of his tongue as if he had said it a thousand different times, “and the game is called ‘what to do with your prisoner of war’.”
“Majesty, I am afraid I don’t…” Rodrigo trailed off, nervously scratching his back in uncertainty. Duke Ramon quietly sighed, and King Sancho continued his explanation.
“What should we do with the Emir?” Sancho muttered, shooting the Emir a nasty look. Oddly, the Emir only remained calm, taking a moment to eye up who might possibly decide his fate. While calm, Rodrigo saw the fear in his eyes – and rightly so. Sancho was a ruthless man in punishment as to prove some sort of point. The Castillian throne was weak compared to the southern Iberian Taifas, and he did his best to exercise whatever power he had whenever he could.
Once again silence enveloped the room. The silence was damning with its intimidation as the men of power awaited his answer. He knew he could suggest any fate and Sancho would do with it as he pleased, but he did not want to embarrass or offend his former liege. At the same time, he had to inflict a suitable punishment on this Emir as per the proper form of being the conquered. There was no reason to be harsh – the war was unjust and fought on rocky reasons of faith, but obviously such things could not be said when his employers were sitting around him. Then, it hit him. Rodrigo clasped his hands together, his leather gloves making creaking and cracking noises as they meshed.
“I believe the Emir should be spared, but not allowed to leave Zaragoza. Let him keep this residence to live out the rest of his days. He will also help in administering the city, as he knows it better than we do,” Rodrigo spoke nervously, his voice slightly wavering in fear of his suggestion to be rebuked. His fears were confirmed when Sancho simply shook his head, his visage plagued with disgust.
“Yes, because letting our conquered enemy administer Zaragoza is the perfect way to ensure our victory!” Sancho snapped, his face slightly turning pink with rage, “you will have us killed in the night!”
“To be fair, Your Majesty,” Ferran spoke up, his mere voice making Sancho wince in disgust, “Rodrigo said help…”
“You idiot! Who are you anyway?” Sancho exclaimed, raising a finger at Ferran.
“Ferran Certories, Majesty,” Duke Ramon interjected, leaning back in a most relaxed state, “he saved my life when we were in the field. I wouldn’t be here today without his loyalty to Barcelona.”
“I see…” Sancho looked down, defeated by his own haste, “perhaps you should explain further, Rodrigo.”
“Majesty,” Rodrigo bowed his head as Sancho rolled his eyes, “I mean that executing the Emir will anger the people. Keeping him alive and in a position of shared power with whoever shall administer the city will keep the city pacified. We need to continue our campaign as fast as possible to avoid the buildup of armies that we cannot face.”
“You are a true sayyid,” the Emir nodded in respect to Rodrigo, “you are much more well versed in politics that I imagined.”
“El Cid?” Sancho questioned, an eyebrow cocked in exaggeration, “Master? I believe that is a little unfair considering how your fate rests in my… our hands.”
“I don’t see any other option, Majesty,” the Duke leaned in, cupping his hands as if giving Sancho an offering, “violently pacifying a city of this size will take months. Executing the Emir or treating him unfairly will slow down this process instead of speeding it up. Rodrigo is right, we need not anger the people as we do need them to replenish lost soldiers and repair our equipment – in a logistical point of view, anyway.”
“So be it,” Sancho waved his hand, motioning for his guards to act, “take him away. I will meet with him later to discuss the details of his imprisonment.”
Barcelona, The Spains
April 1st, 1069
Almodis de La Marche, adorned with the same black veil covering her face, walked gingerly through the halls of the castle, placing one foot lightly in front of each other. Having lived in captivity for so many years, she knew how to sneak around. She felt awful every time she did it, knowing that no one else would treat her this way as Duke Ramon Berenguer did. This particular trip was to the kitchen, the skimpy meal served to her at dinner simply was not enough. While the war for Castille had no affect on their economy, Barcelona was already strapped and waging war on little funds and even credit. Wondering how the peasants were faring if she were hungry in the middle of the night, Almodis continued on.
However, her dash for the kitchen was cut short as the laugh of cackling young girls echoed throughout the hallway. Banishing her hunger out of curiosity, Almodis crept forward, the noise seemingly getting closer and closer even in the pitch black. Eventually a lit torch illuminated a small patch of area, and trying to stay out of sight, Almodis ducked into an adjacent room as the girls continued to laugh and joke about whatever was so funny.
“Are you sure? How do you know?” one girl said.
“She told me herself! It is had been going on up until the Duke left. Even went a few times to see him,” another girl responded, she being the one who apparently was relaying the news.
“What about her father?” yet another girl asked, and Almodis’ stomach twisted inside her. A woman with the Duke? What was going on?
“Oh Count d’Empuries is an idiot. Pratically blind!” the second girl rebuked, “he still things his daughter in a virgin! Wait till he finds out she has been sleeping with the Duke!”
Almodis, not caring about the rest of the conversation, scurried out of the room back to her quarters. The Duke had been a lot of things to her – cruel, unjust, even abusive – but never had she known him to be an adulterer. Even worse, their affair had a year and a half history! As she retreated to the safety of her bedroom, she felt nothing but hate. A hate that twisted and turned her stomach in impossible directions – and she hadn’t even felt a drop of sadness. She almost expected it… which was even worse. He hadn’t lain with her in years, and she always assumed it was because he was getting older, but apparently his needs were being satisfied elsewhere.
Sitting on her bed, her racing mind slowly calming came to one conclusion. Enough was enough. It was time for the Duke to pay his dues.
Chapter Two: Affairs of the Heart
Under the Crescent Moon
During the siege of Zaragoza, in a most bizarre turn of events, Rodrigo asked for Agnes’ hand in marriage. With their relationship tested through the toil of war – the Duke graciously accepted. Instead of arranging a marriage to a powerful noble, one had come to his doorstep and had completed the tedious task himself. A marriage between the Spains’ greatest general and his eldest daughter not only secured Rodrigo’s trust and allegiance, but also his permanent service within the Duchy of Barcelona – having agreed to come to the Duke’s court since he had no real estate of land back at Burgos. After a ceremony at Albarracin, the marriage is consummated and soon Agnes is pregnant with Rodrigo’s first child. While the House of Sunifred celebrates the new married couple, the Duke’s personal crusade against the Spanish taifas continues, and a certain someone pouts in displeasure over the addition of a new possible heir to Barcelona.
Zaragoza, The Spains
January 19, 1069
The capture of Zaragoza, fortunately, was bloodless. From late October to early January, the armies of Castille and Barcelona laid siege to the Emir's city, starving its people into submission. Hunger inched up the societal ladder - forcing the Emir's hand when he too began going hungry. Unable to watch the suffering anymore, the Emir surrendered, opening the gates to King Sancho and Duke Ramon Berenguer. Their respective armies, in respect to the circumstances in which they were entering the city, were only allowed one day of general looting. A prisoner in his own palace, the Emir now awaits his sentence.
The Emir's Palace at Zaragoza - a testament to the height of Islamic civilization.
“I always imagine what it would be like to live in this place,” a Sancho Jimenez, most esteemed King of Castille, said to Duke Ramon who was sitting across from him, “I am almost glad that he didn’t spend as much coin on soldiers as he did on servants.”
“I am most inclined to agree,” the Duke said, ripping a piece of bread from the load he had in his hand. After eating Barcelona’s poor excuse for bread, it had been nice to consume something that was at least half-way decent.
“Perhaps we should return to the business at hand,” the Emir, sitting in a circle with his two conquerers, guards standing on either side if he decided to try anything.
“Of course, of course,” Sancho smiled deviously, enjoying the mental torture of his esteemed guest as he swirled the milk in his cup – taken from the Emir’s dairy cows upon entering Zaragoza.
The three men sat in silence for a few moments, all of them collectively pondering their next move. It would be easy to execute the Emir, but not without angering all of Moors under Barcelona’s yoke. However, letting him live could allow him to serve as a rallying cry for a renewed defense of the surrounding Taifas. None of the men could seem to offer a solution, but something had to be done as God demanded submission to the One True Faith. All of them, however, turned their heads as the large wooden door closed quietly – Ferran Certores and Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar entered, their hands resting firmly on the hilts of their swords. King Sancho immediately stood up to greet Rodrigo, extending his hand in a firm handshake as friends would greet one another. Rodrigo and Ferran both bowed their heads, addressing the men of higher office by their respective spoken titles.
“Please, take a seat!” King Sancho exclaimed, snapping his fingers and gesturing to servants standing on the outskirts of the room to fetch chairs. In a matter of moments, the circle of warriors widened, with Ferran and Rodrigo sitting beside their liege.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Rodrigo spoke, bowing his head.
“I would like to play a game, Rodrigo,” King Sancho said, the general’s name slipping off of his tongue as if he had said it a thousand different times, “and the game is called ‘what to do with your prisoner of war’.”
“Majesty, I am afraid I don’t…” Rodrigo trailed off, nervously scratching his back in uncertainty. Duke Ramon quietly sighed, and King Sancho continued his explanation.
“What should we do with the Emir?” Sancho muttered, shooting the Emir a nasty look. Oddly, the Emir only remained calm, taking a moment to eye up who might possibly decide his fate. While calm, Rodrigo saw the fear in his eyes – and rightly so. Sancho was a ruthless man in punishment as to prove some sort of point. The Castillian throne was weak compared to the southern Iberian Taifas, and he did his best to exercise whatever power he had whenever he could.
Once again silence enveloped the room. The silence was damning with its intimidation as the men of power awaited his answer. He knew he could suggest any fate and Sancho would do with it as he pleased, but he did not want to embarrass or offend his former liege. At the same time, he had to inflict a suitable punishment on this Emir as per the proper form of being the conquered. There was no reason to be harsh – the war was unjust and fought on rocky reasons of faith, but obviously such things could not be said when his employers were sitting around him. Then, it hit him. Rodrigo clasped his hands together, his leather gloves making creaking and cracking noises as they meshed.
“I believe the Emir should be spared, but not allowed to leave Zaragoza. Let him keep this residence to live out the rest of his days. He will also help in administering the city, as he knows it better than we do,” Rodrigo spoke nervously, his voice slightly wavering in fear of his suggestion to be rebuked. His fears were confirmed when Sancho simply shook his head, his visage plagued with disgust.
“Yes, because letting our conquered enemy administer Zaragoza is the perfect way to ensure our victory!” Sancho snapped, his face slightly turning pink with rage, “you will have us killed in the night!”
“To be fair, Your Majesty,” Ferran spoke up, his mere voice making Sancho wince in disgust, “Rodrigo said help…”
“You idiot! Who are you anyway?” Sancho exclaimed, raising a finger at Ferran.
“Ferran Certories, Majesty,” Duke Ramon interjected, leaning back in a most relaxed state, “he saved my life when we were in the field. I wouldn’t be here today without his loyalty to Barcelona.”
“I see…” Sancho looked down, defeated by his own haste, “perhaps you should explain further, Rodrigo.”
“Majesty,” Rodrigo bowed his head as Sancho rolled his eyes, “I mean that executing the Emir will anger the people. Keeping him alive and in a position of shared power with whoever shall administer the city will keep the city pacified. We need to continue our campaign as fast as possible to avoid the buildup of armies that we cannot face.”
“You are a true sayyid,” the Emir nodded in respect to Rodrigo, “you are much more well versed in politics that I imagined.”
“El Cid?” Sancho questioned, an eyebrow cocked in exaggeration, “Master? I believe that is a little unfair considering how your fate rests in my… our hands.”
“I don’t see any other option, Majesty,” the Duke leaned in, cupping his hands as if giving Sancho an offering, “violently pacifying a city of this size will take months. Executing the Emir or treating him unfairly will slow down this process instead of speeding it up. Rodrigo is right, we need not anger the people as we do need them to replenish lost soldiers and repair our equipment – in a logistical point of view, anyway.”
“So be it,” Sancho waved his hand, motioning for his guards to act, “take him away. I will meet with him later to discuss the details of his imprisonment.”
Barcelona, The Spains
April 1st, 1069
Almodis de La Marche, adorned with the same black veil covering her face, walked gingerly through the halls of the castle, placing one foot lightly in front of each other. Having lived in captivity for so many years, she knew how to sneak around. She felt awful every time she did it, knowing that no one else would treat her this way as Duke Ramon Berenguer did. This particular trip was to the kitchen, the skimpy meal served to her at dinner simply was not enough. While the war for Castille had no affect on their economy, Barcelona was already strapped and waging war on little funds and even credit. Wondering how the peasants were faring if she were hungry in the middle of the night, Almodis continued on.
However, her dash for the kitchen was cut short as the laugh of cackling young girls echoed throughout the hallway. Banishing her hunger out of curiosity, Almodis crept forward, the noise seemingly getting closer and closer even in the pitch black. Eventually a lit torch illuminated a small patch of area, and trying to stay out of sight, Almodis ducked into an adjacent room as the girls continued to laugh and joke about whatever was so funny.
“Are you sure? How do you know?” one girl said.
“She told me herself! It is had been going on up until the Duke left. Even went a few times to see him,” another girl responded, she being the one who apparently was relaying the news.
“What about her father?” yet another girl asked, and Almodis’ stomach twisted inside her. A woman with the Duke? What was going on?
“Oh Count d’Empuries is an idiot. Pratically blind!” the second girl rebuked, “he still things his daughter in a virgin! Wait till he finds out she has been sleeping with the Duke!”
Almodis, not caring about the rest of the conversation, scurried out of the room back to her quarters. The Duke had been a lot of things to her – cruel, unjust, even abusive – but never had she known him to be an adulterer. Even worse, their affair had a year and a half history! As she retreated to the safety of her bedroom, she felt nothing but hate. A hate that twisted and turned her stomach in impossible directions – and she hadn’t even felt a drop of sadness. She almost expected it… which was even worse. He hadn’t lain with her in years, and she always assumed it was because he was getting older, but apparently his needs were being satisfied elsewhere.
Sitting on her bed, her racing mind slowly calming came to one conclusion. Enough was enough. It was time for the Duke to pay his dues.
I think the Emir got off lightly. I was expecting a forced conversion, at least.
And Almodis is surprised that her cruel, abusive husband who locked her in the tower is cheating on her? Such naivite. Her fury will do doubt be great.
And Almodis is surprised that her cruel, abusive husband who locked her in the tower is cheating on her? Such naivite. Her fury will do doubt be great.
Indeed. Can't trust 'em for nothing (just kidding)!
To reply to both of these things - I was half asleep last night when I finished this post, so some things might not have been clear. The bulk of the post was supposed to represent Rodrigo's tolerant attitude toward's Muslims. I did some extensive research on El Cid before I introduced him as a character; he had Muslims in his government and even allowed them to worship freely and openly when he ruled Valencia. In reality, of course, he wouldn't have been present at something like that and it is very likely that Sancho would have made him convert. I hope that clears that up.
In regards to Almodis, Duke Ramon Berenguer, in history, seemed like a pious soul. With the rapid succession of events between him and Ermesenda in-game, I took it as a twist on what his unfortunate wife endured. I was going for the angle "you think you know someone your whole life, and yet you really don't know them at all" sort of thing.
Blades are too obvious, but poison comes in many forms.
Chapter Two, Part Three
Chapter Two: Affairs of the Heart
A Clearer Conscious, Part 1
Within a few months of conquering Zaragoza – the city had been suppressed and pacified. The people were content with the Emir still on his throne (albeit a puppet), and housed the Army of Barcelona as commanded, albeit suspiciously. It was a calculated moved by Rodrigo – and it worked. It had worked so well that the local population began to refer to him as El Cid, the Spanish word for Master. With their loyalty in the hands of Rodrigo and Duke Ramon Berenguer, along with pressing family tensions in Galicia and Leon, King Sancho withdrew his army and returned to Burgos, leaving Zaragoza to the Duchy of Barcelona. It was a crucial victory that Barcelona sorely needed, as it provided the army with provisions, coin, and shelter – everything necessary to play the next move and keep morale up.
Yet, not everyone was feeling the effects of the victory at Zaragoza. The Duke’s subjects in Barcelona had become distraught at the total war conditions Barcelona had to endure to keep this war up. Soldiers were hugely expensive to maintain, and as a result, the Duchy had been forced to rely on local creditors to back his conquests. Beyond the ducal court, several small scale revolts had taken place, with scores of people leaving the fields and arming themselves with pitchforks to march on their local barons and demand compensation to alleviate the poverty they were enduring. In truth, the local barons had no way to assist them even if they wanted to – as their granaries were reserved for the Duke if he needed them. The barons couldn’t forcibly disband the rebels either as all able bodied men were enlisted into the Army of Barcelona.
Barcelona, The Spains
May 23rd, 1069
Pedro Ramon, Regent of Barcelona, slumped in his large wooden chair as the musk of unwashed peasants flooded his sinuses. A large crowd of serfs had shown up at the castle’s atrium, demanding audience with the Regent at the penalty of revolt. He sighed, wishing he could summon the ducal armies and dispatch this revolt, and know all too well that his meager guard could not deal with a mob of peasants at his door. As Pedro settled into a slouch, the hardness of the chair pressing into his back, his father’s chancellor, Bernat de Baslu, entered the throne room, arriving behind the chair. Pedro only waved his hand in a gesture to bring him forward, know whatever news he brought was not going to be good.
“Excellency,” de Baslu nodded, keeping to Pedro’s strict formal code, “a representative of the peasant mob is here to see you. Shall I bring him in?”
“Not yet,” Pedro strained to get out, the pangs of his hangover still nagging at his head, “where is my wife? She would know what is going on out there.”
Urraca Jimenez, the daughter of King Sancho and wife to Pedro, had succeeded Pedro as spy master upon his ascension as Regent of Barcelona when his father departed for Albarracin. Their marriage, however, was less than perfect, as Pedro continued his revelries by night and hangover recoveries by day, flat out refusing protocol in consummating their union, his focuses elsewhere on the women and the drinks he had acquainted himself with as a bachelor.
“I had already contacted her on the assumption that you would ask for her advice,” de Baslu pulled from his memory, “and has declined to speak with you as once again refused to share a bed with her, as well as your repeated accusations of adultery.”
“Did she say that now?” Pedro laughed, standing up and breaking out into a steady pace, his arms folded behind his back.
“Yes, Your Excellency. Almost verbatim in the absence of a few inappropriate curses,” de Baslu confirmed.
“Fine – bring him in!” Pedro exclaimed, gesturing to the door. The chancellor nodded to the guards standing vigilant on either side of the entrance, and they to sprung to action and swung open the doors, the screams and hisses of peasants in his atrium entering in as the representative passed through. As the door closed, and the angry mob’s hollers settling to a low drone, Pedro returned to his throne, sitting upright and at attention for the arrival of their guest.
The throne of the Duke's of Barcelona - Pedro had become quite use to the comfort the most uncomfortable chair gave him...
“Your Excellency,” the representative nodded his head.
“Whom do I speak with?” Pedro inquired, looking over to de Baslu, who opened a scroll, glanced at an entry, and returned his gaze to the Regent.
“Bartomeu, Your Excellency,” the chancellor cleared his throat, “he is a field supervisor on one of Barcelona’s surrounding fiefs.”
“And what brings you to the throne of my father, Bartomeu? What could possibly deserve all of this rucus and talk of revolt?” Pedro asked sincerely, really being completely unaware of anything outside of the walls of Barcelona.
“Well, Your Excellency,” Bartomeu began, shifting his weight nervously, “my workers are concerned that they will not have enough food for the winter. The majority of the grain harvested this year is scheduled to leave for the campaign. However, we still have mouths to feed right here, so I was wondering if we coul-“
“Stop right there,” Pedro interjected, raising his hand to silence who he believed to be a buffoon, “are you suggesting that we open the granaries?”
“Perhaps not immediately, but…” Bartomeu continued, initially receiving a most disgusted look from Pedro.
“That – I cannot do,” Pedro began, snapping his fingers toward a servant as if on some sort of cue, “the granaries are reserved for emergencies. Beyond that, I cannot open them without a direct command from my father. So, no, we are not opening the granaries.”
“Perhaps His Excellency would reconsider…” Bartomeu despaired, looking at the ground with the uncertain future of his people at the forefront of his mind. Pedro opened his mouth to speak, but was silence by de Baslu’s immediate entrance into the conversation.
“I believe stopping peasants from storming the castle to take our food is urgent enough to open the granaries. Your father would approve, I am sure of it,” de Baslu pleaded, but his begging feel on deaf ears. Immediately, the servant appeared, offering parchment and quill to the Regent. Accepting it, the servant backed away. Clasping the items in his hand, Pedro descended down the several steps from the elevated position of his throne, and stood directly before Bartomeu, extending his hands and offering the items to the representative.
“Perhaps you would like to ask the Duke himself to open the granaries?” Pedro asked, a smug smile darkening his face, “I am sure he would consider your offer.”
“W-well, s-sire, I-I d-don’t t-think that w-will be n-necessary…”
“Good,” Pedro said, throwing the parchment and quill at the lowly supervisor, “because opening the granaries is specifically reserved for if the Duke and his host desperately need them. Besides, opening the granaries for Barcelona’s gaping mouth wouldn’t leave enough bread for the fastest courier to get this message to the Duke in the first place! Get out of my sight!”
“Your Excellency,” Bartomeu said, bowing his head. Turning on his heel, he briskly walked toward whence he came, leaving the horror that transpired in the throne room far behind him.
After Bartomeu had exited the throne room, the guards closed the doors, their armor rattling as they moved. Returning to their positions. Exploding from the atrium were cries and screams of anguish and rage, and the chancellor believed he heard a few times calls for the Regent’s head. Pedro, seemingly statisfied, returned to his chair, almost forgetting that his chancellor was still behind him waiting to be excused.
“Before you leave,” Pedro piped up, “how do you think that went?”
“It went very well, Excellency,” de Baslu lied, turning and exiting the room through a side corridor, leaving the stench of power and ego behind him.
Chapter Two: Affairs of the Heart
A Clearer Conscious, Part 1
Within a few months of conquering Zaragoza – the city had been suppressed and pacified. The people were content with the Emir still on his throne (albeit a puppet), and housed the Army of Barcelona as commanded, albeit suspiciously. It was a calculated moved by Rodrigo – and it worked. It had worked so well that the local population began to refer to him as El Cid, the Spanish word for Master. With their loyalty in the hands of Rodrigo and Duke Ramon Berenguer, along with pressing family tensions in Galicia and Leon, King Sancho withdrew his army and returned to Burgos, leaving Zaragoza to the Duchy of Barcelona. It was a crucial victory that Barcelona sorely needed, as it provided the army with provisions, coin, and shelter – everything necessary to play the next move and keep morale up.
Yet, not everyone was feeling the effects of the victory at Zaragoza. The Duke’s subjects in Barcelona had become distraught at the total war conditions Barcelona had to endure to keep this war up. Soldiers were hugely expensive to maintain, and as a result, the Duchy had been forced to rely on local creditors to back his conquests. Beyond the ducal court, several small scale revolts had taken place, with scores of people leaving the fields and arming themselves with pitchforks to march on their local barons and demand compensation to alleviate the poverty they were enduring. In truth, the local barons had no way to assist them even if they wanted to – as their granaries were reserved for the Duke if he needed them. The barons couldn’t forcibly disband the rebels either as all able bodied men were enlisted into the Army of Barcelona.
Barcelona, The Spains
May 23rd, 1069
Pedro Ramon, Regent of Barcelona, slumped in his large wooden chair as the musk of unwashed peasants flooded his sinuses. A large crowd of serfs had shown up at the castle’s atrium, demanding audience with the Regent at the penalty of revolt. He sighed, wishing he could summon the ducal armies and dispatch this revolt, and know all too well that his meager guard could not deal with a mob of peasants at his door. As Pedro settled into a slouch, the hardness of the chair pressing into his back, his father’s chancellor, Bernat de Baslu, entered the throne room, arriving behind the chair. Pedro only waved his hand in a gesture to bring him forward, know whatever news he brought was not going to be good.
“Excellency,” de Baslu nodded, keeping to Pedro’s strict formal code, “a representative of the peasant mob is here to see you. Shall I bring him in?”
“Not yet,” Pedro strained to get out, the pangs of his hangover still nagging at his head, “where is my wife? She would know what is going on out there.”
Urraca Jimenez, the daughter of King Sancho and wife to Pedro, had succeeded Pedro as spy master upon his ascension as Regent of Barcelona when his father departed for Albarracin. Their marriage, however, was less than perfect, as Pedro continued his revelries by night and hangover recoveries by day, flat out refusing protocol in consummating their union, his focuses elsewhere on the women and the drinks he had acquainted himself with as a bachelor.
“I had already contacted her on the assumption that you would ask for her advice,” de Baslu pulled from his memory, “and has declined to speak with you as once again refused to share a bed with her, as well as your repeated accusations of adultery.”
“Did she say that now?” Pedro laughed, standing up and breaking out into a steady pace, his arms folded behind his back.
“Yes, Your Excellency. Almost verbatim in the absence of a few inappropriate curses,” de Baslu confirmed.
“Fine – bring him in!” Pedro exclaimed, gesturing to the door. The chancellor nodded to the guards standing vigilant on either side of the entrance, and they to sprung to action and swung open the doors, the screams and hisses of peasants in his atrium entering in as the representative passed through. As the door closed, and the angry mob’s hollers settling to a low drone, Pedro returned to his throne, sitting upright and at attention for the arrival of their guest.
The throne of the Duke's of Barcelona - Pedro had become quite use to the comfort the most uncomfortable chair gave him...
“Your Excellency,” the representative nodded his head.
“Whom do I speak with?” Pedro inquired, looking over to de Baslu, who opened a scroll, glanced at an entry, and returned his gaze to the Regent.
“Bartomeu, Your Excellency,” the chancellor cleared his throat, “he is a field supervisor on one of Barcelona’s surrounding fiefs.”
“And what brings you to the throne of my father, Bartomeu? What could possibly deserve all of this rucus and talk of revolt?” Pedro asked sincerely, really being completely unaware of anything outside of the walls of Barcelona.
“Well, Your Excellency,” Bartomeu began, shifting his weight nervously, “my workers are concerned that they will not have enough food for the winter. The majority of the grain harvested this year is scheduled to leave for the campaign. However, we still have mouths to feed right here, so I was wondering if we coul-“
“Stop right there,” Pedro interjected, raising his hand to silence who he believed to be a buffoon, “are you suggesting that we open the granaries?”
“Perhaps not immediately, but…” Bartomeu continued, initially receiving a most disgusted look from Pedro.
“That – I cannot do,” Pedro began, snapping his fingers toward a servant as if on some sort of cue, “the granaries are reserved for emergencies. Beyond that, I cannot open them without a direct command from my father. So, no, we are not opening the granaries.”
“Perhaps His Excellency would reconsider…” Bartomeu despaired, looking at the ground with the uncertain future of his people at the forefront of his mind. Pedro opened his mouth to speak, but was silence by de Baslu’s immediate entrance into the conversation.
“I believe stopping peasants from storming the castle to take our food is urgent enough to open the granaries. Your father would approve, I am sure of it,” de Baslu pleaded, but his begging feel on deaf ears. Immediately, the servant appeared, offering parchment and quill to the Regent. Accepting it, the servant backed away. Clasping the items in his hand, Pedro descended down the several steps from the elevated position of his throne, and stood directly before Bartomeu, extending his hands and offering the items to the representative.
“Perhaps you would like to ask the Duke himself to open the granaries?” Pedro asked, a smug smile darkening his face, “I am sure he would consider your offer.”
“W-well, s-sire, I-I d-don’t t-think that w-will be n-necessary…”
“Good,” Pedro said, throwing the parchment and quill at the lowly supervisor, “because opening the granaries is specifically reserved for if the Duke and his host desperately need them. Besides, opening the granaries for Barcelona’s gaping mouth wouldn’t leave enough bread for the fastest courier to get this message to the Duke in the first place! Get out of my sight!”
“Your Excellency,” Bartomeu said, bowing his head. Turning on his heel, he briskly walked toward whence he came, leaving the horror that transpired in the throne room far behind him.
After Bartomeu had exited the throne room, the guards closed the doors, their armor rattling as they moved. Returning to their positions. Exploding from the atrium were cries and screams of anguish and rage, and the chancellor believed he heard a few times calls for the Regent’s head. Pedro, seemingly statisfied, returned to his chair, almost forgetting that his chancellor was still behind him waiting to be excused.
“Before you leave,” Pedro piped up, “how do you think that went?”
“It went very well, Excellency,” de Baslu lied, turning and exiting the room through a side corridor, leaving the stench of power and ego behind him.
Excellent writing Issac! I hope you get to finish this El Cid tale. Quite some have been started in the past, but few were continued.
Thank you, Qorten! Glad to you around my AAR. I know I will finish the tale of El Cid, but I hope you stick around for his successors.
Return to the fields! *whip-pish*Nah, no one shall revolt. They have to work, no time for revolting.
Thank you! Indeed he does. Wars can't be waged without food, and if no one works...
Thank you, Mr. C!
Wow, I go away for a bit and you post these splendid updates. You're quite a prodigous writer.
Thank you! I am glad you enjoyed them. I particularly enjoyed writing the most recent update - definitely my favorite thus far.
Chapter Two, Part Four
Chapter Two: Affairs of the Heart
A Clearer Conscious, Part II
In late Spring, the Army of Barcelona departed southward to the city of Tarragona – the last stronghold within the broken Emirate of Zaragoza. Arriving in early October, the Army formed at the city, and prepared to hunker down for a winter siege. The plan was simple, the Army of Barcelona would keep striking cities and strongholds in rapid succession to reduce the ability for the enemy to regroup and launch any form of counterattack. Soldiers normally under these conditions of constant warfare would probably fold and refuse to fight, but under Rodrigo’s competent command, the men-at-arms eagerly pushed on, wishing to prove themselves under who they believed was a hero. In light of all of their rapid and successful conquests, the bond between Ponç d’Empuries, Duke Ramon Berenguer, and El Cid couldn’t have been any stronger. It would be an alliance that would prove effective in the near future.
Tarragona, The Spains
October 17th, 1069
Almodis was jerked around her transport – a wooden covered wagon – as it hit a large divot, splashing mud and dirt all over the horses. The wife of Duke Ramon Berenguer remained calm and collected – her delicate hands folded gently in her lap despite the howling curses from her drivers and the annoying whinnies of distraught horses. After several minutes of scrambling, the wagon continued on, nearing the Army of Barcelona’s encampment surrounding the city of Tarragona and its stubborn Sheik that refused to surrender. While the victories and expansion of Barcelona’s influence pleased Almodis, she couldn’t care less for the lives of the soldiers or their commanders. Ever since the discovery of the Duke’s adultery, she had said several prayers before bed each night hoping that certain generals would turn up dead.
“We are almost there, Your Highness,” the driver reported dryly in his broken, Low Catalan. Disgusted by the commoner, the Duchess only looked on and ignored the foul beast.
A half hour later, the wagon came to a stop in the center of the camp near Tarragona’s west wall – the camp of her husband. Stepping out onto the ledge of the wagon, she was immediately revolted by the stench of the camp: a heavy musk of human and animal excrements with hints of sweat. She could only imagine the opinion within the city walls – a horde of unwashed barbarians that have come to take their women and strip them of valuables. Two men were waiting for her below, kneeling in the mud. Their arms were outstretched, extending over a mud pile they wanted the Duchess to avoid. Almodis quickly took advantage of the kindess.
A thousand things zipped around Almodis’ mind as she made her way to the Duke’s camp, flanked by two guards she had brought with her from Barcelona. A web of deceit and hatred slowly began to spin throughout her mind, connecting things that could work and severing things that could not. An unconquerable fire burned within her stomach as she strode defiantly forward to the Duke’s encampment. Men from all over the camp took a look over their shoulders, to only retreat their foolish gaze as the embodiment of hate walked past them. Slowly grinding her teeth, Almodis concocted a scheme in which her unfortunate husband would pay for all these years of abuse, torment, imprisonment, and now adultery. Enough was enough.
“I will make that bastard pay,” Almodis muttered under her breath.
With every muscle, joint and tendon tensed in her undying fury, she had arrived at the Duke’s tent. Waving away the soldiers who had escorted her, she pulled back a flap of the tent ever so slightly. To her dismay, he was along with Rodrigo, bent over a table peering over what appeared to be a map with some representative figurines adorning it. She muttered a foul curse, wishing she would have caught Ermesenda here as well. Taking a deep breath, she opened both flaps of the tent and stepped inside. Standing at the entrance, waiting to be noticed, she cupped her hands and gently cleared her throat. The Duke immediately stood to attention, and turned around – only to be distraught at who was in his presence.
“Rodrigo, if you could excuse us,” Almodis glared at the Marshal of Barcelona, even though he was unable to see her face underneath her veil.
“Highness,” Rodrigo nodded his head, exiting through another set of flaps from the tent.
“What are you doing he-“ the Duke moved toward Almodis, before he was interrupted by two slaps from his wife’s ungloved, right hand. Rage built up inside of the Duke, but he would never get the chance to act on it.
“You know damn well why I am here, you scoundrel!” Almodis screamed at the top of her lungs, the world around the two of them seemingly grinding to a halt, “you just couldn’t resist that little harlot, could you? I have put up with years of your lunacy, Ramon, but I will not put up with this!”
“You have no right to speak to me that way!” the Duke immediately through up his guard, placing a reassuring hand on the hilt of his sword.
“No right? No right? You have no right to be laying with Count d’Empuries’ daughter! But you did anyway! Why did you do it? Why?” tears began to well up inside Almodis’ eyes, her emotions taking control of her and releasing years of frustration off of her shoulders, “was it because of this?”
Almodis grabbed at her veil with both hands. Ripping it down and throwing it on the floor, she got into the Duke face and proudly displayed her curse from God – a severe harelip she had lived with since her conception back in France. The Duke, unable to look at what he found disgusting, merely turned his head and closed his eyes. Ramon Berenguer cursed his father’s grave, with all of the available women to arrange his marriage, he had to pick the one with a scourge from God. The Duke himself finally broke, several tears rolling down his face as he looked off into the distance.
“I didn’t want any of this! I didn’t ask for years of verbal abuse as a child! I didn’t ask for years of physical abuse in my marriage, and I certainly didn’t ask for my husband to be whoring around with his ally’s daughter! How did you think he would react if he found out about this?” Almodis screamed, pushing the Duke away from her towards the table several times as the pain and pressure built up slowly released. For Almodis, it felt good to just let it all go… it had been something she had wanted to do for a very long time.
“I know,” was all the Duke could muster, “and I never asked to be married to you!”
Almodis raised her hand to strike the Duke again, but lowered it right before the blow landed. Even though all which had transpired thus was what she wanted, she had never expected the Duke to say something like that. Biting her lower lip, she picked up her veil and stormed out of the tent, leaving her previously life behind her forever. It would take a long time for Almodis to recover, but in the end, everything had happened according to plan. Soon, the web to extract revenge would be put in motion. With all emotional attachment to her husband gone, her conscious was clear. It was time to get even.
After Almodis left, Duke Ramon Berenguer de Barcelona only stood his ground. He had no words for what had happened, only the comfort the silence brought him. He suddenly felt at home underneath the thick material of his tent, it bringing a weak smile to his face as he slumped into a chair. His head leaning backwards, he exhaled in a most loud sigh, having no idea on what to do now. It, however, was not long before Rodrigo entered the tent – curious on what had happened and if everything was alright.
“How much of that did you hear, Rodrigo?” the Duke asked wearily from his chair.
“All of it, Your Highness,” El Cid responded, lowering his head in respect.
“I can never return to Barcelona. Ever,” the Duke swore, “not after something like this.”
“What of after the war?” El Cid questioned.
“I will wage war until the ferryman takes me,” the Duke attested, “a sword is plunged into my heart would be much better than the embarrassment I will face if I return home. I can’t do it. Pedro might as well get used to my old wooden chair, because someday it will be his.”
“If you feel that is best,” Rodrigo comforted, attempting to step forward but stopped by a wave of the Duke’s hand.
“I do, Rodrigo,” the Duke began to break down in heaving sobs, “I do.”
Chapter Two: Affairs of the Heart
A Clearer Conscious, Part II
In late Spring, the Army of Barcelona departed southward to the city of Tarragona – the last stronghold within the broken Emirate of Zaragoza. Arriving in early October, the Army formed at the city, and prepared to hunker down for a winter siege. The plan was simple, the Army of Barcelona would keep striking cities and strongholds in rapid succession to reduce the ability for the enemy to regroup and launch any form of counterattack. Soldiers normally under these conditions of constant warfare would probably fold and refuse to fight, but under Rodrigo’s competent command, the men-at-arms eagerly pushed on, wishing to prove themselves under who they believed was a hero. In light of all of their rapid and successful conquests, the bond between Ponç d’Empuries, Duke Ramon Berenguer, and El Cid couldn’t have been any stronger. It would be an alliance that would prove effective in the near future.
Tarragona, The Spains
October 17th, 1069
Almodis was jerked around her transport – a wooden covered wagon – as it hit a large divot, splashing mud and dirt all over the horses. The wife of Duke Ramon Berenguer remained calm and collected – her delicate hands folded gently in her lap despite the howling curses from her drivers and the annoying whinnies of distraught horses. After several minutes of scrambling, the wagon continued on, nearing the Army of Barcelona’s encampment surrounding the city of Tarragona and its stubborn Sheik that refused to surrender. While the victories and expansion of Barcelona’s influence pleased Almodis, she couldn’t care less for the lives of the soldiers or their commanders. Ever since the discovery of the Duke’s adultery, she had said several prayers before bed each night hoping that certain generals would turn up dead.
“We are almost there, Your Highness,” the driver reported dryly in his broken, Low Catalan. Disgusted by the commoner, the Duchess only looked on and ignored the foul beast.
A half hour later, the wagon came to a stop in the center of the camp near Tarragona’s west wall – the camp of her husband. Stepping out onto the ledge of the wagon, she was immediately revolted by the stench of the camp: a heavy musk of human and animal excrements with hints of sweat. She could only imagine the opinion within the city walls – a horde of unwashed barbarians that have come to take their women and strip them of valuables. Two men were waiting for her below, kneeling in the mud. Their arms were outstretched, extending over a mud pile they wanted the Duchess to avoid. Almodis quickly took advantage of the kindess.
A thousand things zipped around Almodis’ mind as she made her way to the Duke’s camp, flanked by two guards she had brought with her from Barcelona. A web of deceit and hatred slowly began to spin throughout her mind, connecting things that could work and severing things that could not. An unconquerable fire burned within her stomach as she strode defiantly forward to the Duke’s encampment. Men from all over the camp took a look over their shoulders, to only retreat their foolish gaze as the embodiment of hate walked past them. Slowly grinding her teeth, Almodis concocted a scheme in which her unfortunate husband would pay for all these years of abuse, torment, imprisonment, and now adultery. Enough was enough.
“I will make that bastard pay,” Almodis muttered under her breath.
With every muscle, joint and tendon tensed in her undying fury, she had arrived at the Duke’s tent. Waving away the soldiers who had escorted her, she pulled back a flap of the tent ever so slightly. To her dismay, he was along with Rodrigo, bent over a table peering over what appeared to be a map with some representative figurines adorning it. She muttered a foul curse, wishing she would have caught Ermesenda here as well. Taking a deep breath, she opened both flaps of the tent and stepped inside. Standing at the entrance, waiting to be noticed, she cupped her hands and gently cleared her throat. The Duke immediately stood to attention, and turned around – only to be distraught at who was in his presence.
“Rodrigo, if you could excuse us,” Almodis glared at the Marshal of Barcelona, even though he was unable to see her face underneath her veil.
“Highness,” Rodrigo nodded his head, exiting through another set of flaps from the tent.
“What are you doing he-“ the Duke moved toward Almodis, before he was interrupted by two slaps from his wife’s ungloved, right hand. Rage built up inside of the Duke, but he would never get the chance to act on it.
“You know damn well why I am here, you scoundrel!” Almodis screamed at the top of her lungs, the world around the two of them seemingly grinding to a halt, “you just couldn’t resist that little harlot, could you? I have put up with years of your lunacy, Ramon, but I will not put up with this!”
“You have no right to speak to me that way!” the Duke immediately through up his guard, placing a reassuring hand on the hilt of his sword.
“No right? No right? You have no right to be laying with Count d’Empuries’ daughter! But you did anyway! Why did you do it? Why?” tears began to well up inside Almodis’ eyes, her emotions taking control of her and releasing years of frustration off of her shoulders, “was it because of this?”
Almodis grabbed at her veil with both hands. Ripping it down and throwing it on the floor, she got into the Duke face and proudly displayed her curse from God – a severe harelip she had lived with since her conception back in France. The Duke, unable to look at what he found disgusting, merely turned his head and closed his eyes. Ramon Berenguer cursed his father’s grave, with all of the available women to arrange his marriage, he had to pick the one with a scourge from God. The Duke himself finally broke, several tears rolling down his face as he looked off into the distance.
“I didn’t want any of this! I didn’t ask for years of verbal abuse as a child! I didn’t ask for years of physical abuse in my marriage, and I certainly didn’t ask for my husband to be whoring around with his ally’s daughter! How did you think he would react if he found out about this?” Almodis screamed, pushing the Duke away from her towards the table several times as the pain and pressure built up slowly released. For Almodis, it felt good to just let it all go… it had been something she had wanted to do for a very long time.
“I know,” was all the Duke could muster, “and I never asked to be married to you!”
Almodis raised her hand to strike the Duke again, but lowered it right before the blow landed. Even though all which had transpired thus was what she wanted, she had never expected the Duke to say something like that. Biting her lower lip, she picked up her veil and stormed out of the tent, leaving her previously life behind her forever. It would take a long time for Almodis to recover, but in the end, everything had happened according to plan. Soon, the web to extract revenge would be put in motion. With all emotional attachment to her husband gone, her conscious was clear. It was time to get even.
After Almodis left, Duke Ramon Berenguer de Barcelona only stood his ground. He had no words for what had happened, only the comfort the silence brought him. He suddenly felt at home underneath the thick material of his tent, it bringing a weak smile to his face as he slumped into a chair. His head leaning backwards, he exhaled in a most loud sigh, having no idea on what to do now. It, however, was not long before Rodrigo entered the tent – curious on what had happened and if everything was alright.
“How much of that did you hear, Rodrigo?” the Duke asked wearily from his chair.
“All of it, Your Highness,” El Cid responded, lowering his head in respect.
“I can never return to Barcelona. Ever,” the Duke swore, “not after something like this.”
“What of after the war?” El Cid questioned.
“I will wage war until the ferryman takes me,” the Duke attested, “a sword is plunged into my heart would be much better than the embarrassment I will face if I return home. I can’t do it. Pedro might as well get used to my old wooden chair, because someday it will be his.”
“If you feel that is best,” Rodrigo comforted, attempting to step forward but stopped by a wave of the Duke’s hand.
“I do, Rodrigo,” the Duke began to break down in heaving sobs, “I do.”
Oh dear. Bad news all round - the peasants are stuck with Pedro in charge, Rodrigo is stuck fighting wars with Duke Ramon, and Ramon is about to be stuck with a knife from Almodis!
Excellent update! I really appreciate the effort that obviously goes into capturing the Medieval atmosphere.
Excellent update! I really appreciate the effort that obviously goes into capturing the Medieval atmosphere.