An unlooked for update!
And a tricky situation there. I wonder if Adela might end up taking things into her own hands...
And a tricky situation there. I wonder if Adela might end up taking things into her own hands...
Heirs of Charlemagne
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stnylan: I have decided to try to write a few more updates before summer comes around, since once summer starts I won't realy have the oppertunity type up updates or get on the internet.
Chapter 58: Gisulf
“Man, being reasonable, must get drunk;”
Lord Byron
Galway, August 26, 1082
As Guitard, muttering, led Adela away, Gisulf was stumbling his way back to his tent. He knew he shouldn’t have drank as much as he did, others have told him that he does very stupid things while drunk (well, stupider than usual), but Gisulf couldn’t help it. He could blame it on his barbarian heritage, but that wasn’t it. He was the only one in his family with such a control problem.
And now, as he staggered through Hammud’s camp, he cursed the fact that his failing eyesight wasn’t helping the situation one bit. Looking off in all directions for his tent, he stubbed a toe on a heavy, immobile, and unidentified mass in his path. “Christ!”
Gisulf fell forward and grabbed for the injured digit. Being drunk, he lost his balance, falling flat on his face. Groaning, he turned onto his back.
He could just barely make out certain constellations of stars, which would soon be obscured by oncoming clouds. Gisulf took this moment to reflect on the direction his life was going.
Nothing in Hibernia was going as he had planned. That was a given. Being captured and held hostage by the enemy was definetly not something that he had planned.
But all of that paled in comparison to his problems back in Venice. His wife hated him, loathed him, in fact. Gisulf probably would have been considered to be a future Doge, if it weren’t for that nosey bastard Roldolfo. He was no longer as attractive as he used to be (yes, once upon a time, he had been thin, fit, and had a head full of hair).
As he ran down this ever-growing list of problems, a thought suddenly came into his head. Why should I just let all of this happen to me, Gisulf proped himself up on his elbows, I shouldn’t just take this. I need to get out of here. To escape. Escape.
The word, though unspoken, hung in the air around him. When the time is right, I will! Bertrand!What of him?Would hecome?Icould
Gisulf passed out.
“Man, being reasonable, must get drunk;”
Lord Byron
Galway, August 26, 1082
As Guitard, muttering, led Adela away, Gisulf was stumbling his way back to his tent. He knew he shouldn’t have drank as much as he did, others have told him that he does very stupid things while drunk (well, stupider than usual), but Gisulf couldn’t help it. He could blame it on his barbarian heritage, but that wasn’t it. He was the only one in his family with such a control problem.
And now, as he staggered through Hammud’s camp, he cursed the fact that his failing eyesight wasn’t helping the situation one bit. Looking off in all directions for his tent, he stubbed a toe on a heavy, immobile, and unidentified mass in his path. “Christ!”
Gisulf fell forward and grabbed for the injured digit. Being drunk, he lost his balance, falling flat on his face. Groaning, he turned onto his back.
He could just barely make out certain constellations of stars, which would soon be obscured by oncoming clouds. Gisulf took this moment to reflect on the direction his life was going.
Nothing in Hibernia was going as he had planned. That was a given. Being captured and held hostage by the enemy was definetly not something that he had planned.
But all of that paled in comparison to his problems back in Venice. His wife hated him, loathed him, in fact. Gisulf probably would have been considered to be a future Doge, if it weren’t for that nosey bastard Roldolfo. He was no longer as attractive as he used to be (yes, once upon a time, he had been thin, fit, and had a head full of hair).
As he ran down this ever-growing list of problems, a thought suddenly came into his head. Why should I just let all of this happen to me, Gisulf proped himself up on his elbows, I shouldn’t just take this. I need to get out of here. To escape. Escape.
The word, though unspoken, hung in the air around him. When the time is right, I will! Bertrand!What of him?Would hecome?Icould
Gisulf passed out.
When one is drunk, dangerous ideas seem suddenly sensible.
Good to see another update.
Good to see another update.
Yes, I'm back again. I do intend to eventually finish this AAR, however belatedly. I haven't written in so long that I myself had to reread the entire thing.
stnylan: We'll see how sensible it is.
stnylan: We'll see how sensible it is.
Chapter 59: The Second Counsel
“In difficult and desperate cases, the boldest counsels are the safest.”
Titus Livius
Laigin, August 27, 1082
The sun was just rising in the east, but Guillaume de Toulouse hadn’t fallen slept that night. He wasn’t really getting any sleep recently. It wasn’t troubling him as much as it should have. His thoughts were still focused on his own family. He had no clue what Adelaide was doing in his absence. Did Hughes have enough backbone to stand up to her and make the right decisions? Now that he had left France he felt even more apprehensive, but he felt he had done something right by bringing Pierre along with him on the Crusade. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, he thought.
Suddenly, Bert, his squire, hesitantly poked his head through the flap of Guillaume’s tent, “My lord?”
“What is it?” the Duke Guillaume growled.
“Sir Baudoin is breaking camp.”
This immediately snapped Guillaume out of his doubts and worries. “What?”
By the time he was dressed and out of his tent, Baudoin de Boulogne was riding past his tent with a column of men following him. Soon, Pierre had ran up beside him with Gaston following.
“What’s going on?” Pierre asked.
Guillaume answered bluntly, “I don’t know, but it looks like they’re all going north.”
Later that morning, a second counsel was hastily organized. Henri de Bourgogne, at the head of the table as before, was utterly flustered, “He took how much of the army with him?”
Cinead O’Braonain, the local Irish ruler, spoke up first, “By my estimate, about one fourth of our force has followed him.”
“Where in God’s name was he going?”
“I saw him moving out of camp to the north.” Guillaume replied.
“He said to me last night,” Otto von Habsburg added, “that Ulster was a target ripe for conquest. It’s my guess that Ulster is his destination.”
Clearly, Henri was no great strategist, and made a poor attempt to try to hide it. He struck his fist down on the table. “Damn it! We will all break camp tomorrow. We must apprehend him as soon as we can.”
“I do not think that is a wise course of action,” Rodrigo de Vivar interjected.
“I do not think,” Renaud de Nevers, Duke Henri’s right hand man, shot back, “you are in a position to question your commander’s judgment.” Guillaume found this kind of an ironic reversal the last meeting, where Duke Henri seemed so intent on listening to the Spaniard’s advice.
“With all due respect,” Pierre de Toulouse interrupted, “I do not recall any of us agreeing to anyone being any kind of high commander here. I say we should listen to what he has to say and take it into consideration as a counsel.” Henri glared back angrily, but neither he nor Renaud came up with any retort.
“I second that proposal,” Gualtiero Travesari, the old Venetian, rasped.
Besides Henri and Renaud, everyone wanted to know what Rodrigo had in
mind. Guillaume had to admit he was somewhat curious himself.
“Although he may be leaving himself open to an ambush,” Rodrigo went on, “Sir Baudoin may have just given us a golden opportunity.”
“How, exactly,” Robert de Coursulles, earl of Somerset, questioned, “do you suppose that?”
“This is just the catalyst we need to draw Hammud Bari into a pitched battle. Although Baudoin may not like it, we will send some men to reinforce his march north. Sir Geoffrey, Baudoin is your brother, and since I am confident that you are the only one in this room who can keep him in check you will organize and lead this force. However, you and your brother’s armies must look tantalizingly small enough to draw the Moor out of his hiding place. Meanwhile, as Hammud is moving northeast to Ulster, which I have no doubt he will do when he hears of Baudoin’s intentions, the rest of our army will quietly follow him and hopefully encircle his force when all armies meet. I personally wish to lead a contingent of cavalry to report on his whereabouts and shield our own intentions.”
All of the nobles, except for Henri and Renaud of course, were in agreement with the plan, but Guillaume could only sit back and wonder. He had fought this enemy before and wondered whether Hammud would fall for such a strategy after his defeat at Mallorca. He also wondered who Geoffrey de Boulogne would decide to bring north with him.
“In difficult and desperate cases, the boldest counsels are the safest.”
Titus Livius
Laigin, August 27, 1082
The sun was just rising in the east, but Guillaume de Toulouse hadn’t fallen slept that night. He wasn’t really getting any sleep recently. It wasn’t troubling him as much as it should have. His thoughts were still focused on his own family. He had no clue what Adelaide was doing in his absence. Did Hughes have enough backbone to stand up to her and make the right decisions? Now that he had left France he felt even more apprehensive, but he felt he had done something right by bringing Pierre along with him on the Crusade. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, he thought.
Suddenly, Bert, his squire, hesitantly poked his head through the flap of Guillaume’s tent, “My lord?”
“What is it?” the Duke Guillaume growled.
“Sir Baudoin is breaking camp.”
This immediately snapped Guillaume out of his doubts and worries. “What?”
By the time he was dressed and out of his tent, Baudoin de Boulogne was riding past his tent with a column of men following him. Soon, Pierre had ran up beside him with Gaston following.
“What’s going on?” Pierre asked.
Guillaume answered bluntly, “I don’t know, but it looks like they’re all going north.”
Later that morning, a second counsel was hastily organized. Henri de Bourgogne, at the head of the table as before, was utterly flustered, “He took how much of the army with him?”
Cinead O’Braonain, the local Irish ruler, spoke up first, “By my estimate, about one fourth of our force has followed him.”
“Where in God’s name was he going?”
“I saw him moving out of camp to the north.” Guillaume replied.
“He said to me last night,” Otto von Habsburg added, “that Ulster was a target ripe for conquest. It’s my guess that Ulster is his destination.”
Clearly, Henri was no great strategist, and made a poor attempt to try to hide it. He struck his fist down on the table. “Damn it! We will all break camp tomorrow. We must apprehend him as soon as we can.”
“I do not think that is a wise course of action,” Rodrigo de Vivar interjected.
“I do not think,” Renaud de Nevers, Duke Henri’s right hand man, shot back, “you are in a position to question your commander’s judgment.” Guillaume found this kind of an ironic reversal the last meeting, where Duke Henri seemed so intent on listening to the Spaniard’s advice.
“With all due respect,” Pierre de Toulouse interrupted, “I do not recall any of us agreeing to anyone being any kind of high commander here. I say we should listen to what he has to say and take it into consideration as a counsel.” Henri glared back angrily, but neither he nor Renaud came up with any retort.
“I second that proposal,” Gualtiero Travesari, the old Venetian, rasped.
Besides Henri and Renaud, everyone wanted to know what Rodrigo had in
mind. Guillaume had to admit he was somewhat curious himself.
“Although he may be leaving himself open to an ambush,” Rodrigo went on, “Sir Baudoin may have just given us a golden opportunity.”
“How, exactly,” Robert de Coursulles, earl of Somerset, questioned, “do you suppose that?”
“This is just the catalyst we need to draw Hammud Bari into a pitched battle. Although Baudoin may not like it, we will send some men to reinforce his march north. Sir Geoffrey, Baudoin is your brother, and since I am confident that you are the only one in this room who can keep him in check you will organize and lead this force. However, you and your brother’s armies must look tantalizingly small enough to draw the Moor out of his hiding place. Meanwhile, as Hammud is moving northeast to Ulster, which I have no doubt he will do when he hears of Baudoin’s intentions, the rest of our army will quietly follow him and hopefully encircle his force when all armies meet. I personally wish to lead a contingent of cavalry to report on his whereabouts and shield our own intentions.”
All of the nobles, except for Henri and Renaud of course, were in agreement with the plan, but Guillaume could only sit back and wonder. He had fought this enemy before and wondered whether Hammud would fall for such a strategy after his defeat at Mallorca. He also wondered who Geoffrey de Boulogne would decide to bring north with him.
Wow, a comeback after such a long time. I never would have expected that.
Good to have you back.
Good to have you back.
Chapter 60: Awakening
“They can because they think they can.”
Virgil
Toulouse, September 2, 1082
Eberhard de Toulouse found himself on his knees, swords at his back, looking up at the man in the feathered helmet standing before him. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but the voice seemed strangely familiar. A fire blazed to Eberhard’s right.
“I know what you were trying to do, Roman,” the man growled.
“I’m not…”
“Quiet,” the man in the feathered helmet cut him off. “Don’t speak unless I say so. You have tried to murder me. To keep you from doing so again you must be thoroughly punished.”
Eberhard began to panic, “I…”
“You must burn for it,” the man shouted over him.
Suddenly, Father Lois of all people stepped out from out of the shadows behind the man, “Being brave, Mucius stuck his own hand into the flames, and burnt it clean off. He could have used a bit of work on the subjunctive, though.”
Also stepping out from the shadows were Miquel, sneering and strutting, and Gaston’s dead half brother Barnard, soaking wet from head to toe. “We will throw him in for you, sir,” they both said in tandem.
Out of nowhere, Eberhard felt an unknown hand on his shoulder, shaking him and saving him from the nightmare.
Eberhard didn’t show much appreciation for his sister after she saved him from burning to death in the dream world. “Peironela, how many times have I told you…”
“To knock on the door before opening and not to bother you when you’re asleep, yeah, I know, but this is important.”
He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. Peironela and Bregida were standing over him, sporting grim looks unbecoming of both of them. “What’s wrong,” he asked.
“You know what,” Bregida stated simply.
Eberhard wished that he didn’t know, or that he could feign ignorance, but they had seen right through that. He nodded, sitting up in bed and yawning, “Miquel and Clara?”
“Yes, Miquel and Clara,” Bregida replied, “and we need your help.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
Bregida grabbed Eberhard by both ears and got right into his face, almost causing him to shriek in surprise, “Don’t give me that! You know exactly what he’s doing to her, and have known for quite a while. I can’t wait any longer. You can help us stop it.”
“Don’t you think,” he said carefully, wincing, “I would have already thought about this.”
“Yes,” she answered, “but not hard enough.” At this point she decided to let go of his ears, and backed off a bit. Eberhard fell back onto his bed, his ears bright red. Bregida’s own cheeks reddened, and her voice softened, “Eberhard, you can’t do what most of us can, but that doesn’t make you any lesser than any of us. You’re the smartest and sweetest person I know.”
Eberhard almost began to tear up, and would have if his sister wasn’t standing at Bregida’s side, smirking. Briefly, he wondered why he was the “smartest and sweetest person” Bregida knew and not Bert. He quickly assumed that she liked Bert in an entirely different way, one he could not yet comprehend fully. “Well,” he finally asked, “what’s the plan?”
“We’ll reconvene the Court,” Peironela answered.
The Court. Those two words brought fond memories from a much less complicated time streaming back. When all of them were younger, it was a kind of game they would play. One of them would play “the Duke”, which was almost always Gaston’s role, since he would one day be a duke, who would hear and make judgments on make believe grievances brought up by everyone else, “the Court”. It was just a kid’s game, really, but Eberhard quickly realized what Bregida and Peironela had in mind.
“Did we ever try to settle real problems in the Court,” he asked.
Peironela shook her head, “This will be the first time.”
“It could work.”
“No,” Bregida insisted, “it will work.”
“When and where,” he inquired.
“Tomorrow morning, in the woodlot,” she said, nodding to Peironela, who then left the room.
He sat up, “What should I do until then? How will we get Miquel to agree with this?”
“I’ll take care of him,” Bregida reassured him. “It’s your job to spread the word to everyone else.”
Eberhard smiled, “Alright, I’m on it.”
She smiled back, and turned to leave. At the doorway she looked back with concern dawning on her face, “I’m sorry. For hurting you, I mean. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He shook his head, “No need to be. Actually, I kind of needed that.”
With that Bregida was smiling again, “See you later.” She turned and left.
Now Eberhard was alone with his thoughts, and he had a lot to think about. He thought about those who had gone crusading, about Miquel and Clara, and about Bregida. Try as he might, he couldn’t understand why Bregida acted the way she sometimes would. Ever since she kissed Bert she was acting strangely. She never was this moody before. Again, Eberhard decided to chalk this up as something he couldn’t yet understand and left it at that.
“They can because they think they can.”
Virgil
Toulouse, September 2, 1082
Eberhard de Toulouse found himself on his knees, swords at his back, looking up at the man in the feathered helmet standing before him. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but the voice seemed strangely familiar. A fire blazed to Eberhard’s right.
“I know what you were trying to do, Roman,” the man growled.
“I’m not…”
“Quiet,” the man in the feathered helmet cut him off. “Don’t speak unless I say so. You have tried to murder me. To keep you from doing so again you must be thoroughly punished.”
Eberhard began to panic, “I…”
“You must burn for it,” the man shouted over him.
Suddenly, Father Lois of all people stepped out from out of the shadows behind the man, “Being brave, Mucius stuck his own hand into the flames, and burnt it clean off. He could have used a bit of work on the subjunctive, though.”
Also stepping out from the shadows were Miquel, sneering and strutting, and Gaston’s dead half brother Barnard, soaking wet from head to toe. “We will throw him in for you, sir,” they both said in tandem.
Out of nowhere, Eberhard felt an unknown hand on his shoulder, shaking him and saving him from the nightmare.
Eberhard didn’t show much appreciation for his sister after she saved him from burning to death in the dream world. “Peironela, how many times have I told you…”
“To knock on the door before opening and not to bother you when you’re asleep, yeah, I know, but this is important.”
He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. Peironela and Bregida were standing over him, sporting grim looks unbecoming of both of them. “What’s wrong,” he asked.
“You know what,” Bregida stated simply.
Eberhard wished that he didn’t know, or that he could feign ignorance, but they had seen right through that. He nodded, sitting up in bed and yawning, “Miquel and Clara?”
“Yes, Miquel and Clara,” Bregida replied, “and we need your help.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
Bregida grabbed Eberhard by both ears and got right into his face, almost causing him to shriek in surprise, “Don’t give me that! You know exactly what he’s doing to her, and have known for quite a while. I can’t wait any longer. You can help us stop it.”
“Don’t you think,” he said carefully, wincing, “I would have already thought about this.”
“Yes,” she answered, “but not hard enough.” At this point she decided to let go of his ears, and backed off a bit. Eberhard fell back onto his bed, his ears bright red. Bregida’s own cheeks reddened, and her voice softened, “Eberhard, you can’t do what most of us can, but that doesn’t make you any lesser than any of us. You’re the smartest and sweetest person I know.”
Eberhard almost began to tear up, and would have if his sister wasn’t standing at Bregida’s side, smirking. Briefly, he wondered why he was the “smartest and sweetest person” Bregida knew and not Bert. He quickly assumed that she liked Bert in an entirely different way, one he could not yet comprehend fully. “Well,” he finally asked, “what’s the plan?”
“We’ll reconvene the Court,” Peironela answered.
The Court. Those two words brought fond memories from a much less complicated time streaming back. When all of them were younger, it was a kind of game they would play. One of them would play “the Duke”, which was almost always Gaston’s role, since he would one day be a duke, who would hear and make judgments on make believe grievances brought up by everyone else, “the Court”. It was just a kid’s game, really, but Eberhard quickly realized what Bregida and Peironela had in mind.
“Did we ever try to settle real problems in the Court,” he asked.
Peironela shook her head, “This will be the first time.”
“It could work.”
“No,” Bregida insisted, “it will work.”
“When and where,” he inquired.
“Tomorrow morning, in the woodlot,” she said, nodding to Peironela, who then left the room.
He sat up, “What should I do until then? How will we get Miquel to agree with this?”
“I’ll take care of him,” Bregida reassured him. “It’s your job to spread the word to everyone else.”
Eberhard smiled, “Alright, I’m on it.”
She smiled back, and turned to leave. At the doorway she looked back with concern dawning on her face, “I’m sorry. For hurting you, I mean. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He shook his head, “No need to be. Actually, I kind of needed that.”
With that Bregida was smiling again, “See you later.” She turned and left.
Now Eberhard was alone with his thoughts, and he had a lot to think about. He thought about those who had gone crusading, about Miquel and Clara, and about Bregida. Try as he might, he couldn’t understand why Bregida acted the way she sometimes would. Ever since she kissed Bert she was acting strangely. She never was this moody before. Again, Eberhard decided to chalk this up as something he couldn’t yet understand and left it at that.
Chapter 61: The Court
“Stand up for bastards!”
William Shakespere
Toulouse, September 3, 1082
Bregida and Eberhard were the last ones to arrive at the appointed place at the center of the woodlot. She had decided to accompany him on the walk there from the manor. Everyone else had easily outpaced him so she had hung back. He had been looking down at his feet, carefully pacing himself through the mud (it had raided the night before). Every once and a while he would glance around nervously.
“Are you alright,” she had asked him gently.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure,” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Eberhard froze in place and turned to her, “Honestly?”
“Yes,” Bregida insisted, “honestly.”
“To tell you the truth,” he said, “he scares me.”
“Who,” she asked quizzically, “Miquel?” When he nodded Bregida grabbed his arm, urging him forward, “If this works you won’t have to worry about him. He won’t try to hurt anyone now.”
“Aren’t you afraid of him,” he asked.
“No.” That was a lie, and Bregida knew it. She genuinely felt bad about lying to Eberhard, since he seemed to trust her so much, but she also felt it was necessary in this case. She was hoping to reassure him and make him feel as comfortable with the situation as she could. She couldn’t afford to show fear herself.
The clearing at the center of the woodlot was filled with the children of the nobles and servants of the manor. At the far end was Robert, sitting on the highest stump in the clearing. He was acting as the duke of the court in Gaston’s absence. He seemed to be thrilled with his newly acquired responsibility, despite the gravity of the situation. Clara sat on the shorter stump next to Robert’s. She was looking down, her hair hanging over her face. Peironela had a hand on her shoulder and was whispering something in her ear, hoping of comforting her. Running perpendicular to the stumps was a long rotting log where most of the children sat. Miquel, the cause of all of the trouble, was sitting on all alone on a rock at the center of the clearing. Without another word, Ebehard hustled over to the log, obviously with the intent to avoid Miquel’s gaze.
Miquel turned back towards Bregida, glaring, “Do you know what this is about?”
She clenched her fists, “Yes,” she retorted, “and you do too.” She couldn’t show she was afraid, not in front of him.
“Alright,” Robert started, trying to defuse as much tension as he could, “everyone is here so we should get started.” Bregida made her way over to Clara and Peironela, never breaking eye contact with Miquel the entire way. “The first order of business is to, um, articulate the grievance,” he glanced at the girl on the shorter stump. “Clara?”
She looked up, revealing a black eye. This effectively silenced any remaining side conversation more effectively than Robert ever could have. “I have one,” was all she could manage to say.
Bregida had a feeling that Robert would have to literally drag the rest out of Clara so she went on bluntly, “Miquel has been beating her.”
Miquel was fuming, “I don’t know what you talking about.”
“You’re a liar,” Bregida shot back.
“There will be order here,” Robert shouted over both of them. “Uh, try to be civil.”
Ignoring Robert, Miquel went on, “How are you so sure I did that, Bregida,” he jabbed a finger in Clara’s direction. “Anyone here could have done it. Why would I do anything like that to her?”
“Yes,” Bregida nodded sarcastically, “why would you?”
Robert looked down towards her, “You have proof of this, Bregida?”
“Yes,” she replied, not still glaring back at Miquel, “we have an eyewitness.”
“Would the eyewitness please step forward?”
At that, Eberhard, who had been attentively focusing on his shoes the entire time, looked up, his gaze settling on Bregida, who nodded to him. All he needs to do is to stand up, she thought, if not against Miquel or for Clara, he needs to stand up for himself. She smiled as he did stand up, because he looked pretty steady and sure of himself at first. However, when Miquel turned around to see who was testifying against him, Eberhard visibly began to tremble. He limped up to the front as fast as he could, and sat on a rock on the other side of Robert’s stump from Clara.
“Eberhard,” Robert continued, “is it true you have witnessed what Bregida has -”
“Y… Yeah I have,” Eberhard stuttered.
“I hope so,” Miquel interrupted, “If not this is just a waste of time.” He was trying his best to put up his innocent front, but Bregida could tell it was slowly beginning to crack.
“A while ago, down by the creek,” Eberhard went on, trying his best to ignore Miquel. “I was alone. I heard somebody coming, so I hid in a bush. It turned out to be Clara and Miquel.” He was beginning to tear up, “He was beating her up and shouting at her about how she was illegitimate and that she should be crawling around on the earth instead of walking it.”
Clara, who had gone back to looking down at the ground in front of her since she had first spoken up, looked over at him, “It was you in the bush?”
“Yes.”
Miquel was caught so off guard that he did not have any immediate retort ready. His eyes were wide and his mouth was hanging slightly open. He fumbled for a response, “Robert, why exactly should we trust his word?”
“We do not have any reason to not trust his word,” Robert replied. “We have evidence you have done what you’ve been accused of.”
“Sh… she deserved it.”
“Deserved it for what,” Clara shot back, “being born?” Bregida smiled; Clara was also beginning to stand up for herself.
He shot up, attempting to use his height to its full effect, “I’m protecting Gaston.”
She was perplexed by his response. “How?”
“I saw you two before all of the crusaders left, hugging and probably kissing when I wasn’t looking.”
It took a while for Clara to understand what Miquel was talking about, “Oh, I was just slipping a gift to Bert into his pocket from - ” Her eyes widened, knowing she had said a little more than she should have. Bregida’s own heart skipped a beat.
Miquel sensed this panic rising within both of them, “Who was it from?”
Reluctantly, Bregida answered, “Me.”
A smirk appeared on Miquel’s face as he advanced on her, “Now why would you give a gift to Bert? That’s an interesting question.”
Bregida swore silently to herself. She wasn’t expecting this to come up. Meeting him face to face between his rock and Robert’s stump, she answered, “I happen to like him, is that a crime?”
“Is that all?”
“No,” she screamed, “that isn’t all!” Everyone was taken aback by Bregida’s outburst, especially since she was reserved by nature. “I’ve kissed him. Are you satisfied now, Miquel?” She had been hoping that she could keep that secret for a long time, but thanks to Miquel she couldn’t. She was trembling with rage.
For years afterwards, everyone who was present would remember what happened next. Miquel, who was caught completely off balance since everyone was on to him and united against him, lashed out at Bregida, “You God damned whore!”
She slapped him so hard he fell flat on his back, clutching his jaw. A deathly silence fell over the clearing. Bregida was standing over him, shocked at her own actions and staring at her hands. She was in her own little world before she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she saw it was Eberhard, who lead her over to the rock he was sitting on earlier. When she sat down, feeling a little dizzy, she saw what she thought to be a look of admiration on Eberhard’s face. She wished he’d stop looking at her like that.
It was Robert who broke the silence, “Uh, I believe we are done here.” He looked down at Miquel, who had just sat up, “As duke of the court I issue you a stern warning not to continue what you have been doing. We are all watching you. This court is adjourned.” Almost everyone left the clearing as quickly as they could, leaving only Miquel, sitting alone in the center and still clutching his jaw, Peironela, Clara, Eberhard, and Bregida.
“We did it,” Eberhard whispered into Bregida’s ear. Yes, she thought, but was it the right thing to do? Could we have approached this better?
Suddenly, Clara got up and walked over to where Miquel sat. As he looked up she offered him a hand.
“What do you want,” he spat. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
Clara ignored his harsh tone, “Maybe we should start over.”
“Huh?”
“We should reintroduce ourselves. Forget any of this ever happened.” Her hand was still outstretched.
Doubtfully, he took hold of it, “Miquel de Toulouse.”
She pulled him up, “Clara.” She offered to help brush him off (he had fallen back into a puddle of mud), but he shook her off her help, and turned to leave the clearing. Well, Bregida thought, it’s a start.
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This was the longest one I've written yet. It did take a while to write. I hope at least somebody will read it and comment (hint, hint).
“Stand up for bastards!”
William Shakespere
Toulouse, September 3, 1082
Bregida and Eberhard were the last ones to arrive at the appointed place at the center of the woodlot. She had decided to accompany him on the walk there from the manor. Everyone else had easily outpaced him so she had hung back. He had been looking down at his feet, carefully pacing himself through the mud (it had raided the night before). Every once and a while he would glance around nervously.
“Are you alright,” she had asked him gently.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure,” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Eberhard froze in place and turned to her, “Honestly?”
“Yes,” Bregida insisted, “honestly.”
“To tell you the truth,” he said, “he scares me.”
“Who,” she asked quizzically, “Miquel?” When he nodded Bregida grabbed his arm, urging him forward, “If this works you won’t have to worry about him. He won’t try to hurt anyone now.”
“Aren’t you afraid of him,” he asked.
“No.” That was a lie, and Bregida knew it. She genuinely felt bad about lying to Eberhard, since he seemed to trust her so much, but she also felt it was necessary in this case. She was hoping to reassure him and make him feel as comfortable with the situation as she could. She couldn’t afford to show fear herself.
The clearing at the center of the woodlot was filled with the children of the nobles and servants of the manor. At the far end was Robert, sitting on the highest stump in the clearing. He was acting as the duke of the court in Gaston’s absence. He seemed to be thrilled with his newly acquired responsibility, despite the gravity of the situation. Clara sat on the shorter stump next to Robert’s. She was looking down, her hair hanging over her face. Peironela had a hand on her shoulder and was whispering something in her ear, hoping of comforting her. Running perpendicular to the stumps was a long rotting log where most of the children sat. Miquel, the cause of all of the trouble, was sitting on all alone on a rock at the center of the clearing. Without another word, Ebehard hustled over to the log, obviously with the intent to avoid Miquel’s gaze.
Miquel turned back towards Bregida, glaring, “Do you know what this is about?”
She clenched her fists, “Yes,” she retorted, “and you do too.” She couldn’t show she was afraid, not in front of him.
“Alright,” Robert started, trying to defuse as much tension as he could, “everyone is here so we should get started.” Bregida made her way over to Clara and Peironela, never breaking eye contact with Miquel the entire way. “The first order of business is to, um, articulate the grievance,” he glanced at the girl on the shorter stump. “Clara?”
She looked up, revealing a black eye. This effectively silenced any remaining side conversation more effectively than Robert ever could have. “I have one,” was all she could manage to say.
Bregida had a feeling that Robert would have to literally drag the rest out of Clara so she went on bluntly, “Miquel has been beating her.”
Miquel was fuming, “I don’t know what you talking about.”
“You’re a liar,” Bregida shot back.
“There will be order here,” Robert shouted over both of them. “Uh, try to be civil.”
Ignoring Robert, Miquel went on, “How are you so sure I did that, Bregida,” he jabbed a finger in Clara’s direction. “Anyone here could have done it. Why would I do anything like that to her?”
“Yes,” Bregida nodded sarcastically, “why would you?”
Robert looked down towards her, “You have proof of this, Bregida?”
“Yes,” she replied, not still glaring back at Miquel, “we have an eyewitness.”
“Would the eyewitness please step forward?”
At that, Eberhard, who had been attentively focusing on his shoes the entire time, looked up, his gaze settling on Bregida, who nodded to him. All he needs to do is to stand up, she thought, if not against Miquel or for Clara, he needs to stand up for himself. She smiled as he did stand up, because he looked pretty steady and sure of himself at first. However, when Miquel turned around to see who was testifying against him, Eberhard visibly began to tremble. He limped up to the front as fast as he could, and sat on a rock on the other side of Robert’s stump from Clara.
“Eberhard,” Robert continued, “is it true you have witnessed what Bregida has -”
“Y… Yeah I have,” Eberhard stuttered.
“I hope so,” Miquel interrupted, “If not this is just a waste of time.” He was trying his best to put up his innocent front, but Bregida could tell it was slowly beginning to crack.
“A while ago, down by the creek,” Eberhard went on, trying his best to ignore Miquel. “I was alone. I heard somebody coming, so I hid in a bush. It turned out to be Clara and Miquel.” He was beginning to tear up, “He was beating her up and shouting at her about how she was illegitimate and that she should be crawling around on the earth instead of walking it.”
Clara, who had gone back to looking down at the ground in front of her since she had first spoken up, looked over at him, “It was you in the bush?”
“Yes.”
Miquel was caught so off guard that he did not have any immediate retort ready. His eyes were wide and his mouth was hanging slightly open. He fumbled for a response, “Robert, why exactly should we trust his word?”
“We do not have any reason to not trust his word,” Robert replied. “We have evidence you have done what you’ve been accused of.”
“Sh… she deserved it.”
“Deserved it for what,” Clara shot back, “being born?” Bregida smiled; Clara was also beginning to stand up for herself.
He shot up, attempting to use his height to its full effect, “I’m protecting Gaston.”
She was perplexed by his response. “How?”
“I saw you two before all of the crusaders left, hugging and probably kissing when I wasn’t looking.”
It took a while for Clara to understand what Miquel was talking about, “Oh, I was just slipping a gift to Bert into his pocket from - ” Her eyes widened, knowing she had said a little more than she should have. Bregida’s own heart skipped a beat.
Miquel sensed this panic rising within both of them, “Who was it from?”
Reluctantly, Bregida answered, “Me.”
A smirk appeared on Miquel’s face as he advanced on her, “Now why would you give a gift to Bert? That’s an interesting question.”
Bregida swore silently to herself. She wasn’t expecting this to come up. Meeting him face to face between his rock and Robert’s stump, she answered, “I happen to like him, is that a crime?”
“Is that all?”
“No,” she screamed, “that isn’t all!” Everyone was taken aback by Bregida’s outburst, especially since she was reserved by nature. “I’ve kissed him. Are you satisfied now, Miquel?” She had been hoping that she could keep that secret for a long time, but thanks to Miquel she couldn’t. She was trembling with rage.
For years afterwards, everyone who was present would remember what happened next. Miquel, who was caught completely off balance since everyone was on to him and united against him, lashed out at Bregida, “You God damned whore!”
She slapped him so hard he fell flat on his back, clutching his jaw. A deathly silence fell over the clearing. Bregida was standing over him, shocked at her own actions and staring at her hands. She was in her own little world before she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she saw it was Eberhard, who lead her over to the rock he was sitting on earlier. When she sat down, feeling a little dizzy, she saw what she thought to be a look of admiration on Eberhard’s face. She wished he’d stop looking at her like that.
It was Robert who broke the silence, “Uh, I believe we are done here.” He looked down at Miquel, who had just sat up, “As duke of the court I issue you a stern warning not to continue what you have been doing. We are all watching you. This court is adjourned.” Almost everyone left the clearing as quickly as they could, leaving only Miquel, sitting alone in the center and still clutching his jaw, Peironela, Clara, Eberhard, and Bregida.
“We did it,” Eberhard whispered into Bregida’s ear. Yes, she thought, but was it the right thing to do? Could we have approached this better?
Suddenly, Clara got up and walked over to where Miquel sat. As he looked up she offered him a hand.
“What do you want,” he spat. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
Clara ignored his harsh tone, “Maybe we should start over.”
“Huh?”
“We should reintroduce ourselves. Forget any of this ever happened.” Her hand was still outstretched.
Doubtfully, he took hold of it, “Miquel de Toulouse.”
She pulled him up, “Clara.” She offered to help brush him off (he had fallen back into a puddle of mud), but he shook her off her help, and turned to leave the clearing. Well, Bregida thought, it’s a start.
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This was the longest one I've written yet. It did take a while to write. I hope at least somebody will read it and comment (hint, hint).
That Robert guy has a lot of uncertainty about him, and his final judgment was even less than a slap on the wrist. Fortunately, Miquel seems to have taken it seriously. I noticed the dialogue has a bit of a soap-opera quality to it - is that your intention? Sort of a Crusader Kings 90210. ;-)
phargle: Well, Robert is used to being Gaston's younger brother. He isn't used to being put in a position of authority. To be honest, though, I don't think Gaston's punishment would have been much different. Any power "The Court" had was mostly symbolic anyway. Besides, it would be kind of hypocritical of them if as punishment they were to take him behind the manor and break is kneecaps or something .
I think the dialogue was has a kind of a teen soap quality to it because that is how this group of characters developed. There were just so many subplots (Clara's attraction to Gaston, Bregida's attraction to Bert, Eberhard's confidence issues, Miquel abusing Clara, and Robert's ineptitude thrown in for good measure) among them that they were bound to collide somewhere. I had to account for hormones as well.
Crusader Kings 90210?
That...brilliant! We'll make millions. :rofl: What should the plot for the pilot be?
Anyway, I probably won't be able to update for the next couple of weeks. I have finals to study for so I probably won't have enough time to write.
.I think the dialogue was has a kind of a teen soap quality to it because that is how this group of characters developed. There were just so many subplots (Clara's attraction to Gaston, Bregida's attraction to Bert, Eberhard's confidence issues, Miquel abusing Clara, and Robert's ineptitude thrown in for good measure) among them that they were bound to collide somewhere. I had to account for hormones as well.
Crusader Kings 90210?
That...brilliant! We'll make millions. :rofl: What should the plot for the pilot be?
Anyway, I probably won't be able to update for the next couple of weeks. I have finals to study for so I probably won't have enough time to write.
It will still take a little longer to fully catch up with this but thus far I really like it!
Keep up the great work, and please continue.
Keep up the great work, and please continue.
volksmarschall: Take as long as you have to, there is a lot to read. Glad to have you on board.
I'll try to get some kind of update up in the next few days, now that I'm done with finals.
I'll try to get some kind of update up in the next few days, now that I'm done with finals.
I come back to the fora, and discover one of my favourite AARs is being updated again. This is a treat, and wonderful post just now. Lovely court scene. Great to get back in the characters.
Chapter 62: A Mysterious Stranger and Another Chance
“We all have big changes in our lives that are more or less a second chance.”
Henry Ford
Laigin, September 3, 1082
“You want to know my opinion,” the man in the grey cloak asked, crouched down on one leg in Guillaume’s tent. His eyes were cast in the shadow of his hood, and his gravelly voice shot a chill right up the duke’s spine. “You have been too soft.”
“You -”
“Yes,” the man interrupted, “I have paid much attention to your…your…hm.” The man scratched his chin, searching for the right word, “Achievements. Yes, achievements. I have been paying attention to your achievements for quite a while now. You are the duke of Toulouse, Languedoc, and Mallorca, but you are a weak man.”
Guillaume de Toulouse shifted his weight uncomfortably. His own tent was a place where he should have been at ease. “Weak?”
“Toothless, spineless, irresolute, whatever you want to call it. You are a duke. You should only answer to a king.” The man edged a little closer to him, but purposely remained in the shadows, “You have let others rule you who have no right to.”
Guillaume’s eyes widened, “Adelaide!”
“Yes, your wife. She has too much power over you. You could have stopped her by refusing to execute Oda.” The duke winced at the recollection. “I would go so far to say that she is the one who actually rules the Duchy of Toulouse. She has her hand in more than you ever realized.”
Guillaume and the other man sat in silence for a long time. The duke brooded in the darkness, pondering what the mysterious stranger had said, until it suddenly came to him. He looked up to the man. “Gaston.”
“Yes,” the man replied, “this is about your son. You should never have allowed him to be educated by Pierre. That is just another example of you allowing her to have what she wants.”
“I must take care of that problem.”
The man stood up as well as he could manage in the tent, “The time for that will come, my duke. Right now you have more pressing concerns, now that Geoffrey de Boulogne has chosen you to accompany him north. You have a score to settle with Hammud Bari. You squandered the chance to capture him in Mallorca. God has given you another chance. Take it.”
With that, the man pushed away the tent flap and walked out into the chilly night.
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OOC: It's a short one, but I think it does what it needs to.
“We all have big changes in our lives that are more or less a second chance.”
Henry Ford
Laigin, September 3, 1082
“You want to know my opinion,” the man in the grey cloak asked, crouched down on one leg in Guillaume’s tent. His eyes were cast in the shadow of his hood, and his gravelly voice shot a chill right up the duke’s spine. “You have been too soft.”
“You -”
“Yes,” the man interrupted, “I have paid much attention to your…your…hm.” The man scratched his chin, searching for the right word, “Achievements. Yes, achievements. I have been paying attention to your achievements for quite a while now. You are the duke of Toulouse, Languedoc, and Mallorca, but you are a weak man.”
Guillaume de Toulouse shifted his weight uncomfortably. His own tent was a place where he should have been at ease. “Weak?”
“Toothless, spineless, irresolute, whatever you want to call it. You are a duke. You should only answer to a king.” The man edged a little closer to him, but purposely remained in the shadows, “You have let others rule you who have no right to.”
Guillaume’s eyes widened, “Adelaide!”
“Yes, your wife. She has too much power over you. You could have stopped her by refusing to execute Oda.” The duke winced at the recollection. “I would go so far to say that she is the one who actually rules the Duchy of Toulouse. She has her hand in more than you ever realized.”
Guillaume and the other man sat in silence for a long time. The duke brooded in the darkness, pondering what the mysterious stranger had said, until it suddenly came to him. He looked up to the man. “Gaston.”
“Yes,” the man replied, “this is about your son. You should never have allowed him to be educated by Pierre. That is just another example of you allowing her to have what she wants.”
“I must take care of that problem.”
The man stood up as well as he could manage in the tent, “The time for that will come, my duke. Right now you have more pressing concerns, now that Geoffrey de Boulogne has chosen you to accompany him north. You have a score to settle with Hammud Bari. You squandered the chance to capture him in Mallorca. God has given you another chance. Take it.”
With that, the man pushed away the tent flap and walked out into the chilly night.
-------------------------------------------------
OOC: It's a short one, but I think it does what it needs to.
"you are a weak man"
Obviously, letting a stranger insult him in his own tent and to be furthermore manipulated by that man.
Obviously, letting a stranger insult him in his own tent and to be furthermore manipulated by that man.
Devin Perry: I was sure somebody would catch the irony of the situation. And welcome aboard, since I don't believe you have commented here before.
stnylan: It just keeps getting more and more so each chapter doesn't it?
stnylan: It just keeps getting more and more so each chapter doesn't it?