Skule Half-Dansson Crovan
King of All Norway of Sweden and of Denmark
Thoughts on his reign – the mid-latter years, 1305 – 1310
Today I was meeting with the more powerful Dukes, discussing the Royal Succession and how to keep Norway from the clutches of the degenerate Scotch Crovans when my Bastard Bard, Duke of Gotland wandered into the meeting hall. I winced visibly.
“Hewwo Papa, is dis weuwe de bwig vwassuwls mweet?”
To a man, the great nobles jumped to their feet: “Him! Him! We’ll take him as your successor!”
*sigh* I hate this country.
Another commoner has been planted with the Royal Seed. I agreed to his mom’s traitorous and exorbitant demands for cash and a royal upbringing for her boy Sigurd because I have my secret weapon by my side.
As she left Viken Castle, I turned to Bengt.
“Bengt, old boy, you know what to do.”
We exchanged winks and Bengt ran eagerly from the room.
From the gatehouse, we heard screaming and then splashing. I ran to see what was going on. There I saw Bengt, holding the Chancellor’s head firmly underwater. He smiled and gave me a thumbs up as I approached.
Apparently, Bengt did not, in fact, know what to do.
So he improvised.
This morning, when I came down to breakfast, the twisted remains of my new Chancellor were lying on the floor.
I sighed and called Bengt in to chastise him.
Not many Chancellors are interested in jobs that have “you will be violently murdered by Bengt” in the duties.
Bengt scuttled over and regarded the body for a moment, before shrugging and grunting.
Later, Bengt’s brother Eskild confessed to the murder. I explained to Eskild that sibling rivalry doesn’t need to extend into a murderous rampage body-count competition. He apologized and I decided to let the matter drop.
Dear Margie passed today. Because of her, I had no legitimate heirs and instead I had to choose between Pal the Imbecile or Stuttering Bard for my successor.
Maybe I should have listened to the Spymaster all those years ago.
The Dashingly Handsome and Well Coiffed Marshal Bagge won the Grand Tournament I hosted in memorial of dear Margie.
My last French territory rebelled today, which I expected would happen. I mean, look at his hair. The man has a beehive. Thinking about consequences is clearly something he isn’t good at.
The York Regiment should do the trick.
I should say, the threat of the York Regiment did the trick, since his shiny gold was all I really wanted anyway.
Today, a great man has passed. Maybe not great in the sense of “does great things” or “is nice to others” or even “I don’t fear for my life whenever he reaches for a pudding.” No, Bengt was great in the sense that…well, okay, he wasn’t great by any definition of the word. But he sure kept everyone on their toes.
You will be missed old friend.
Oh no! Bengt has passed. The second crazed mass-murderer to wander freely in the Halls of Viken has thrown off the mortal coil and joined the choir invisible. Will anyone step up to the plate and carry forth on anther murderous rampage? Probably not. Still, Sigurd the Very Lucky Bastard learns a valuable life lesson and Skule sleeps with anything that moves on the next exciting episode of
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