900 yeAARs of AARs.

[Kuipy]

When you think of it in this timeline it is not that bad an idea for them. With Byzance fallen as soon as the 11th century and the whole Iberia subjugated Islam has secured its power bases on Eupe and planning his next assaults.

In the East that means the Balkans and Georgia - where they are making progress but starting to overextend themselves.

In the mediterranean itself Citadel Sicily is too powerful for them.

In the West France still holds its ground -barely. But with Aquitaine fallen the British Isles are well within reach of naval raids followed by outright conquest. An they are divided, poor, undefended - and will be a serious thorn in the side of Christianity once they will be conquered.

So yes, it makes more sense than it seems at first look in a world were reconquista completely failed and France/England are not the big powers we know.

[Kuipy]

Since there was no game last week...

Deleted scenes : Robert Curthose's sons

Kuipy (-)

A genealogical tree including most lead characters so far

William

He reached a spotted, sinewy hand to grab his son’s wrist. With a poor smile he felt his son squirm, even now, under the strength of his grip.
“ So ?”
“ Another girl, father.” Geoffroy said
“ Your wife is cursed with girls. It is what, the third ? I should never have consented to that match with that Hauteville lackwit.”
“ Or arranged it for that matter.”
“ No insolence with me, boy. Or you will see I am still strong enough to give you a sound beating.”
But if truth be told he was rather contended that his elder son had some nerve, a sharp wit and a loud mouth. Not like that wimp, Willem. Not like that snake, Dirk. Not like his two sheepish bastards.
“ Geoffroy, I have one last order to you” He glanced sideway toward the expressionless priest at his bedside. A fit of cough shook him.
“ Listen, father...”
“ No, you listen to me. You will have plenty of time to speak when I am not here anymore. I am… proud of you. You are the son I always wanted to live my lands to. A true Norman, although you never set your eyes on the old country. I just wished to know my line was stronger before I departed.”
“ I will have other children, father. And if not, you have other sons.”
“ That is what I wanted to tell you. In case you fail to produce a son of your own, I want you to designate Jordan as your heir.”
Geoffroy frowned.
" A mere child"
" He will grow up, his father answered. Grow stronger and smarter than the others, maybe stronger and smarter than you. I did not conquer Wales and Ulster for the likes of him to rule over it. promise."
" I promise, father." There was a knot in his throat.
" Good". There was a whisper, and the spotted hand let go.

the other William

“My dear son,

You will not read this later until I am dead. Then the secret which has poisoned my life will be yours to bear. You are not, as you think, the heir of the Breteuils…”

[Kuipy]

Henry

Our Father, which art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name;
thy kingdom come...

The priest saw the men approach the little priory from afar. They were the men he had wanted to be back in the days where he had to study the bible and the doctors, rough, bearded warriors with heavy hauberks. He himself still had a little strength left under his robes, a little courage as well. He stood tall in the Devon breeze as their chief approached.
" We search a man. Henry son of Robert Curthose."
" You will not find it here."
The man looked him up suspiciously.
" We could search your church, you know."
" You could."
The men gave him a last look and departed. Henry kneeled.

"Our Father, which burnt in Hell,
Cursed be thy name..." he muttered.

Herewald

Herewald saw the riders slowly approach, a group of tall well-armed men on fine horses. Young knights, as he had once been, proud and eager for glory as he had once been. Now he was a simple men-at-arm in service of sir Heinrich van Hurne, who was sworn to sir Ulrich the bald who was marshall for count Albrecht van Arkel who was vassal to the Duke and Duchess of Holland who were at war against the king of France. His tired eyes squinted, looking for a detail who would mean an other day of life. On their left a free compagny of archers had taken position in two patches of woods. When the knights would charge they would do so under a decimating hail of arrows. Not that they could not affor it with their numbers.

"They are going to charge."
He drew his long sword, a superb piece of steel, too fine for the man he was now. With a little luck it was long enough to strike even a man ahorse.
"Yes." He turned toward the red-haired lad.
" This your first fight, boy ?"
" Yes ser."
" Stay close to me."

As the cavalry came almost to arrow range they stopped a short while and lifted the regal banner, then suppered their horses forward. Herewald shortly heard shouts and lifted his blade, as the first arrows flew. Something is wrong, he had the time to think, then one of them pierced him below the shoulder. and he fall on his knee.
"Betrayed, he gasped, we..."
The boy at his side was gaping, motionless. When the knights rode over them his last thought was of the Duchess.


Roger

He grew weaker and weaker over the fall, and the first snow fell on the funeral procession. Robert Curthose bothered to come, but decided against sheding a tear over the small grave in Northampton's old church.

[Kuipy]

Warin

They caught him crouching behind a bush, a score of barking Moors with drawn scimitars. For a moment he thought they were going to kill him and a cold panic struck him, but as they saw he was but a ragged and feverish wanderer moving his bowels they started to laugh instead. One of them snatched the sword he would have been too weak to wield anyway.
“Faranj ?” their chief asked
I he had ever been a Frank that was over. When Northampton was taken by the English king he had fled with his life, knowing that he was no longer welcome at Paris, nor at London. He had hoped the countess of Toulouse would gave him shelter for old time’s sake, but whatever love or lust his former sister-in-law had had entertained for him was gone. So he had crosses the Pyreneans, hounded and sick, toward Sapin were the Moors were said to gather mercenaries.
“ Mercenary ?” the chief asked.
Warin was dead, a walking filthy failure. Everybody hated him, and his last joy was that his bastard pig of a father had failed as well. Let them kill me now, he thought. Let it be now and short.
“ Mercenary ?” the man insisted. He had a rough beard and missing teeth, but he look well-fed, and his clothes were as clean as a soldier’s can get.
“ Mercenary” Warin answered. The man smiled.
“ Then it is your lucky day, Faranj. Come with us.”

Lancelin and Amaury

"They still say you killed him, you know" the old man said. "Those who remember our father, that is. Although some say it was Warin who did it. And some say it was an accident."
Lancelin did not answer.
" I myself am not so sure. No longer. I do not know what to believe"
With a whispered Amaury struggled to his feet and signed himself.
" Rest in peace, brother."
It did not matter any longer, he guessed. Here in Ortebello he had grown rich under three popes, then he had grown forgotten under four others. And that was for the best.
The Umbrian sun shone over the olive trees, bells rang over the town. Yes, that was for the best he thought. He lacked neither riches nor pleasures nor a children ; and nobody remembered he had ever been called de Normandie.

Oh, and the two others

Even after his father disgrace Serril managed to keep strong protectors and became bishop of Somerset. Some say his brother Henry was hiding in his parish. William, then Geoffroy often visited him for advice.

Curthose's younger son Diggory was adopted by a Venetian merchant ; twenty years later he went back to France, not as a conqueror but as a banker, and manage to get the count of Troyes under his sway.

[Enewald]

Only one can inherit.
And maybe you mean in 'peace' instead of peace?

[Kuipy]

Yes, peace

Only one can inherit indeed, although some of us would like Sicily to go gavelkind. But the scattering of Curthose's children throughout Europe is somewhat unusual. Normally junior branches stay at the court or get some county, then die out in some material comfort.

[Kuipy]

The small cat, the shining, and the death

Kuipy ( Grand Duchy of Deheubarth)

(soundtrack suggestion)

They say that in Normandy every story begins with a meal. As he woke up from a short, dreamy sleep marshall Castore sent for scrambled eggs and baked apples, but when the page brought them he found he had no appetite. What if he was to die today ?

The Irishmen had not taken adavantage of the night to attack them, as he had feared. Could they be fool enough to really hope win the field ? The soaked panels of the tent dripped silently. Outside a cold wind was blowing, and a dull dawn shone over the puddles, chasing away the last dark cloud of autumn. Soon winter would come. He shivered.

Without a word he dressed in a warm wooly hose, a light tunic and a padded coat. His mail was a gift of the duke, the finest one could buy in the Isles, and over it he downed a fine silk doublet embroided with the lion of Wales, which the Normas called p’tit cat [1]. After hesitating he chose a magnificent Saracen sword he had brought back from Africa, part of a sheik’s ransom, sharp and light. But he suspended it and his ivory horn to the same old cracked belt he had worn twenty years before on the dusty Lombard roads, and slid a second dagger under his cloak of fur. Now it was time to call on his liege ; Geoffroy was not a patient man in the best of times.

As his heavy boots splashed in the mud of the camp he try to shake away his sleepiness with little success. Nothing in this dark raining night had given him much cause to sleep soundly, although he had picked the sentinels himself and inspected them twice. The duke would take that as he joke, he knew. But for all his courage and skill at arms the duke needed a prudent man at his side to temper his recklessness.

The guards gave way to him with a look that meant trouble inside the royal pavilion, but he knew better than to defer. Behind a small table Geoffroy was eating with a sullen voracity, and drinking more cider than was probably prudent before riding into battle.

“ A traitor,” he said, “ Not you, Seagrave. Jordan.”
“ Your younger brother.”
“ Aye, the rumors were right. He turned over my towns to Sicily.”
Castore had a better look at the warrior seated before him. At near forty his hair was starting to recede, and his face was red and plum, but there was still something indomitable in it, and his shoulders stood strong and upright. He was still the conqueror, the man who had led an ever bigger army to Leon, Mauretania and Ireland. For all his faults he was a fierce warrior and a superb commander, much better than Castore would ever be ; a man to be both feared and loved.
Castore coughed nervously.
“ These are only too cities.”
“ You conquered them.” Geoffroy remembered. And indeed while the main Norman army was battling the king of Zirid, he has commanded a much smaller troop through the passes of the Atlas, to take the mountain fortresses of Hanyan and Tlemcen.
“ In your name, m’lord.”
“ Yes, in my name ! And I had entrusted him to rule them in my name, not to relinquish them to that poxy Sicilian without so much as a fight.”
“ At least technically” Castore cautiously answered “the Hauteville could take them from you. He is, after all, still your king.”
Geoffroy had a wolfish smile.
“ For a day” he answered. “Look what I mean to wear tonight”
By the brasero marshall Castore first recognized the heavy gold platter on which the king of Norway had given him Gustav av Munsö’s head, some twelve years ago, as a peace settlement. Where the head had once opened a bloodied mouth and wide vitreous eyes stood a small crown of bronze and silver adorned with little blue gems. It was fine and elegantly crafted, yet simple as befitted a crusader king.
“ You mean to proclaim yourself king of Ireland.”
“ King in Ireland. For a start. And it is not a crown I mean for my brother to have. I burnt my old will, mind you.”

For years the succession of the Duchy had been a bigger worry to Geoffroy than all the heathens in the world. His first wife, a crazy Hauteville, had given him nothing but girls, the elder of which he had married to his youngest brother Jordan with a dispendious papal dispensation. And the second one had not given him any son either, which left Jordan and Dirk vying for the position of heir apparent.

“ M’lord ? Will it be the bishop of Northampton, then ?”
The duke gave him an angry look.
“ I shall…”



[1] prounounce "ptee-cah" : a small cat

[Kuipy]

The sound of a horn interrupted them and a breathless herald rushed in.
“ M’lords ! The Irishmen are in position. We just saw them ‘cause of the dawn.”
“ Are they attacking ?” Geoffroy questioned
“ No. Not yet. They took their position on the East.”
They two commanders look at each other.
“ I shall go gather the troops, m’lord.” Castore said.
“ Indeed. Summon my squires, that I get armed.”

As he painstakingly got the main body of his troops to form the semblance of a line, Castore squinted to look at the enemies. The morning sun in his eyes did not help but so far it looked that his scouts’ reports were good. Against their twelve thousand the duke of Dublin had but three thousand, mostly militia, disposed in thin ranks against the slopes of two grassy hills. Under the cover of the night they had disposed stakes between their lines, and there was no easy way to flank them. Given the duke’s propensity to attack this was a sound strategy. Castore wished that for once he could talk him out of it.

Of his own twelve thousand foot about a third was Moorish rabble, armed with pikes and short swords. Weeks of drilling had finally broken them into a more disciplined and obedient outfit but all he really expected them to do was not to break at first shock and to hold the line long enough for the Norman battalions on the flanks to carry the day. More worrying were the two four thousands Irish Geoffroy had insisted on fielding instead of waiting for more reliable troops. Castore could only hope having put them under the command of his best veterans would prevent them from shifting side in the middle of the battle.

At his left hand he kept as a reserve two scores of Saracen riders who shivered in the irish wind. There was nothing but praise to be said of their horsemanship, but they were untried and he only trusted them to an extent. Finally the five hundred knights and freeriders arrived at a jog, commanded by the duke himself.
“ How are things looking ?” he asked, just like in the old days. His breastplate was so polished he could see his scarred and tired face in it.
“ Not good.”
“ We have seen worse.”
Castore pointed.
“ We cannot send our horse into this. And I wonder where their is. They were supposed to have about two hundred.”

At that moment somebody blew an other horn, and behind them an Irish troop galloped toward their camp from the North.
“ Is that their plan ?” the duke asked dedaignously.
As they approached the camp the sentries loosed some arrows at them, but they whirled away before coming within range, then darted at another point of the camp, and yet another, always moving, always retreating before the defenders’ volleys could hit them. At their center the standard of the Duke was flapping.
“ Let us get this over with.” Geoffroy finally decided, and waved away Castore’s protests. “You take on the infantry.”

When they saw the Norman horse coming at them the Irish fled immediately, and Geoffroy gave them a merry chase. Five minutes later they had disappeared behind a hill.

Castore sighed and reluctantly gave the signal of the march. As they advanced his knights on foot and men at arms kept compact ranks, but the other formation became loose and the line quickly became uneven. At the extremity of the line which was closest to the Irish one Moorish battalion was particularly out of line, moving toward the enemy at an impatient pace, as if exhausting their soldier just before the fight was that Ahmad’s notion of war.

“ Coglione ! ” he swore “They are going to be showered with arrows before the rest of the army can close in.”
But nothing of the sort happened. No arrow flew from the Irish lines, no sarjent ran yelling orders. Nothing moved but their flapping banners in the wind, the changing glimmer of light over steel.
“ Bloody hell.”
Now he did not need to be told why a one of the Arabs was dashing out of the ranks and running toward them.
“ Shift your lines ! Turn back ! Faster ! Robert!”
A bearded, browny Norman turned in his merrily stolid face toward him ; the regiment was completely disordered now, men rushing left and right to rejoin positions they did not know.
“ Gather that lot and take them after us.” he ordered. “The knights on foot as well. The others fall back on the crest and cover the camp.”
His steed was growing restless with the confusion.
“ Light horse ! With me.”

[Kuipy]

And he spurred his horse in the direction Geoffroy had taken, the morroccan riders fast on his track. His mind raced as well, trying to remember the map he had glimpsed at that very morning. He would have planned an ambush twenty leagues ahead, at a ford between a steep ridge and a tangle of hilly woods. Twenty leagues ! The horses were fresh and they wore no armor ; by riding furiously they could maybe catch the king in time.

As the hills on the right started to raise into the ridge he ordered twenty of the Arabs up it, to swipe through the archers he knew would be there, and pressed on with the others. When the road turned left and abruptly down he glimpsed the knights one league ahead; desperately he blew his heavy horn but the furious wind carried the sound east, so he spurred his panting horse harder.

Then he heard it, first the blaring call of an other horn, then the clash of steel on steel. As he passed the crest he saw the jaws of the traps already closed on the Norman cavalry, showered by arrows and surrounded by pikemen as it crossed the narrow ford. At least, he thought bitterly, now he would see what his Saracens were worth.
“ Soldiers !” he ordered “Charge !”

Irishmen outnumbered the five hundred knights almost ten to one, and his own puny force a hundred to one, but the Arabs did not seem to balk at such odds. They yelped a fierce and mysterious shout as he swung his sword and felt a gush of blood on his sleeve. Left and right he hewed, frantically, careful not to let his mount lose any speed. He hoped the mayhem would be enough to give the knights opportunity to rally but had no time to look in their direction.

Suddenly another clamor rose on top of the ridge. Looking in this direction he briefly glimpsed the other Arabs slaughtering the bowmen, and dared a timid hope. If Geoffroy had survived the first shock and could rally his troops… An axe caught him in the chest.

The mail’s steel was good and he had the reflex to jump back at the last moment, yet the blow flung down his horse. He rolled in the mud to avoid the hooves and saw a red-haired irish knight lift his weapon for the last blow, but a Saracen hit him under the shoulder and he fell heavily on the ground. A moment later he was gone.

Castore struggled to his feet, thinking of blowing his horn to gather the troops. A stray arrow grazed his thigh and he yelped with pain. When he opened teary eyes again he saw the Duke just before him, hammered back by a red-haired giant with a two-hand sword. Clenching his feet he limped, limped, and struck him with all his strength in the neck. The man fell and Geoffroy immediately pierced his leather-clad breast with his own blade. He lowered a battered shield.
“ Seagrave.”
“ M’lord.”
Around them the mêlée had strangely subsided and they were let panting for a moment. Castore saw that the duke’s tunic was red with gore. Himself felt a burning sensation in his face. Maybe he had cut himself falling from his horse.
“ I will be on your right” he said, and they fought their way to the cover of the woods. By now his arm was numb with fatigue and his sight blurry. There was a pain in his chest, something broken. He did not see the sword coming at him and fell to the ground, his jaw broken. Shouts rang, feet trampled him. Finally a breath was on his cheek and he felt himself lifted in powerful arms, then lowered near a brook. Geoffroy fell at his side.
“ Castore.” The world was growing dim and silent. Or was it the battle ending ? Blood dripped from the duke’s mouth.
“Castore” he whispered. “Listen… If I die. I want my crown…”

Then everything went dark.

[Kuipy]

Very approximate map of the players at this point

(as in I did not even bother to load the save)

[Enewald]

Who shall have the crown?
The game sucks coz you can not name your successor.

[Kuipy]

I never said Geoffroy was dead. Or Castore for that matter.

[Kuipy]

What they say

Kuipy (King in Ireland)

They say that in Normandy every story begins with a meal. But where was Normandy now ? A petty march of the dying French kingdom, where no one alive could remember anymore the time of the Dukes, let alone that of the reaving Northmen. Where were the Normans ? Yes, where were they ? King Aldred thought to himself, as he perused Bede's voluminous Ecclesiastical History of the English People.

They said the Guines had rebelled against their Dutch overlords and been crushed, killed to the last man, woman, and child. They said the kingdom of Naples still held, but they also said that Sicily itself has fallen to the Berber kings, and that their black galleys ruled all of the western Mediterranean. And they said that the Curthose de Normandie were still out there and still laid claim to their homeland. They had been saying that for years, actually ; they had been saying that even where they were only dukes, even when they where only counts, which Aldred was old enough to remember, and even when they had been nothing.

They say in Normandy every story begins with a meal. But it was no longer so in England, he knew. He smiled and caressed the parchment with a gnarled, spotted, loving hand. That was how stories began there, with a voluptuously flourished initium and a smart latin apophthegm ; no in the barbaric feasts of long-dead vikings. The story of Normandy had been but an ephemeral blaze, bright and perhaps not without its strange beauty. But it was gone. The long cycle of sowings and harvests, the ancestral, proud society of saxons, the eternal knowledge of the books : that would last. Smart Norman had adapted to that, as his ancestors had, as he had himself, the one king of England. Others were but shadows of the past.

Curthose's sons had had their chance, some thirty years ago, and they had failed to take it. They say they had almost succeeded : if ! maybe ! had they had a second chance ! But that was irrelevant, for in the end they had failed, which was all that matter, and now their chance was gone.

They said they called themselves king of Ireland now. They said Geoffroy had been the first to do so. They said it was actually Dirk the Dutch, who succeeded him. They said Geoffroy had intended Jordan to succeed him instead, or that he had exiled Jordan, or that he had sentenced both his brothers to death, or that he had done nothing of the sort. They said Dirk had had Geoffroy strangled on his death bed. They said he did it himself.

Regardless, they said he became king himself.

They said Geoffroy's most trusted man had been a Lombard named Castore, or that he was a Sicilian, or that he was a Rus, or that he was a Swede named Gustav av Munsö. They said Dirk bought him, or killed him, or that he had died a few years before actually. They said he had been a valiant knight, a fat coward, or a shriveled old man with a limp and a cough who had nonetheless tried to oppose the former bishop of Northampton. They said that he accused him to have been behind the ambush in which, they said, three thousand Irish had killed Geoffroy and his three hundred finest. They said Dirk laughed at him, or that he met the accusation with rage. They said he berated him for failing to protect his king and dismissed him.

They said Jordan had arrived just in time at Deheubarth to be taken prisoner and thrown into a dungeon with his wife and his niece.

They said that very night Castore broke into their cell with a handful of loyal veterans and helped them escape. They said he did it for gold, or out of fear that Dirk would kill him, or for love of Geoffroy's daughter or out of the loyalty he still had toward him. They said they fled through a secret passageway, or on a boat, or by the main gate, disguised as troubadours. They said Castore had stayed behind and urged them toward Northampton, where people already knew Dirk for the man he was.

They said that Dirk had him killed for that, or before that. They said he managed to escape. They said nobody dared join Jordan and that he fled in Spain, or in Mauretania, or hid in the westernmost hills of Ireland, or sailed for years without ever going ashore, harrying his brother's ships. They said Dirk had died childless or finally recognized his half-brother for the rightful heir.

Regardless, they said Jordan was king in Ireland now.


They said he had Castore exhumed and buried in the royal crypt, along Geoffroy. They said he had not cared.

They said his armies were a ragged mob of Irish and heathens, with scarcely one Norman out of twenty men, and him old and worn out. They said he was fighting a losing fight against muslims in Spain, and would soon be absolutely landless. They said his so-called Norman spoke a weirder and weirder tongue, with words borrowed from heathen languages, and manned ships with the traditional Norman hulls but small, triangular arab sails that allowed to go against the wind. They said they had sailed to the edges of the world and brought back incredible stories of eternal winters and grey mermaids.

Regardless, Aldred knew for sure he was the king of England now. Not a Norman anymore, for sure, no more that a butterfly is a worm anymore. And that he meant to stay, unchallenged king of the English, in whose reign may the earth ever rejoice.

[Enewald]

People say a lot of things. Some of the rumours are true, some not.

[Kuipy]

Harki !

Kuipy (King in Ireland)

(soundtrack suggestion)[1]

They say in Normandy every story begins with a meal. A fat, copious meal with meat and cream, juicy fruits and sweet pastries, quite unlike the vile stew of the camp. Sometimes Ali dreamt of it, a bountiful land of meadows and orchards, where springs ran clear and birds chirped in the lush hedges. He dreamt of it whenever a gust of wind brought them the scent of the king's meal, as they crouched to eat their bowls of oats and soup.

On the other side of the fire that old braggart of Anwar was telling them once again of his past exploits.
“ Five hundred, there were, and us only twenty riders. But the wind blew toward us and they were showering the battlefield below with arrows, so we caught them by surprise and it was a real massacre. We were like wolves among the sheeps. They were lucky if a dozen of them escaped us. But when we had ran the last of them down and looked down the ridge – down the ridge was a different battle altogether. The knights fought bravely, I’ll give them that; but even after we had killed the bowmen they were outnumbered and surrounded. A few clustered together and to make a stand, and eventually fell to overwhelming numbers. Others tried to cut their way out of the fray, but their horses were tired by the pursuit and nary a few made it. But most fell before they realized the ambush.”
“ And you ?” Hussein asked
“ Us twenty, fifteen now, what did you want us to do ? And beside there was no way down the ridge except the one we had come. So we looked as the Normans fell one by one. There was no sight of the king or his marshall Castore. Later the foot found the former killed and the latter dying by a small oued. By that time the Irish had fled.”

“ But you did not pursue them ?”
“ Who would have ordered it ? The king and his guards, his retinue, his marshall, they were all dead or dying. Most of the knights as well. What few of them remained were hard-pressed to make the army retreat in good order. That was the day the Normans died. They had lost Normandy itself two generations before ; they’d remained Norman at first, pretended they would come back. Errand knights flocked to their cause, burghers fled burning Caen to Wales, and their soldiers stayed true to the lords they know. They would come back, they said. But they never did. Burghers married and blended in Welsh families, knights deserted a cause that looked lost. Soldiers aged and waned. Even the nobility started to forget its roots. And then there was this battle in Irelandm, the day Normans die.”
“ So there is none of them around except for the king ?”




[1] I am very attached to that piece because it gave me a lot of lulz in middle school when a teacher explained me ponderously, and in great detail, why and how it clearly depicts a morning in the Norwegian forest. Teachers...

[Enewald]

So, the King is the Last Norman?
So untrue, there were normans all around europe at those times.

[Kuipy]

“ Not many at any rate, and even fewer in the troops. To replace their loss they had to make every knight a baron, every veteran a knight, every green boy a corporal, and yet fill each rank with more Irish and Dutch relatives. The king a few other may entertain the notion that some day they will be back. But if you ask me they are no longer Norman, and they never will.”
“ So we are almost like Norman myself”
Everybody laughed at him, as usual. Such an idiot. Their Arab commanders may now be calling themselves Henry Yaseen and Nigel al-Jabir, but the Norman would never take a Moor for their equal. In their eyes they were cheap and obedient warriors, nothing more. Harkis, a broken arab word which meant part warrior and part servant.

“ It is my watch turn”, Ali said and he rose to his feet, picked up his spear then left with a nod. As he walked through the camp the desert win blew sand around him. The spear was cumbersome and heavy, as it had been made for a man taller than him, and for singular combat trusted more the long curved knife at his belt. But the latter, they said, was no weapon to lay guard with.

At the gate of the king’s tent he found the two men he would relieve. His uncle Farouk gave him a toothless smile, and the other guard nodded amiably.
“ Where is the other ?”
“ I don’t know.”
“ Our turn should already be over.”
They waited under the rising moon as the officers came. Henry and Nigel, always the lickspittle, hurried inside despite their considerable advance. Marshall Lazarrino gauged them warily, and the fat Archbishop of Leinster waved them a short blessing, but count Karel of Powys whirled by in this silen clothes without so much as a look at them.
“ You are late” Farouk said when the second guard came, a red-bearded Irish, portly and bald. He just shrugged and took his place. The two Arabs lingered for a while, then took their leave. Last of their officer came Geoffroy’s own son a lame and brutish knight with a sinister reputation.

[Kuipy]

Inside the tent a tired voice rang.
“ Hugh. Where were you, if I may ask ? ”
“ Sparring. Not all of us expect to win the war by sitting at a table.”
“ Regardless” the king sighed. “ The council can begin.”
The Irishman seemed totally oblivious but Ali could not help listening as they unrolled some maps on the table inside. The first to talk was Lazarrino, a skilled and cautious man, if somewhat lackluster.
“ Ifna has fallen, your Grace.”
“ Our last stronghold in Africa.” That was not a question
“ And yet we have been sitting here for months and doing nothing !”
“ Your father must have a plan, sir Hugh” Yaseen answered unctuously. “ As for this position, you can find no better one in the whole Rif. The wells are deep and we command all the roads coming here. That was a good place to gather our forces.”
“ And now our forces are gathered.” al-Jabir completed.
“ Or what is left of them… With our recent defeats and the Spanish garrisons put to the sword, our forces could not wage battle against the king of Zirid, let alone lay siege to Marrakech or Tangiers.” The king reluctantly thought “ They are just not enough… and not good enough.”
“ We may call more levies from Wales.” Karel suggested flatly.
“ Haven’t we mustered all we could afford ?”
“ We have mustered thrice what we could afford. And how would we sail them here ? Persian privateers harass our coasts. Not to mention the threat of…”
An uneasy silence fell in the tent.
“Wilmot ? ” The king asked.
“ I sent my best emissaries, my lord. But your sister just would not relent. And she does own most of Irish forces. A force twice yours, if truth be told.”
“ Aye. And what does she want of me ? Half of Ireland is hers, and I offered to forgive her betrayal if only she would acknowledge me for her rightful king again. How does she want me to tell her that.”
“ Maybe you should start telling her that with a blade, father. Stop stalling and strike.”
“ Can’t we take just a small place, maybe a village, Your Grace.” al-Jabir appeasing offered. “We would fortify it and wait for Asirem....” Lazarrino dismissed the notion.
“ Time favors the Sultan, and he knows it. He will never attack us an unfavorable ground”
“ So there we stand,” the king told them with a resigned voice. My army dwindles, surrounded by superior forces. My kingdom is all but fallen and there is no succor to hope. Yes. It has come to this.”

[Kuipy]

“ Your Grace ? ” al-Jabir asked reverently “ ‘This’ ?”
“ We have to abandon Africa.”
The rumble of consternation was so low that Ali understood most of them were expecting it.
“ I believe Sultan Asirem will grant our troops free passage if that rids him of us. And when we come back in force my sweet sister will have no choice but to get back into the fold. Then we can gather all our forces in a counter-attack on the Spanish Moors and salvage as much as we can of our domains there.”
“ What of the Persians ? ” Lazarrino asked.
“ They will want some gold for their victory, and I suppose it can not be helped to cede them some land as well. I was thinking of Chestershire. The town is rich, the harbor is good. They are unlikely to notice that it is a poisoned gift.”
“ Poisoned ?” Karel sounded suspicious. “ How is it poisoned.”
“ Because it stands at the border between us and England. They are not likely to trouble us with Aldred on their back. And as much as he hates me Aldred is not likely to attack Wales leaving a hive of Muslim raiders behind him. Between them and the Breteuil, for which I have other plans, the border will be narrowed enough that we can secure it if needed be.”
“That is a… hard decision, my king” Lazarrino approved.
“ True. But there is no other choice.”
Most murmurs sounded convinced now, even hopeful when contrasted to the bleakness of the situation, but they Hugh’s harsh voice rasped again.
“ You must be joking, father. You will cede Geoffroy’s conquest to Asirem ? ”
“ Shut up. You know nothing about war.”
“ I know that war is fought, and not talked.” Hugh barked back. “I know it is fought with courage, strength and faith.”
“ Thank you for your insight, son. You may take your leave.”
“ What if I stay ?”
“ I was talking to my retinue, not to you. You stay. The others, out. Now.”
Quickly the officers hurried out of the tent.
“ We of Normandie have little luck with sons. Geoffroy had none, Dirk had none… And they were the lucky ones, I come to think.”
“ Because they did not have a craven as a father. As man who pretends to be a crusader king yet refuses to pay the price.”
“ Well, maybe you might pay it for me. I arranged a match for you. A Breteuil, nothing less. Old Henry was creepy but his son proved more acomodable, especially since I rid him of an ugly younger daughter. They say she is half-mad as well.”
“ If you think that I will…”
“ You shall. Or you can stay here and fight Asirem by yourself. There is also some land in it for you. And a few soldier to play the crusader. I have no son but you, if truth be told. I wish you hate ruling as much as I do. Now go.”
The knight muttered a curse and dashed out, shouldering Ali away.

[Kuipy]

After a while Jordan went out also and contemplated the Moroccan mountains, purple and cloudy in the dusk. He stoke his graying beard and came back to the tent.

" Are you abandoning us, your Grace ?" Ali dared to ask.
His Grace dared not look him in the eye.
" We will be back."
" But... What will happen us harkis ? We followed you, we joined your faith. The others will not forget that. What will happen to us when you are gone ?"
" You look fit enough." Jordan answered evasively "Enlist in Yaseen's compagnie."
When he turned away he saw the hint of a stoop bending his large shoulders.
" What of my wife ?" he asked "What of my brothers ?"
The king did not answer. Ali saw him enter the tent, the woolen panel close behind him, and that was all.



Hum. I had a bad case of dialog overflow for this one.

Regarding the Norman, there are still pletny of them in Europe, of course. But not nearly enough in my land, and the kingdom as a whole is starting to de-normanize.