Ossor Erlendsson Crovan
Duke of Western Isles of Leinster of Ulster of Meath and of Iceland
Ruminations on the middle years, 1132-1136
I guess after five years of constant fighting, even the Angels are tired of helping.
There is no “Miracle of Carrick.”
The vile Toledoans and I are both exhausted, so we agree on a time out.
Even as the exhausted Holy Rollers return to their homes and what might remain of their farms (and the vile Toledoans turn on Scotland), good old King Haldor demands I raise my tired legions to support him in his major ongoing war with Denmark. I send my men home.
The Ynglings have crossed the Crovans for the last time.
I was sitting in my council of war, we were planning an invasion of Munster for a unified Ireland could only be of greater service to the God in the next crusade, when I received word that Valdemar had just died during his nap.
He was, if you recall, the one child who slept through the night and was a general joy to play with. Often I would have the nannies bring him into my apartments and instruct them to play with him where I could see his delighted smiles. His loss was terrible and the funeral was to be the finest the money-lenders would allow.
My dear son Valdemar had just been laid to rest. The Priest was still offering his eulogy when the herald of King Haldor tramped down the nave and loudly declared that my son’s death was probably a punishment from God for ignoring the orders of the King. He then read out a Royal degree demanding I raise my army and depart for Viken at once.
The herald swung from the castle walls that night.
When King Haldor’s next herald arrived, both to investigate the whereabouts of the last herald and to, once more, demand the Holy Rollers serve the son of Satan, I sent him away with the message that Ossor Erlendsson serves no man on this Earth save the Holy Pope and the warning that one day our paths will cross again and on that day, King Haldor will deeply regret that day.
I wish I had worded that last part better, but I was a bit flustered at the time.
I have placed the invasion of Munster on hold indefinitely, for new plans are turning in my mind.
This is my newest son, Skofte “McLeod” Ossorsson. I named him after the late Earl of Vestisland, Skofte McLeod.
I guess the Pope got wind of my “discussion” with the Norse herald. The Papal Nuncio noted that, as a proper son, and servant, of the church I should let the Pope control the appointment of all my bishops, since that’s his job and all.
The argument made sense and God has always looked out for the Crovans, so I agreed.
This is my son Magnus. It takes a strong and powerful man to live up to such a name. I am sure Magnus, one day, will stand among the greats of the Holy Rollers.
Dear, dear Torfinn. My first-born son. I don’t understand God. I have battled the infidel, even at the cost of my own hopes and dreams. I could have, after all, claimed the Kingship of Ireland rather than spending so many years battling your foes in miserable Scotland. I thought I was fulfilling your will. I thought I knew what you wanted of me.
You know though. There is one enemy of God who I not only have ignored, but have allowed…even helped to flourish. One who has shown disrespect for both you, dear Lord, and those who seek to fulfill your will.
The Kings of Norway.
My mission is clear!
The Holy Rollers are up to strength and rested!
My War Chest is…well…the Moneylenders have offered new lines of credit!
I have chosen a suitable warm up enemy to test out my new commanders and build some esprit de corp.
First Buchen, then Viken.
Prepare to die Haldor, foe of God.
Holy cow! Ossor has gone off his rocker! I didn’t think he even liked his kids! Now this? Will Duke Gudrod finally be able to rest in peace? Will the blood vow finally – finally be avenged? How good a “tune up” could Buchen possibly be? Seriously, did that say