Timelines: What if Spain Failed to Control the World?

Grubnessul said:

Oh dear, on what innocent girl has Canonized's lustful eye fallen this time?

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Haha oh don't be mean XD

Kurt_Steiner: Haha ever-lasting love . Kurt you are such a romantic ! XD

Update is 40% done . Still on schedule for tonight's release of it !

ColossusCrusher said:

Tsk, tsk.
You're an AuthAAR, not a LovAAR!

Nah, enjoy the crush (you didn't specify gender, so I can't in all fairness say 'girl').

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ROFL ROFL ; I get all this just because I didn't specify the gender ? XD tsk tsk indeed !

General_BT: Haha update is almost finished ! Thanks for the good thoughts XD

Grubnessul said:

Now they mention it... you didn't mention the gender indeed


Now just write the update and devote it him/her

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ROFL I fell asleep while at 60% XD working on it now XD

Murmurandus: yes , master XD

22 December 1641

Matthijs could feel the tension hanging over Antwerp that winter evening and it pressed him against his carriage seat like a heavy weight was on his chest. The Scheldt was glistening under the moonlight parallel to Matthijs’ carriage and it, too, seemed to hold itself still in the anxiety of the night. Matthijs could see the dim silhouette of the spire to the Cathedral of Our Lady supporting the dome of the night and keeping the moon on time. Only the chattering of his carriage seemed to make any noise in the late hour: the people of the city had stayed in their homes, it seemed…

He immediately shot his eyes towards the glimmer of vermilion that caught his gaze from further up the river at the side of the city. Lanterns and torches dotted the city wall like a procession of small stars falling into line and entering the gates. The soldiers were beginning to arrive in full force… In the faint fiery glaze of the torches, Matthijs could see the cross of St. Andrew enter into the town at the head of each portion of this great stream of men.

Matthijs instinctively sank back in his seat and hid his face underneath the collar of his jacket as if at any moment, more of these soldiers would erupt from the river itself and glide past his carriage and display to him their emotionless, pitiless faces. He wanted to call out to his driver to push on faster, but his voice was caught dryly in the middle of his throat. Don’t let them hear you, he thought to himself.

“Are you nervous?” said a cool voice across from Matthijs. It startled him enough to force him to sit upward in his seat.

“A little,” Matthijs admitted to the other man sitting opposite from him. From the corner of his eye to his left, Matthijs could see the soldiers entering with their torches, and to his right were the luminary eyes of an older man… the man who had asked him to accompany the Breda delegation to Antwerp.

“You’re just tired from lack of sleep,” the deeper voice of the man in the shadow comforted his younger companion.

“Yes, sir,” Matthijs responded while crossing his arms over his chest protecting himself from the winter chill. He did not press his other curiosities and merely occupied himself with watching the darkness of the silent city swallow the division of Spanish soldiers.

“You’ll find that politics waits for neither day nor night, my young boy,” the older one anticipated his questions with a smile.

“Neither do the Spanish it seems,” Matthijs replied sardonically. He even managed to shove his sigh through his throat as a short chuckle.

“The soldiers will do what they’re supposed to do,” the older one began to speak more slowly. He kept his eyes on the inquisitive young man. “And we will do what we have to do to protect our interests.”

Interests… Matthijs was hearing a lot of that lately. He had always been told growing up how his people were paying for Spain to defeat her enemies: the Protestant rebels in England, the nationalists in Austria and Italy, the Moors in Granada and North Africa trying to break free, and, most importantly, the Turks and then the Persians. It was all paid with money generated in Flanders, Matthijs recalled his parents saying.

It was a small exaggeration, he reminded himself. It’s true that Flanders was taxed heavily, but so was Paris… Gold from the New World kept filling the coffers of Spain to fight her enemies. Taxation was everyone’s burden, but, then again, that was not the reason he was aiding Sir Adriaen van Bergen in representing the city of Breda’s interests in the States-General.

The city gate was more of a black edifice in the dark as if the night was walled off in one end slowly enveloping Matthijs' sight and boxing him in. The shadow of the wall absorbed the carriage just as it absorbed the soldiers and the moon took its leave of the young secretary. As they passed into the inner sanctuary of Antwerp, it felt just as gloomy as the countryside beyond the gates.

Houses and buildings had their candles snuffed out as if the city was pretending that it only had shadows as inhabitants. The clatter of horses echoed loudly in the silence of the night and far away, Matthijs could only hear the steady drum-beat of Spanish boots defiling into their garrison positions. When the gates of the city closed behind him, a gust of wind inaugurated the seal like the vacuum after an explosion; it sucked out all sound with it and nearly took Matthijs breath out of his lungs.

Eventually, Matthijs could see their destination-- a state house down the length of a street. It had the only light that he could see-- and even then in only one particular room. The intensity of the light from that singular window was like some fiery eye shooting an evil gaze down the streets of Antwerp. It was there that the Spanish regent was holding court and had summoned the delegates. Brussels had been the first choice, but the States-General demanded a more central location for fear that they would receive undue influence from the mere proximity to the French garrisons.

“Turn here, driver,” the older man suddenly called out tapping the front of the carriage with his cane.

Matthijs was startled by the sudden change in course as the carriage wheeled to the left and into a blinding side street. “What's going on? Aren't we going to the meeting?” Matthijs suddenly asked as the darkness sucked the passengers into a void-like sightlessness.

“Why did you agree to come with me, Matthijs?” the voice of the older one suddenly became deeper.

Matthijs sat back in his seat and felt the tumbling motions of the carriage bumping against the stone road to hit against his rigid body stiffly. What kind of a question was that? Matthijs asked himself. “What do you mean?” he asked in return drawing breath as quietly as he can as if afraid that the man's answer would be too soft to hear.

There was silence for a few moments and Matthijs was beginning to feel a bit more apprehensive. “You shouldn't do that when we arrive at the meeting place,” van Bergen said with a twist in his voice that indicated a sharp smile. Matthijs didn't even have to ask what van Bergen could see in the dark; the older man could sense that Matthijs had his hand on his own chest clutching at something underneath his jacket and tunic. “A lot of the people we're going to meet with are not prone to trusting Catholics,” van Bergen explained, “and clutching the crucifix you hide there every time you get nervous might just get us kicked out.”

The older man tapped his cane near the front of the carriage once again which brought them to a stop. By now, Matthijs was already straining to see the faint outline of the man opposite from him and the hold he had on his hidden crucifix did not slacken. “I knew that,” Matthijs said after a moment of stillness with a hint of defiance that sliced against the cold night air. When there was no response, Matthijs kept going, “I came here because my parents believed in a Free Netherlands-- something they died for. I did not volunteer to work with you for no reason.” Matthijs loosened his grip on his chest. “I don't care who is for the liberation of our country; Catholic or heretic. It's time to put those differences aside--”

He was stopped by a calculated palm pressing against his shoulder. “Good,” was the resounding affirmation from the older one. There was a knock once again but this time it came from the side of the carriage and not from a signal by van Bergen. Matthijs would have jumped at the sound and at the figure he now realised was standing outside of the door if it weren't for the calming constancy of van Bergen's grip on his shoulder. “We're here,” van Bergen said quietly. Matthijs could only look ahead to the thin silver lining of his benefactor.

“Where--?”

“To the real meeting,” van Bergen replied with the moon gleaming the steep curve of his lips faintly.

Matthijs turned to the man holding his door open and realised that the guard had a badge that was just barely exposed from underneath his cape: a horn and three orange circles.


Íñigo kept his proximity to Lope as they walked through the busy tavern. The smell of sweat dried by dust and dirt filled the air almost as thoroughly as the smell of alcohol and vomit. Íñigo could still notice a lingering scent with his sharp nose as well: the metallic mingling of blood and steel. Íñigo paid no heed to the suspicious looks that gathered around him. Lope had told him to stay close considering how obvious it was that he was a young man, and he followed his master's orders without fail. His gait was confident although his heart was beating faster than a Turkish oarmaster.

“There he is,” Lope motioned with his thick finger over to the man sitting near the eastern wall of the tavern. When Íñigo looked over, he ruffled his eyebrows and even had to step to Lope's side to get a better look at who his master was talking about.

“Him?” Íñigo asked under his breath. Almost on cue, the man's dark face looked up towards Íñigo and sparkled his eyes at the young man. Íñigo held his ground and locked gazes as if he was waiting for a serpent to strike and would not miss the moment. Íñigo was still mesmerised. But he's an Arab, Íñigo thought to himself. He could even sense the glint of the scimitar clasped against the side of the desert-garbed figure.

Lope pushed Íñigo from behind and walked him over. The man on the wall, in return, stood up from his sitting position, but did not take his eyes off of the young Íñigo until the large and imposing figure of Lope was only a few steps away. That was when both of the older men turned to each other and gave a courteous bow or motion of the hat. “This is my apprentice,” Lope began, “Íñigo de Balboa. The one I was talking to you about.”

The Arab had wiry grisly hair on his face with a dark visage that was solid as cut obsidian-- but those eyes... Íñigo could feel them boring into him whenever they turned in his direction. “How old are you, Íñigo?” the man asked. The voice would have made Íñigo shiver; it had the weight of centuries of history placed on it despite how that face seemed like it was younger than even Lope's.

“Eighteen,” Íñigo replied firmly. Another few seconds transpired of eye contact.

“Very good. I'll take you on,” the man said with a subdued grin. “I look forward to working with you,” the man added, “your youthful energy will do us old men some good, perhaps.” Lope snickered.

“Thank you, sir--” Íñigo suddenly realised he did not know the Arab's name.

“Siddig El Tahir El Fadil El Siddig El Abderahman El Mohammed Ahmed El Abdel Karim El Mahdi,” the Arab recited like a prayer sensing the young man's curiosity. “But these rogues here like to call me El Sid.”

Íñigo bowed sharply as the Arab turned towards other business and Lope greeted Íñigo's curious face with a smile from ear to ear. Lope pressed a huge arm around his young apprentice as they walked towards the exit. “You're in good hands, Íñigo,” Lope encouraged him. “El Sid has served for decades with the Imperial armies in the Persian and Turkish campaigns; he knows how to handle soldiers.”

“Why did he become a mercenary?” Íñigo wondered out loud.

“The same reason as me, I suppose,” Lope pondered with an exaggerated expression: “to get money tax-free.” Lope laughed at his own answer. “I promise you he is as fine a soldier as your old master here,” Lope continued, pointing to his own chest with his free hand. “He even served in the personal guard to the great General Schenkhuizen in the Thracian campaigns.”

“Is he a Christian?” Íñigo asked.

Lope shrugged, “probably. He kills Muslims well enough.” Lope laughed again. “Though I've never seen him at any church I've gone to.”

“You only go to church twice a year,” Íñigo chided.

“Being a soldier is a tough job!” Lope squeezed against Íñigo shoulders with another chuckle, “You wouldn't expect me to walk into a liturgy with blood on my hands would you?”

“Tell that to the angel when he comes for you,” Íñigo shook his head with a sideways grin, “a century of purgatory for each day you make the Lord wait for you to come to Mass.”

“Those monks were merciless on you, weren't they!” Lope guffawed loud enough that people on the street they walked into shot strange looks at the chimney of vapour coming out of the large man's mouth.

“I'm glad they were,” Íñigo retorted, “otherwise I wouldn't be able to stand having you as a master.”

“Hey now!” Lope pinched Íñigo's boyish cheek until it was red, “in return you got the training from the best swordsman in Cadiz!” Lope laughed again as if he already had several pints to drink but he looked up at the coming morning light. The dawn's florescence sobered him up almost immediately. His arm around Íñigo pulled the young man close to him firmly. “Your first mission,” Lope said with a proud smile, “And the best place to start off your career as a soldier of fortune!”

“You've been there before?” Íñigo asked looking up to his benefactor.

“A few times,” Lope replied, “by this time this spring, we'll be wrestling with the Vikings of old.”


“How about 'There Might be Vikings out There',” Stephen recommended. Trey just rolled his eyes at the young man sitting on the foot of his dorm bed. Luckily, Trey was facing his laptop as he typed so that his friend wouldn't see his disdain. Stephen had always been a joker, Trey reminded himself.

“I think you've given me enough help with my chapter headings,” Trey tried not to laugh as he spoke.

“I can't help it,” Stephen replied tossing himself back comfortably onto Trey's bed before getting up again just as energetically as if he literally bounced off the mattress. “But how about, 'The Spanish Incursion into Russian Scandinavia.'”

“No,” Trey sighed pressing the backspace key with dramatic emphasis, “it has to also point to the fact that it was one of the major reasons for the Dutch to revolt. Something about cutting off merchant trade and making the Netherlands as a staging ground...”

Before Trey could finish his thoughts, his mobile shuddered against his wooden tabletop while a ring simultaneously sprang from the machine. “Telephone!” Stephen announced. “Telephone!” he repeated attempting to be as annoying as possible.

Trey ignored Stephen's little game as he opened up the device and looked at the screen. It wasn't a number he recognised.

“Hello?” Trey asked into the telephone.

“Hello there,” a voice replied. It wasn't a voice Trey could put a face to. All he could tell was that it was some woman's voice.

“Who is this?” Trey asked while squinting his eyes to hear.

“Is this Mr. Trey Coom?” the woman asked.

“Yes...” Trey answered reluctantly, “who--”

“I'm actually calling on behalf of McClain & Uno, a local publisher in the Boston area. We have a contract there with some of your professors to publish their works on their behalf. We happened to come upon a transcript of the essay Dr. Fitzgerald rejected for publication.”

Trey couldn't believe what he was hearing, but he was still unsure what this was all about. All he could manage was a weak, “alright...?”

“We had hoped to talk to you sometime about possibly reviewing the article for publication with your comments,” the voice on the other side said, “do you think we could set up a meeting?”

Chapter CXV: A Meeting (coming soon)

Grubnessul said:

:rofl: I feel flattered!

But you let the Dutch revolt start in Belgium



The essay part, is it me or does this sound like history repeating itself?

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haha , they're just meeting up in Belgium , no 'actual' revolt army has sprung up yet XD