And we are back!
Homelands
Chapter Fifteen: A Glorious Return
Part 4
Prelude:
After two years of bitter fighting and conquest the Norman leaders of England fled back to Normandy. There they found their ancestral homeland burnt and pillaged by raiding Berber and Castilian ships. In fact a large portion of their territory had been conquered and was now ruled from Iberia. William II de Normandie no longer had the manpower or the will power to continue a fight, so signed a treaty with the Caliph. The family scattered into the world, very few remaining with the broken ex-King, now Duke. He was forced to once again pledge fealty to the King of France, who was is in dire need of commanders for the continuing failures of the Infinite War. The entirety of the Western Coast of France was now under Muslim occupation. Back in London the Leofricsons began their rule of England by dividing the island up amongst local allies and nobles from home that they wished to never see again. One of these was a loud, stupid and heretical Russian by the name of Pukuveras Bryachislavich. He had been exiled from Prussia for denouncing the trinity amongst other things, though as lore has it, the real reason was for kissing the un-wed daughter of King Gunvald.
May 2nd, 1170
Sviendorog had remained in England as the temporary representative of his father to the Princes and Counts of the Kingdom of England. He took great care to not let anything of his father’s future plans to get out. He figured it was smart of his father to not want to stay in England for long. The time between messages sent and messages received was far too long and honestly the place did not have the same feeling as home.
England in 1170, Normandy is in light blue, within the Kingdom of France (blue).
“Home,” Sviendorog said aloud. The people in the room with him were used to his random blurting. He sat, slouched over on the throne that, a few years earlier, was occupied by William II of England. He thought about his wife and sons, Valikaila and Meinekinus. Valikaila, King of the Prussians. He was careful to keep his thoughts to himself. It had been some time since he had been in Prussia. Aethelwulf had been allowed to return to the homelands. He was growing old, and sick. Gunvald knew his brother’s time in the mortal coil was short. Aethelwulf was of a dying breed. Literally. Saxon blood was thinning out. When Saxons from Prussia stood next to Saxons from England, they looked very different; but a Saxon from Prussia standing next to a Prussian is almost completely indistinguishable from the other. Petty name-calling, really.
“Your majesty, a visitor to see you.”
Sviendorog looked up from his day dreaming and saw an Iberian prince before him. “Prince Muhammad Jimenez, son of the Emir of Aquitaine,” the guard said. The Prussian motioned for the guard to leave them alone.
“You know, Prince Sviendorog, we are not unalike one another. In Iberia we are called Istimari, and we are like your Prussians. Not quite Arab, not quite Berber, not quite Spanish.” The Prussian watched the Muslim Prince carefully, trying to figure him out.
The Duchy of Aquitaine within the Caliph of Iberia
“You are here because your father fears that our claims might over lap.”
“Your power of intuition is known-world-wide. Yes. My father and his liege fear Prussian claims might overlap with our plans for the near future.”
“The Infinite War has become a messy ordeal. But my father has already given his word that the Prussians will remain out of the war. But we cannot hold that promise for England.”
“Why not?”
“We do not plan on keeping England long, we have gotten our revenge, and soon we will leave.”
Muhammad looked at Sviendorog, “Your people are rather strange. You conquer for no reason than to burn and pillage?”
“This is a rare occurrence. My people came from here. We were chased out by usurpers, and we have freed our people. And what about you? I am pretty sure that Aquitaine was never part of Arabia.”
“True, I was not born in Äkyätanyäa, I was born in the city of Leon. My ancestors were over thrown by the Berbers, and converted to Islam to remain in power. They were labeled traitors, so we left Leon to find glory in the north. As I said, we are not unalike.”
Sviendorog saw that the conversation was going nowhere, he mentally probed the Istimari man, but when he could not pin down his purpose for trying to light an argument he stood up, “Duties call, Prince Jimenez. I can guarantee Prussia will not interfere with the Caliph’s expansion, as agreed by my father.”
He began to walk away, signaling the end of the conversation, but the Prince shouted out, “Please! We wish for you to help with the invasion of France!”
Sviendorog stopped and turned around; he looked at the Prince sternly. “I cannot help you there. Only my father can decide something so extreme.”
“I am asking you, Sviendorog! King of England!”
“No, I am not King of England, nor will I ever be.” This time he left the Prince standing there and headed back into his private chambers. There Pukuveras Bryachislavich, Prince of Essex, sat seated looking at the map of his realm.
“You understand why we must do this, correct?” Sviendorog asked.
“Yes, it makes sense. Prussia is awfully far away. But why me?” the Russian asked.
“My father works in strange ways. Maybe he intends the stress from ruling a Kingdom to be a form of punishment,” the Prussian Prince sneered.
“So I will be crowned King of England?”
“Yes, and your heirs will follow suit.”
Pukuveras scratched his head, all his life he had been a drinker and a bigot. “Sviendorog, I know that your father wishes to use me to punish England. He thinks I shall destroy the country. He is probably right…” He paused and turned to face Sviendorog directly, in his eyes burned a passion that the Prussian Prince had never seen before. “I wish to make something of myself. I want to make it up to God, but especially to your father. Those two seemingly conflict, but I shall figure it out somehow.”
