Late Winter of, 1188 A.D, the writings of Geoffrey Angevin...
The old and great days of fighting pagans and converting wicked it seemed had passed and now entered a new age of Kings and their Empires. Truly, across Europe over the last decades it was none other than my father whom had with my mother carved out an Empire from what there was ne're before. It was he who fought and vanquished the Welsh brigands, the Irish barbarians, made the lands more powerful and prosperous than ever in years before. And so as I write this from the torch lit halls of my great fortress at York I come to the catharsis - the realization, moreso. My father is a great King, a powerful man, and the most respected warrior perhaps in all of Christendom - yet I must confess in earnesty and truth that I do hate him.
It had been King Louis VII of France whom had been pious and peaceful, yet my father had ensured support to rebellions in Tolouse. And when Louis found an ally in the churchman Thomas Beckett, my father had him cut down for his defiance all the same. Whilest those whom see my father as a saint and revere him for his bloody conquests defend him in this regard I know the man well and can attest it was he whom might have struck down the churchman himself in that regard. And still Louis VII's heir Phillippe Capet was no less of a fighter - and he himself challenged my father again and again.
It had been different in those times, and we were a family united, powerful and growing more by the day. Yet my father had changed with power which had corrupted him beyond measure I believe.
In his disdain for my mother whom I can remember when he was more man than monster he had once loved dearly as he loved his children, and in his disdain for her most favoured son my elder brother Richard, my father tried to strip Richard of his title Duke of Bordeaux and when I told my father of my own disapprovals he had me exiled here to the north, in a castle no better than a monastery. I wonder perhaps if I disagree again might I face the same fate of Beckett, his son or not?
It seemed the realm was on the verge of a great war. My mother, Eleanore of Aquitaine was also sent into exile by my father, although I know not where. My brother the proud and haughty Richard raised a great army in the south of France and with the support of the King of France he threatened a great war which might destroy the terrible and bloody hold the man that my father had become held on all the kingdoms and his family. Even John, our youngest brother in Ireland whom was once our father's favourite now raised arms against him - it seemed King Henry would have yet his greatest war ever upon his hands, and that all of England, Ireland, France and Brittany would in one way or another be laid waste to.
Yet, God it seems works in mysterious ways. Until this day I had lost my faith... and yet now again it seems renewed, though I shame myself as to how this came to be. It was seemingly a sure sign from God, and left all of Christendom shocked as the news arrived.
My father, the King of England and ruler of Ireland, hammer of the Welsh and contender of all France...
My father whom had used people like pawns in a game of chess and tossed them aside, whom played grand games with the monarchs of Europe.
My father, who's soul had been damned and reaffirmed by churchmen the world over... the man I hated and despised now beyond reason, the man whom was responsible for my exile to this miserable place.
Yet the news...
... My father is now dead.