900 yeAARs of AARs.

[Enewald]

Oioi, maybe you should just cheat more normans into the game?
If the ruler has a norman culture, than charevent 7059 will create a norman marshal for him. And the family name is based on where the capital lays, and what families come from there.

Poor arabs, questioned their faith, and death comes...

[Kuipy]

I won't have to cheat for more (actually it's kind of a multiplayer game so...)

Love, Normandie, and a silk dress

Kuipy (King of Leon)

They say in Normandy every story begins with a meal. Adelise would have thought this one would begin differently, though. Like, with their new King riding though wheat field in the sunset with a fierce flag in his fist like some knight would have done, their first Norman King for a century. But that was not Hugh’s type, she knew now. First he was lame, they said, so he could not be a real knight and then, well, it was just not his type.

During the whole dinner she had opportunities to cast looks at him, when the cooks sent her up to the hall to carry some dish or jug and she would walk between the tables, avoiding men who tried to grab her. First she’d brought scallops with herbs and buttermilk. Much later that night it had been a whole rabbit stewed in cider with Spanish prunes and turnips. But more often she had carried jugs and jugs of wine and cider and ale between her battered hands. And always she had had a look at the count’s guest, King Hugh.

“ Avoid him, his father had told her. They say he killed his first wife with his bare hands.”
She did not care, though. She knew about men’s hands. But that man was frightening some, though he never paid her any attention. He had long, unkempt gray hair and a fierce look with him. Also she could have sworn he smelled of horse and blood, while her lord the count of Eu always bathed once a day as the Sicilian offshoot he was. And also he spoke all strange, with a weird, raucous accent, and it did not help that often he did not understand what the count said and had him repeat. It was hard to believe he was a Normandie, or a Norman, either.

Yet latter that night she, sitting on a stool near the chimneyplace, she thought of what her father had told her when she was still a little girl, that they were Normandie, too, but on the wrong side of the blanket, and reneged by their family for some sin of her great-grandfather. It was all funny thinking she could have been a princess. She would wear perfumes and silk dresses, she thought, have a an eagle for hunting and servants for herself. She was pretty enough to be one, as far as she can tell, only her hands were battered and bruised for all the dishes she’d washed. But still she could see the way men looked at her and what they would say and try to do when they were drunk, even though she had not time for love. She knew what she could get from the other servants for a smile or for a kiss, and she knew how to stop before they demanded more and still get what she wanted. She looked at her reflection in a polished tin bowl. She had sweet lips and playful blue eyes and a pretty white skin. She could have looked just like a princess if she had combed her hair and made it into braids and such.

Old Matilda entered the kitchen, a crone of fifty with a bad temper. Her grumbling and heavy steps did not wake Adelise’s father though. He was still snoring on a bench, his toothless mouth wide open.
“ He wants yet another flagon. To hell with that sack of wine.”
“Who ? ” she asked.
“The new king. Who else ?”

An impulse seized Adelise. She snatched the flagon she crone had just taken.
“ I will bring it.”, she said and rushed out.

[Kuipy]

Outside the Norman night was cool and cloudy. In front of the king’s tower she found two guards in mail and furs.
“ So where are you going, beauty ?” one of them asked.
“ I am bringing a flagon of wine for th’king.”
“ King Hugh !”
The other whistled and tried to grab her waist.
“ Maybe we can protect you” he laughed “They say he killed his first wife with his bare hands, you know.”
She wriggled free and ran up the staircase, followed by the men’s vulgar laughter. As approached the door she slowed down.
“… More guards. You cannot trust these people.”
“ Who can I trust anyway ? Not you either. No… I’ll have their love, not their fear. I’m not my father. ”
“ It‘s totally unreasonable.”
“ What of it ? Now leave.”

The door flung open and a gaunt, bearded man strode past her with a wary look. Her heart beat as she stepped forward. He wanted love and her bosom heaved. When she entered the room she saw him, a gray man sitting on the bead with his head between in hands, doodling among empty jugs.

“ Not my fault. ‘t is not my fault” he drawled. “ I only wanted her to love me. To give me a son. Never wanted to do her any harm.”
He lifted toward her a haggard face, with sagging cheeks and a scrawny beard. There was something mean and mad in his blue, forlorn eyes.
“ A son… for Normandie.”
His eyes stopped on her breasts, the way men’s always did. She could still put the flagon on the table and run, she knew, and at last she realized how scared she was. But there would be no other time, and by now she also knew it was not wine the shaggy king was after, but love and a son.

So she closed the door, and smiled, and when he came close she shut her eyes and thought of nothing but gowns of silk and beds of feathers.

[Enewald]

Aha, aha, a princess for one night!

[Kuipy]

By the Sword and by the Cross

Kuipy (King in Ireland)

(soundtrack suggestion)

They say in Normandy every story begins with a meal ; here in Ljodhus it would end with one. The fare was a broth of barley and pork chops cooked over a campfire, and it was their last. For the Normans were coming, and tomorrow they would be dead.

Godred had spotted their longships this morning, following the bleak shore of Skidh with large red crosses sewn on their sails. So when a shepherd came to tell him old Grímur came to Stjornavagr to try and rouse them to fight. The townsfolk were anxious and agitated, but in their fright there was nothing good. He saw children he had taught in the ways of the gods speak of fleeing to the hills or swaying the Christians with tribute and promises. He saw the sons of couples he had married over a steaming bowl of sow’s blood hastily draw a cross over their lintel. Few even thought of praying, and those who did begged the gods to have the Normans attack elsewhere.

So the aged godhi knew it was the end ; he gathered the brave few who wanted to die and led them to old grove, to die in front of the gods. They had brought a fat hog with them and a black goat which they had bled over the hogr. Then they had eaten grimly, already clad in their cracked byrnies, their chirped axes and old swords close at hand, while the night slowly fell.

“ They are here !”
A rustle of branches announced Godred when as he jumped from the poplar on sure feet. “ They are coming from the village. I saw torches and the glitter of mail, but no horse.”
“ They were long enough.” Grímur said. “Any man who wants to die a coward can still rush to them and beg for mercy. The gods are looking at you”

The men solemnly gathered and embraced each other without a word. Theirs was not the stuff of heroes, but was there any hero left ? At least they would stay true and die. They unsheathed the swords and notched the arrows, arranging themselves in two lines at the entrance of the grove and preparing for the upcoming battle.

There was none.

A few cried in surprise when they saw women in dresses walking toward them, and the others cried in dismay as they recognized their wives and their daughters. That the Norman would sack the town and slaughter their kin, they had expected. But that they would use them as shields, that their last fight would mean to strike first at their loved ones, that was too much to bear for them. One by one Grímur saw them lower their bows. He should have ordered them to shoot anyway, he thought. They would have done it, he hoped.

“ Back, heathens.” a voice commanded. A score of brawny soldiers pushed them apart, each holding a frightened maid in front of him. In the middle of them a stout, lame man advanced, a black cloak around his large shoulders. That would be the king, Hugh of Normandy himself. Someone ought to strike him. Somebody ought to fire an arrow at him. But nobody moved. Men looked at the ground and women whimpered and children waited attentively.

“ Make way for the king.”

[Kuipy]

As Hugh came nearer Grímur saw a chubby face and a strong jaw, grey tangled hair falling on small pig’s eyes. A look of hatred passed between them. “ Let him kill us now” he thought “before our gods.” Then he saw that the king’s weapon was a heavy, two-handed mace that few men could have lifted, let alone use efficiently in a battle. He walked past him with a disgraceful gait, giving the aged godhi time to observe him. The king wore plate and greaves of steel, but below his fat chin his throat was bare. Grímur clutched the knife at his belt with trembling fingers. He would have to be fast and strong.

Silently he prayed, begging Odin for the courage no other islander showed. It would not matter if he died afterward, not matter if they tortured him or burned this grove or even a thousand other, so long as Hugh fell. When he opened his eyes the king was already limping away and he knew he would have no second chance.

“ Die !”

He lunged forward, past the row of guards, lifted the blade high and fell to his feet. No, that could not be, he thought, struggling, but by then two men were on him, wrestling the weapon from his age-weak hands. The king did not give him so much as a second look.

“ What cravens are christians” he yelled at him when he reached the bottom of the mound “who need to bring hostages to fight the true creed ?”
“ Hostages ?” Hugh shrugged. “We have no need of hostages. It brought witnesses of what will happen here.”

He limped, limped, and struck the shrine with all his strength, falling it like a dead tree. And then he strode down from the slope up which he had limped.

It took them a few heartbeats to understand what they saw ; they had to blink before they realized that his leg was no longer bent nor cooked. Grímur was the first to notice, and fell to his knees shrieking in grief and despair. That could not be true, he had given to much of myself to the old creed for it to be a lie. The two soldiers let go of him.

In the dim, orange light of the torch a he made a tall, threatening figure, and his voice raised ominously over the silent islanders.

“ There will be more sacrifices here, no more witchcraft, no more worship of devils and false gods. For his dalliance in such cults king Domnall has been excommunicated ! and by the will of the Pope Scotland is now mine to rule, by the sword and by the cross.”

Old Grímur weeped and shivered, the Galilean had won. When they dragged him away he made no resistance.



WTH I did not even know this event existed.

[Kuipy]

Europe in 1188

Kuipy (King in Ireland)

Grey areas are random junk. Note the Grand Duchy of Bavaria-Karelia, the unexpected Great Croatia and an AI Byzantium on a reconquest spree.

[Baranov]

Hey you guys its baranov. I see you guys are advancing slowly but surely. I've been playing my own 900 years campaign ( when I have time) with beloved brittany. Well right now I'm at 1310 and I have seen some pretty vicious wars and other ugly things (but that what makes the gems in this game). At one time I own Europe from Iceland to poland (minus spain, and scandinavia). It's amazing how with +3000 prestige pleople pledge to you. Well just wanted to say good luck!

[Enewald]

So, what areas are controlled by normans?

Are they everywhere?

[phargle]

That would be the king, Hugh of Normandy himself.

Were it not for frogbeastegg, I would be laughing like a howler monkey right now.

[Kuipy]

Baranov : Nice to hear it. Here AI Britanny did quite well by itself, it was a kingdom before me.

Enewald : Norman are not 'everywhere' but they are rather dispersed. They control Wales, most of Ireland, most of Leon and Portugal, bits of Normandy itself and bits of Scotland (to be enlarged soon). It is actually as much an advantage as a problem, especially against AI. I have to deal with the problems of ruling a fragmented kingdom, but at the same time completely wrecking my powerbase would be a major undertaking. In my last war against Toledom they captured all of Iberia and beat my army three times ; well it just came a fourth.

phargle : not sure I am following you...

[Kuipy]

The old soldier

Kuipy (King of Leon)

They say in Normandy every story begins with a meal. In his chair too low for him King Lovell was eating dutifully, but never spoke and scarcely looked at people. Never had Jean ever seen so sad a little boy. Not even the apple pastries laced with honey and crushed cloves got a smile from him, but instead he picked at them warily, as if afraid that someone would take it warily. Somehow he reminded him of his sister’s sons. Poor boys, he thought once again, they were likely dead by now. At the table Hauteville was boasting about his newly found loyalty to the king, whose father, two years ago, had lost his life trying to storm the fortress of Caen.

“ Now that all the dukes have sworn allegiance to you” he proposed “well, almost all, I think it is time to strike at what is left of the saxon rebels. We outnumber them greatly and it would place us in a good position to threaten Scotland.”

Like his fellow soldiers Jean had loved Hugues, the brave, knightly king who always led from the first line, and to see the Duke of Normandy seated here was making him angry enough that his bad arm was hurting again. But the regent was Hugues’ uncle, and he took his advice courteously enough.
“ You have the truth of it, sir Geoffrey. The king is assuredly fortunate to have you for a vassal.”

As he was mentioned the boy grew tense, but contained it well enough that only an old soldier like Jean could notice it.
“ Do you think so, your Grace ?” the shameless duke asked.
“ Yes” Lovell answered timidly, his great-uncle’s eyes pinned on him. With his pale blue eyes and long locks of blond hair, he reminded him of Gervas, the youngest of his daughter’s sons, the ones he had hoped to feed when he had stolen that one loaf of bread. They had nobody but him to rely him, he bitterly remembered, and once he had left they must have died like so many, during the harshest winter in living memory. Once he had hoped to go back to his village some day, when he had enough money, to find out what had become of them ; but the day had never come, nor the money either.

“ What about the traitor, sir Regent ?” Hauteville asked loudly, a traitor himself in Jean’s eyes. After Hugues’ death he had bent the knee and been confirmed in all his titles and lands. Why did lost so much for his treachery when poor men could lose so much for a loaf of bread ?
“ He will be dealt with in a timely fashion”
“ Dealt with ?”
“ You know how, I guess.” Maerjtin’s rasping voice always reminded him of the day he had fallen, the pain in broken arm, so strong, so hard that he scarcely understood the voices around him. Hugues, he remembered, had had no love lost for his uncle ; Jean himself did not like him much, although the brown-haired, sinewy man had given him that post in the royal guards, the only one he could really take with an right arm that would bend no more. Easy enough, for sure : all he had to do was standing all day in a nice livery with a sword at his belt while others were doing the real guarding, and pretending not to notice what looks went between the king and his great-uncle. Poor boy, he thought once more, so like Gervas.

Then he noted that the king was about to speak. His lips trembled hesitantly, then he let out in a feeble voice.
“ I do not want my brother to die.”
“ Your Grace ?” Hauteville inquired.
“ I am the King. I forbid you… I forbid you to kill him…”
The last words trailed miserably. By that time Maertjin was giving that look and the boy grew quiet and the court silent. It was none of his concern, Jean tired to remember.
“ Well, certainly, your Grace,” he answered with that cold, courteous smile of his. “ I trust you are finish with your meal ?”
“ Yes.”
“ We will see you to your chambers, then.”

[Kuipy]

Maertjin took his nephew by the elbow and waved away two guards who were to escort them. It was weird how fast the conversations took on ; nobody seemed to look at the two vacant seats. Nobody was looking at Jean either. One last time, he thought it was none of his concern, then slipped away unnoticed.

The prince’s chamber, he knew, would be in the Dungeon, a squat, dismal tower with narrow windows which the Black Bastard had built on top of what was then a rocky cape jutting over the welsh sea, and the shortest way there was through the Moor’s gallery. As he climbed down the stairs of the Grand Bailey he wondered what he was going to do. He had never been smart, only strong, the pride of his regiment. To them all Hugues has been one true knight and one true king, a hero and a brother. After the miracle happened to his leg in the Isles he truly seemed invicible and they had followed everywhere, when all others betrayed him. He could not believe, as townsfolk whispered, that he really had killed his first wife because she would not give him a son, for Hugues was the chivalry made man; his voice, his model, the sight of him charging on his red-clad palfrey, was all that really soothed the guilt that gnawed at Jean; the feeling that it was his fault he had to abandon his sister’s kids, because he had stolen a loaf of bread for them.

Just as came to the gallery he could hear voices and stopped. One of the voices was more of a weeping murmur. The other was the regent’s harsh and cold voice, the one who, unexplainably, always reminded him of that evening when he had laid on the ground below Caen, his head bleeding, his arm crushed under the king’s armor.
“… your half-brother. His highborn slut of a mother can talk all she wants of yours being just a serving wench, I will not tolerate this talk of him being the real heir. Do you understand ?”
There was an acquiescing sob.
“ Good. Because the contrary would disappoint me, and you do know what happens when…”
Then he could hear no more, and walk in, careful to make a loud noise with his boots. At his approach Maertjin stopped and stepped back from the little, prostrated king, over whom he had bent.
“ And where are you going, guard ?”
That let jean voiceless, he had not thought of that before. That was stupid, he realized, but all he had wanted was the bad voice to end.
“ Where are you going ?” the regent asked irritatedly.
“ I go to the Dutch Tower. For watching. Taking my watch.” Jean eventually managed.
“ Well, go on. You do not want to be late.”
Jean hurried away, but as looked carefully over his shoulder he could see that the regent was no longer holding the king, but rather leading him to the Dungeon.

The Dutch Tower was a fat, grey building of limestone, large enough to form a petty lord’s holdfast. It looked quite almost like the one up which they had climbed, down which they had fallen. The king and him, that was. King Hugues. At the siege of Caen. He was just below him and the king had already set foot on the ramparts with a ferocious cry when suddenly he felt the latter topple under them, although he had looked at the braces and they were deep in the soil. All he could think of what that it could not be, and then it was. As he lost balance he briefly saw the king over him struggle and fall also, while a sword darted at him. Then he touched the ground and the word went red, while a strange voice spoke cold words he did not understand. When they found them he had lost consciousness and the king was dead, without suffering, they said, for the blade had slashed his throat clean.

When he came at the top of the staircase he wondered what he would say to the real sentry, and was relieved to see that there was none. Then he remembered that this was because there never were sentries in the Dutch Tower.

[Kuipy]

The tower was essential to the castle in time of siege, because it commanded both the inner rampart and the jetty in the cove. But in normal times there was no need to man it. The higher, ivy-grown Green Tower blocked its view of the land; and any ship entering the cove would have been spotted much sooner from the top of the Queen's Tower. There was never any guard on duty in the Dutch Tower. Did the regent know that ?

He remained fretful for a moment and then took a decision who might meant his life, but also the boy's, so it was worth it. He walked briskly along the battlements on top of the inner rampart, from which he could have seen the eight main towers of the Dyfed Keep, its black and white walls and its slated shops, erected by its successive occupants, norman kings, saxon knights, moor corsairs and saracen raiders. The guard on the other side of the wall did not seem to think strange that he would come this way to the armory. Maybe he guessed Jean had come from the Queen's tower, and chose to take the long way through the battlement rather than trampling through the mud of the courtyard.

Once inside he went through the second staircase, the one few people knew, and at its bottom lit a torch and ventured through the old cellars, looking for a tunel few people knew but the oldest guards in the place. A new flight of dank, old stairs were descending and taking a turn to the south, then to the west, following the rampart above them.

Walking in the dark he pondered his intentions. Was it really for the best ? How could he be sure ? He remembered all he had seen for these last two years. Yes the regent was a bad man and king a sad boy, but what would he do once they were away. He did not know anybody and could only speak some garbled norman from the Irish settlements. His only chance, he reckoned, would be to flee abroad, but where ? Could he really mean it ? Then he saw the red mark that still stained the wall where marshall Castore had fought away Dirk's mercenaries to buy his king the flee, and he was sure he meant it.

When his boots rang on a metal grid, he smiled. That was here. He removed the bolts who held the grid shut and pull it, while is torch was smoking and waning on the ground. Careful now, he thought. He scrambled in the dark for the holds craved in the stone and difficultly climbed down a few yards until sea water licked his feet. Through a narrow slit in the rock a weak, grey light seeped, and an old rowboat still rocked in the middle of the cave. At high tide, he knew, the water would be knee-high and it would be possible to exit row out of the cave without being seen by the Small or the Hill Tower, under the cover of the knight. If he could find somebody to take the oars, that was.

With only one good hand it took him even longer to climb back up, and night was already falling by the time had hurried back to the second floor of the Old Tower, so he hasted along the top of the sea-facing ramparts toward the Small Tower, where he few other veterans had their bunks. Who of them could he trust, he wondered, and how would he convinced them. Under the battlements the sea was battering the bottom of the walls, and he worried thatit might be wiser to wait for the morrow.

Then he saw one of these few Moorish soldiers Maertjin had in his service, standing immobile against a merlon. The Arab was black-bearded and broad-shouldered, almost as tall as Jean had stood in his youth. Maybe he would make a good rower. As the old soldier get closer he made no move to give him way, staring at him with expressionless eyes.

“ Excuse me.” Jean said, then he heard the gentle tap of good boots over the limestone battlement. Behind him was the regent, clad in a dark cloak who covered part of his face. He looked the guard up and down, as if surprised by what he saw, then nodded and before Jean could react it was to late, two big, robust hands had grabbed him by the shoulders. Even if he had not been too shocked to cry the wind would have drown his voice.

“ Do it.” the small, wiry man ordered, all courtesy gone from his hard voice.

The voice ! That was the voice he had heard below the battlements of Caen, when poor king Hugues was lying on top of him. As he fell once again, he remembered.

“ Your sons are next.” the voice had said.

[Enewald]

Oih, evil assasins!
What shall happen to the poor king and his kin!

[phargle]

I just wanted to duck my head in and say I'm reading. That creeping around ended poorly for the little guy. Kidnapping or assassination?

[Kuipy]

Well, yes, Maertjin is _evil_. But I think he might somehow get his comeuppance.

Some reference

Kuipy (bored at work)

Some genealogy



Uh drawing imaginary castles reminds me of my DnD days with the good ol' boys. Good times. And yes I know I draw like a pig.

[Kuipy]

Since they was no game last week I go a little backward with a more scholarly depiction of Hugues' end.

Neither defeat nor victory

Kuipy (King of Leon)

It is the general consensus that the short Breton War was the proximate cause of the War of Defiance. The aims pursued by Hugues I in attacking so rashly the Kingdom of Britanny in 1192 were to pander the age-old resentment of his dynasty toward the Pentheur, for their perceived betrayal of Robert I Curthose ; to turn its small Norman holding into a real geographic and demographic Norman powerbase, by opening the scarcely populated Breton March to an influx of Norman settlers ; to obtain enough plunder and territorial gain to buy back his vassals’ quivering loyalty, as well as enough prestige to assert his authority as king over their contestation ; to obtain ports on the Atlantic, bringing his Leon Estates much closer to the Norman heartland ; to prevent Brittany from falling in Burgundian hands ; and, maybe more characteristically of his brooding and superstitious personality, to break the spell of defeats and indecisive victory which had plagued the Normans since they had abandoned their Mauretanian possessions, some twenty years before.

His goals were modest and the odds seemingly in his favor. But Hugues’ characteristic rashness led him to several mistakes. First, he took for granted that the Burgundian would take advantage of the situation to turn against the Breton Kings and seize their Occitan possessions, which eventually proved wrong ; secondly, he underestimated the enemy strength and, confident in the strength of his own number, launched multiple, haphazard attacks without waiting for all his troops to arrive ; thirdly, he failed to garner as much support for his vassals as he had hoped, and was left to fight the war essentially on his own troops and at his own expenses.




The Breton, after a few insignificant defeats and despite their numerical inferiority, were quick enough to take advantage of these blunders and to triumph over dispersed and poorly-commanded armies, totally annihilating the Spanish army at the Battle of Cholet (1193) and laying siege to Evreux (1194). The same year Hugues was forced to beg for peace, renouncing all claims on Bretagne and pay heavy ransom the knights that had been captured in his service. This major loss of face (for which, in truth, they were in no small part responsible as well) was too much for his dukes to accept, and in 1195, they rebelled against his rule in what came to be known as the War of Norman Defiance.

[Kuipy]

The War was not, as was sometimes suggested, a total Civil War ; most of Hugues’ vassals, whatever their feelings for their boorish and brutal monarch, acknowledged the necessity to remain, if loosely, in his sphere of influence, and were content to simply deny him taxes and military service, either outwardly or on flimsy excuses. Only in the Saxon Wales and in Normandy itself went the local lords in open rebellion, but the fighting there was ferocious. Unable to assert his authority, confronted with cabals and enemy within his own kingdom and considerably weakened by the war he had recently lost, Hugues the Crusader was totally unable to achieve any of his most grandiose dreams, from expansion Andalusia to subjugation of Scotland to reconquest of the Mauretanian marches abandoned by his father Jordan I.

The conflict continued, bleak and protracted until both the king’s victory and his defeat seemed. And indeed, as is sometimes the case, neither happened. During the summer of 1195, as he was besieging the citadel of Evreux, Hugues succumbed to what Jan Karcher (Hugues : Eris & Syphilis) reports as a accidental fall from a siege ladder.

His eldest son, Lovell, was only five at the time. In the weeks that followed his paternal uncle, a theretofore unremarkable man going by the name of Martin or Maertjin, imposed himself as regent and took over the affair of the kingdom. Information on this character is scarce, but he seems to have been a more agreeable overlord than his nephew to the duke, since most of them rapidly and willingly acknowledged his rule, although undefeated. Hence that war ended without clear winners or losers (with the possible exception of those who died during its course, notably Hugues the Crusader).

Lovell’s reign however, also widely acknowledged both in the kingdom and abroad, was not unchallenged. The new king, as his ancestor William the Conqueror, was actually born of a morganatic union, that of Hugues and Adelise, a servant in Eu, and his stepmother was able to rally several Leonese barons to the cause of her own son, an infant by the name of Henry. Why Maertjin did not take immediate steps to crush what effectively ammounted to the coronation of a second king in his kingdom remains a matter of much controversy…

[Enewald]

1195 or 1095?

Why is Normadie not norman?