XII. A Crusader’s Twilight
Aethelfrith sighed as he leaned back in his chair in his room, and looked out upon the city of London. He was battered, bleeding and weary, having fought at the forefront of his troops in rural Essex to quell a peasants’ revolt. His vassals had complimented him on his martial prowess and the bravery he had displayed fighting in the thick of things, but he found the clashing of swords ringing in his ears a bitter sound now. The very dukes who had so ungraciously despised him for being arrogant and vain now hailed him as a hero for beating back a few peasants just outside his own capital. He laughed as he thought on the whimsical humour of God’s will.
The early years of Aethelfrith’s reign as King of England had been very rough, with intermittent Crusades troubling his realm. The Emirate of Derbent was easily defeated, but the de Normandie family was completely wiped out by North African Saracens who landed on English soil and conquered Cornwall and Salisbury. This was something for which the King of England could not stand, and he took both Cornwall and Salisbury in a quick and relatively painless war. But the Highland Crusades were another matter. His own valiant and brave son had embroiled his kingdom in a war with the Emir of Tripoli, and Saracens from the Holy Land had come by sea to make war on Scotland. They had gotten all the way into Atholl before Scotland’s more militarily-capable father had put a stop to them. And then Eadwig had gone into a deep depression and died, leaving his realm to his son Eardulf and his young wife Candida. Saewald I’s hopes of a united Kingdom of England and Scotland had been in vain; the English crown would go to the younger of his sons, Eormenric, and then to his grandson, Hlothere Earl of Cornwall.
The Emir of Tripoli, of course, was the primary target of the grand Crusade to free Antioch, and it had shamed both England and Scotland that they’d had to go to war on their home front to defend against them. Antioch had been captured by the Bohemians, who had set up their own little earldom there. Now the Pope’s war was over, and they could attend to their domestic affairs.
Things should then have gone back to normal, but the new Earl of Strathclyde was evidently unsatisfied with the station which Aethelfrith had so generously bestowed upon his unworthy head, and decided to make war on England. It was Duke Lancaster who had carried the full brunt of that one, and a Lancastrian bishop of mixed Saxon and Arab blood now herded his flocks in Strathclyde. Personally, Aethelfrith was not too satisfied with Duke Lancaster’s choice, having seen the distrustful, calculating look in Bishop Alim’s eye, but Lancaster was one of his most trusted nobles and Aethelfrith would not gainsay him.
Aethelfrith was loath to admit it, but he was getting far too old for this sort of thing. He had fought in countless battles, seen many good men lost in the thick of it all, felt the sting of enemy steel and smelled the heat of the blood and smoke. He had tasted victory and for a time, he had revelled in its flavour. But now, his fire had dimmed and his steel had dulled – he no longer desired to wade onto the battlefield. He would leave his wars to his sons.
Aethelflaed came in upon him as he rested and changed the dressings on his wounds. He brushed his young wife’s fair, long hair with one tired old hand, and she smiled curtly and sat beside him.
‘I hear you fought bravely out on the Thames,’ she told him, in her brusque, concise manner.
Aethelfrith gave a wry half-grin. ‘So have I. I should have thought I’d never get tired of being hailed “Aethelfrith King, the Valiant”, but I find I’m hearing it a little too often for my taste.’
‘Well, don’t consider it praise on my part, your Majesty,’ Aethelflaed chided him. ‘A King out on the front lines and in the thick of battle, it’s not your place. And what would I have done had you gotten yourself killed?’
Aethelfrith chuckled. Aethelflaed had always been sure in her judgments and quick and free with her tongue, which had once struck out against her king and uncle in his very presence. Aethelfrith, far from being offended, had been impressed by how freely she’d criticised him for his vanity and pride. He’d married his great-niece against the wishes of his family and against the wishes of the church, partly out of need and partly out of whimsy. She already took care of his financial matters, and he had needed a companion then more than ever before.
‘Aubry de Bohun has returned from the East, and wishes to speak with you. I think he thinks to secure a marriage between his daughter Golbahar and your grandson, Hlothere.’
‘Have you seen the girl?’ asked Aethelfrith. Aethelflaed nodded.
‘You know Aubry married one of the converts in Yasuj, Mahvash? His daughter takes after her mother in not only her looks. She dresses in the Oriental manner and prefers to speak Persian when she mustn’t use her French. But she’s a sharp, lively girl – I would say she’s a dark beauty’ – rare praise from his wife – ‘of a generally agreeable temper. She is a bit excitable, but as your grandson and she have already been introduced I’d say there’s little problem.’
Aethelfrith trusted Aethelflaed’s assessment of Golbahar, but he knew Aubry for an ambitious man and masterful politician, though quite a dangerous one if crossed. ‘Give him no answer yet, Aethelflaed. But tell him I will talk with him about it as soon as I am healed.’
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A glimpse of Persia in 1180 - the red is England, the gold is the Seljuqs, and the blue and green are splinter emirates from the Seljuq King. (As you can see, the Seljuqs aren't doing too well in my game.)