Yes! And all for the "Vacation to the Levant" fund.
Thank you. I am glad that they are entertaining, as this part of the story is sort of dry.
Is there ever a good reason?Invading because one can. The old bad reason.
I, Rodrigo: The Annals of the Orient
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Chapter One:
All Boars Shall Fall
Barcelona, Aragon
August 26th, 1067
The invitation to the ducal hunt had been slow reaching their destination and even slower returning back to the capital. Short on funds, the Duke was only able to hire some fool off of the street to run his message – and he sorely expected him to take the money and run. However, three and a half months later, a reply was received. The runner told a grand story of a daring adventure about dodging highwaymen and heathen alike. The Duke hadn’t believed a word of it, but true to his word, paid the runner the promised second half once the job was completed. The Counts had been expected around the end of August, plenty of time to make all the necessary preparations for the festivities ahead. Using what money he could spare, the castle was decorated to the best of the treasuries ability – which he knew would be substantially better than whatever either Count would be able to do for him if the situation were reserved.
Pangs of pain began to nag Duke Ramon at the back of his head as he entered the third hour of leaning over paperwork. Feeling cross-eyed, he leaned back in his chair, and the chair rebuked with a slight creak and crack from the stress. A few of the sheets had been reports on the accumulation of weapons that his steward was ordered to process, but the majority of it were very unofficial-looking loan contracts stipulating what the Duchy borrowed over what they owed. Rubbing his eyes as if the numbers would magically decrease, he sighed a most heavy sigh. He knew victory would come once the city gates open to send forth the army, but it depended on the nature of the victory to make any of these debts repayable. Albarracin would have to be ransacked to repay his backers, but if too much of the city was destroyed – too much value would be lost. Ramon was not a gambling man.
“Highness?” Chancellor de Baslu intruded into the Duke’s study, “Count de Empuries and Count de Rosello have arrived. They are awaiting you in the throne room when you are ready to receive them.”
“Of course, of course,” the Duke waived de Baslu off, taking in the last few sentences before focusing entirely on his chancellor, “tell them I will be down in a few minutes.”
“Your Highness,” de Baslu bowed his head. Turning on his heel, he made way downstairs to carry out his orders.
Organizing his papers on a single corner of his worn table, the Duke quickly stood up. Patting himself down to flatten out his poor excuse for ducal attire, he ran his fingers through his hair and his beard before taking to the stairs. Leading directly into the throne room, his neutral demeanor immediately turned south as he spotted several figures – a boy, a young woman, and who he knew as Count Ponç de Empuries – speaking to none other than his wife, Almodis de La Marche. In the presence of guests, a black veil was draped over her face, concealing her visage by a layer of cloth provided to her by her parents back in France. It wasn’t what she was wearing that set off the Duke’s vibrant fire of a temper, but simply because she was here.
“Are you mourning the late Pope Alexander?” the young boy asked, his ear-splitting voice making Ramon’s headache no less bearable than before.
“Oh!” Almodis replied, her voice slightly slurred, followed by a twitch coursing through her body that last several seconds, “I had no idea that His Holi-“
“That will be enough,” the Duke interjected, his arms crossed, the fires of hatred burning in his eye sockets.
“But… I…”
“Please,” the Duke shook his head in utter disgust, “don’t make this any harder than it ha-.” Ramon didn’t even have a chance to finish as Almodis quickly rushed passed him, storming out of the room, the sounds of sobs and moans echoing around the castle until she was out of listening range. The guests, stunned, both looked to the Duke in wonder and inquiry. Ignoring their prying looks, he walked over to Ponç and embraced an old friend.
“Ponç, it has been some time! I am glad to see you are well,” the Duke noted, looking to the side as what he assumed were his children. Upon his gaze meeting there, they both slightly bowed their heads in respect to Ramon’s title, “though I only seem to remember you having an older son and a daughter, and I don’t think it has been that long…”
“I am Count Ermengol of Rosello, Your Highness,” the young man corrected the Duke, his voice ridden with contempt as he gritted his teeth at the perceived insult.
“Oh! I am terribly sorry!” the Duke waved his arms about, “will you be joining us in the hunt?” the Duke asked in a curious, almost childlike tone as if he were speaking to boy wanting to act like his father. Ermengol’s face twisted in contempt, crossing his arms and distributing his weight to one hip.
“I would not be here otherwise,” Ermengol prodded, but quickly remember his place, “Your Highness.”
“The more the merrier!” Ramon half-smiled, returning his attention to Ponç, “and who might this young woman be?”
“This,” Ponç began, moving his daughter of no older than 17 before him, “is my daughter Ermesenda. She insisted she come to see Barcelona… I hope that is not an issue?”
Ramon found himself awestruck at the beauty of the Count’s daughter. Her brownish hair seem to soak in the yellow rays of the sun, bouncing them off of her taut, smooth skin and radiating around her as if she was from God herself. Ramon swallowed hard as he admired her body, and the young woman seemingly enjoyed the attention, giving him an inviting smile and wink. Snapping back to attention, the Duke inhaled deeply, remembering himself and meeting the near-clueless Ponç de Empuries’ gaze.
“Of course not,” the Duke bit his lip, “she is welcome to stay here. I will just have an extra room prepared.”
“What of your children?” Ponç inquired, crossing his arms and alleviating the tense aura in the room with an old, wrinkled smile, “I had gotten wind that Pedro was to be wed to Urraca Jimenz?”
“They are well,” Ramon lied, “my son Ramon is nearly finished with his education while Berenguer is just starting. My daughter Agnes has recently come of age and we search for a suitable suitor, while my daughter Sancha… well, we haven’t decided what we are doing with her yet,” the Duke shot off a weak chuckle, “she is still very young.” What the duke had forgotten to mention was that three out of the other four children were locked away in the castle and kept away from the public – cursed with a scourge far too embarrassing for the Duke to mention.
“I am glad to hear that the House flourishes,” Ponç coyly responded, not even bothering to answer where any of them were, “so this hunt…”
“Ah, yes!” the Duke clapped his hands, eagerly leaving the previous conversation behind him, “let the boars of Barcelona tremble!”
The gallop of horses emanated through the plains, kicking up dust and dirt as three riders sped across open ground. In between the thunder of hooves could be found the squeal of a wild board in flight, running for its life as its pursuers chased it down for pure sport. Turning violently in different directions, the boar hoped to confuse its assassins as they closed in on their target. Not nearly able to match the stamina and strength of a purebred Arabian horse, its life or death sprint began to give out, slowing down closer and closer to the spear at the ready to strike. In a sharp squeal and groan of pain, the boar was impaled; collapsing on the ground and the riders rode past. Slowing their steeds and turning back, one of the riders dismounted, confirming the fatal wound.
“Got the bastard!” the Duke roared in excited, as if a lion defending its pride. Drawing a dagger, he leaned over the dying animal. Placing the blade to its throat, its life quickly ended as the weapon glided effortlessly over its flesh.
“If you kill heathens like you kill boars,” Ponç slowly dismounted his horse, nearly overtaken by tiredness, propped up only by an army grappling the saddle, “maybe combating the Taifa will be as easy as you say.”
“No fair - you have down this before!” the young Ermengol whined, staying on his horse.
“So, you have considered my offer?” the Duke ignored Ermengol, becoming increasingly tired of the boy’s incessant complaining ever since the hunt began.
“I have, and I believe I shall take it,” Ponç panted, “you are a wise man, Highness. If I was paying homage to any other liege, I would have refused. I will dispatch a runner in the morning to sound a call of arms.”
“Excellent,” the Duke nodded, embracing his new ally, “I will not let you down.”
As the group celebrated the kill, Ramon looked down at the ground and admired the blood pooling the grass beside the fallen boar. Soon, he thought, that will be a foul heathen at my feet. Let the Spains know the might of Barcelona!
All Boars Shall Fall
Barcelona, Aragon
August 26th, 1067
The invitation to the ducal hunt had been slow reaching their destination and even slower returning back to the capital. Short on funds, the Duke was only able to hire some fool off of the street to run his message – and he sorely expected him to take the money and run. However, three and a half months later, a reply was received. The runner told a grand story of a daring adventure about dodging highwaymen and heathen alike. The Duke hadn’t believed a word of it, but true to his word, paid the runner the promised second half once the job was completed. The Counts had been expected around the end of August, plenty of time to make all the necessary preparations for the festivities ahead. Using what money he could spare, the castle was decorated to the best of the treasuries ability – which he knew would be substantially better than whatever either Count would be able to do for him if the situation were reserved.
Pangs of pain began to nag Duke Ramon at the back of his head as he entered the third hour of leaning over paperwork. Feeling cross-eyed, he leaned back in his chair, and the chair rebuked with a slight creak and crack from the stress. A few of the sheets had been reports on the accumulation of weapons that his steward was ordered to process, but the majority of it were very unofficial-looking loan contracts stipulating what the Duchy borrowed over what they owed. Rubbing his eyes as if the numbers would magically decrease, he sighed a most heavy sigh. He knew victory would come once the city gates open to send forth the army, but it depended on the nature of the victory to make any of these debts repayable. Albarracin would have to be ransacked to repay his backers, but if too much of the city was destroyed – too much value would be lost. Ramon was not a gambling man.
“Highness?” Chancellor de Baslu intruded into the Duke’s study, “Count de Empuries and Count de Rosello have arrived. They are awaiting you in the throne room when you are ready to receive them.”
“Of course, of course,” the Duke waived de Baslu off, taking in the last few sentences before focusing entirely on his chancellor, “tell them I will be down in a few minutes.”
“Your Highness,” de Baslu bowed his head. Turning on his heel, he made way downstairs to carry out his orders.
Organizing his papers on a single corner of his worn table, the Duke quickly stood up. Patting himself down to flatten out his poor excuse for ducal attire, he ran his fingers through his hair and his beard before taking to the stairs. Leading directly into the throne room, his neutral demeanor immediately turned south as he spotted several figures – a boy, a young woman, and who he knew as Count Ponç de Empuries – speaking to none other than his wife, Almodis de La Marche. In the presence of guests, a black veil was draped over her face, concealing her visage by a layer of cloth provided to her by her parents back in France. It wasn’t what she was wearing that set off the Duke’s vibrant fire of a temper, but simply because she was here.
“Are you mourning the late Pope Alexander?” the young boy asked, his ear-splitting voice making Ramon’s headache no less bearable than before.
“Oh!” Almodis replied, her voice slightly slurred, followed by a twitch coursing through her body that last several seconds, “I had no idea that His Holi-“
“That will be enough,” the Duke interjected, his arms crossed, the fires of hatred burning in his eye sockets.
“But… I…”
“Please,” the Duke shook his head in utter disgust, “don’t make this any harder than it ha-.” Ramon didn’t even have a chance to finish as Almodis quickly rushed passed him, storming out of the room, the sounds of sobs and moans echoing around the castle until she was out of listening range. The guests, stunned, both looked to the Duke in wonder and inquiry. Ignoring their prying looks, he walked over to Ponç and embraced an old friend.
“Ponç, it has been some time! I am glad to see you are well,” the Duke noted, looking to the side as what he assumed were his children. Upon his gaze meeting there, they both slightly bowed their heads in respect to Ramon’s title, “though I only seem to remember you having an older son and a daughter, and I don’t think it has been that long…”
“I am Count Ermengol of Rosello, Your Highness,” the young man corrected the Duke, his voice ridden with contempt as he gritted his teeth at the perceived insult.
“Oh! I am terribly sorry!” the Duke waved his arms about, “will you be joining us in the hunt?” the Duke asked in a curious, almost childlike tone as if he were speaking to boy wanting to act like his father. Ermengol’s face twisted in contempt, crossing his arms and distributing his weight to one hip.
“I would not be here otherwise,” Ermengol prodded, but quickly remember his place, “Your Highness.”
“The more the merrier!” Ramon half-smiled, returning his attention to Ponç, “and who might this young woman be?”
“This,” Ponç began, moving his daughter of no older than 17 before him, “is my daughter Ermesenda. She insisted she come to see Barcelona… I hope that is not an issue?”
Ramon found himself awestruck at the beauty of the Count’s daughter. Her brownish hair seem to soak in the yellow rays of the sun, bouncing them off of her taut, smooth skin and radiating around her as if she was from God herself. Ramon swallowed hard as he admired her body, and the young woman seemingly enjoyed the attention, giving him an inviting smile and wink. Snapping back to attention, the Duke inhaled deeply, remembering himself and meeting the near-clueless Ponç de Empuries’ gaze.
“Of course not,” the Duke bit his lip, “she is welcome to stay here. I will just have an extra room prepared.”
“What of your children?” Ponç inquired, crossing his arms and alleviating the tense aura in the room with an old, wrinkled smile, “I had gotten wind that Pedro was to be wed to Urraca Jimenz?”
“They are well,” Ramon lied, “my son Ramon is nearly finished with his education while Berenguer is just starting. My daughter Agnes has recently come of age and we search for a suitable suitor, while my daughter Sancha… well, we haven’t decided what we are doing with her yet,” the Duke shot off a weak chuckle, “she is still very young.” What the duke had forgotten to mention was that three out of the other four children were locked away in the castle and kept away from the public – cursed with a scourge far too embarrassing for the Duke to mention.
“I am glad to hear that the House flourishes,” Ponç coyly responded, not even bothering to answer where any of them were, “so this hunt…”
“Ah, yes!” the Duke clapped his hands, eagerly leaving the previous conversation behind him, “let the boars of Barcelona tremble!”
The gallop of horses emanated through the plains, kicking up dust and dirt as three riders sped across open ground. In between the thunder of hooves could be found the squeal of a wild board in flight, running for its life as its pursuers chased it down for pure sport. Turning violently in different directions, the boar hoped to confuse its assassins as they closed in on their target. Not nearly able to match the stamina and strength of a purebred Arabian horse, its life or death sprint began to give out, slowing down closer and closer to the spear at the ready to strike. In a sharp squeal and groan of pain, the boar was impaled; collapsing on the ground and the riders rode past. Slowing their steeds and turning back, one of the riders dismounted, confirming the fatal wound.
“Got the bastard!” the Duke roared in excited, as if a lion defending its pride. Drawing a dagger, he leaned over the dying animal. Placing the blade to its throat, its life quickly ended as the weapon glided effortlessly over its flesh.
“If you kill heathens like you kill boars,” Ponç slowly dismounted his horse, nearly overtaken by tiredness, propped up only by an army grappling the saddle, “maybe combating the Taifa will be as easy as you say.”
“No fair - you have down this before!” the young Ermengol whined, staying on his horse.
“So, you have considered my offer?” the Duke ignored Ermengol, becoming increasingly tired of the boy’s incessant complaining ever since the hunt began.
“I have, and I believe I shall take it,” Ponç panted, “you are a wise man, Highness. If I was paying homage to any other liege, I would have refused. I will dispatch a runner in the morning to sound a call of arms.”
“Excellent,” the Duke nodded, embracing his new ally, “I will not let you down.”
As the group celebrated the kill, Ramon looked down at the ground and admired the blood pooling the grass beside the fallen boar. Soon, he thought, that will be a foul heathen at my feet. Let the Spains know the might of Barcelona!
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I think I can cross "brightening someone's day with my writing" off of my bucket list.
Alright, everyone, I will be posting an update sometime today before Midnight Eastern Standard Time.
I love the old boar-hunting event. Nice to see your vassals have been tamed (for the moment at least).
I know what you mean. I am waiting for one of my awesome kings to get severely wounded, though.
Chapter 1
A Most Dangerous Game
Barcelona, Aragon
November 21st, 1067
Count Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell had taken a little bit more persuading due to the perceived insult back at the castle before he too agreed to marshal his forces once winter had passed. King Sancho of Castille, too concerned with quarrels between his own family members in Leon, decided instead of dispatching levies to assist Duke Ramon, he would dispatch his greatest general to lead the Duke’s armies against the Taifa. That man was Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar – called El Cid – one of the finest generals in Known World. He had a commanding influence on the battlefield, often making tactical decisions to then ride into combat to see them out himself. His loyal soldiers in Castille adored him, and soon, so would the Duke’s men in Barcelona. He was everything that Barcelona would want – but unfortunately, would not be arriving until early next year. While the Spains prepared for winter, Duke Ramon Berenguer de Barcelona prepared for war.
Sometimes the easiest way to prepare for war was to simply… take your mind off of things.
The Duke was doing just that.
Duke Ramon, after a vigorous workout, rolled off of Ermesenda, panting heavily after the night’s festivities. As he attempted to catch his breath, he could barely keep his thoughts straight. Court business intertwined with emotions and it all came crashing down. It had been a very long time, to say the least. On the other hand, his lover appeared normal and just fine, rolling over, her body cloaked beneath the sheets of his creaky, old bed. Only for a moment did he notice the musk of sweat in the air before he was enraptured by Ermesenda’s beauty just as he had when she arrived in August. He didn’t know what about him made her feel the way she did, but he didn’t care either. She was young and surely wouldn’t care to be occupied with the aging Duke once she left Barcelona.
“That was…incredible,” the Duke said, the words barely able to escape his lips.
“I am glad you enjoyed it,” Ermesenda smirked, a gentle finger extended toward the Duke’s bare chest, the hairs sending wonderful prickling feelings down his spine as she moved about.
The air was permeated by a deafening silence for a few moments as the Duke recovered. Rolling over to meet Ermesenda’s gaze, the Duke noticed a most inquisitive look showing through her normal girlish visage. The Duke only cocked an eyebrow as his head rested on his pillow, his gesture speaking the words that she already knew he was going to ask.
“It is nothing. Do not worry,” Ermesenda lied as she rolled over, hoping Ramon wouldn’t read her. But the Duke was much smarter than that.
“You are worried about my wife,” the Duke calmly responded.
“Of course!” she flipped around, “I know what I am doing here is wrong. I am offending Almodis. If she discovers, she will be most displeased.”
“She will never get the chance,” the Duke reassured her, as if nothing was wrong, “what I do is none of her business. And what you do is none of her business either. She and I are married, but our relationship ended long ago.”
“I see,” Ermsenda smiled, feeling much better, “so what is wrong with her anyway?”
Immediately the Duke went wide-eyed. His voiced seemed to boom throughout each corridor, stirring all who slept in the vicinity of the Duke’s bedroom. His visage was plastered with a hellish anger, and immediately the woman knew she had made a fatal error. What she saw in the throne room three months ago was something that was never meant to be there in the first place. She understood at least that Almodis was a prisoner in the castle, not the Duke’s wife or friendly advisor.
“She has been scourged by God with a terrible affliction that I shall not discuss with you now or ever. Perhaps we can talk about something else.”
Ermesenda, just for a moment, thought about running to her father, who had agreed to stay the winter in Barcelona before returning home, but she knew the consequences of that were too great. Who knows what the Duke would have done to her? The Duke, ridden with guilt at yelling, rolled over and closed his eyes, hoping sleep would quickly come and make all of this go away. He wouldn’t get the chance.
“I’m sorry,” his lover trailed off, “I didn’t understand it completely, but I do now. I am very sorry…” The Duke, unable to not forgive her, rolled back over and embraced her. Giving her a reassuring smile, he conveyed through body language that it was okay. He couldn’t expect someone on the outside to understand him as well as his own family or court did. It was a complicated scenario that would only resolve itself on the Duke’s or his wife’s deathbed.
“So…” Ermsenda began again, hoping to leave the previous happenings quickly behind her, “Pedro is going to succeed you, correct?”
“Yes,” the Duke muttered, “as he will also occupy my throne during the coming conflict. But I fear that he is not ready. Not ready for any of it. Already scandals as spreading in my court. He has not been wed for a month and he is doing what he had always done – care about himself.”
“I am sorry,” Ermesenda faked reassurance. She hadn’t even asked what the Duke felt about him. He just gave it to her… and she liked the feeling it gave. A feeling of power. The things she could learn. She had only slept with the Duke a few times, and each time his lips became looser and looser. What could she learn weeks from now? Her father was a fool, and had no power while this Duke… he had power. Nothing compared to Castile or Leon, but power nonetheless. With power came secrets, and Ermesenda was interested in secrets.
“And the worst part is he doesn’t even care!” the Duke yelled, “he would rather satisfy himself at parties than prove to me he is ready to rule my lands after I die. He will be the end of Barcelona, I just know it.”
“Then perhaps you should change your succession law?” the Duke’s lover inquired, pushing her influence over him, giving him a quick, but seductive kiss on his neck. Shivering with fantastic sensations, he eagerly obliged.
“I wish I could,” the Duke countered, his voice droning on, pouring his thoughts and feelings into Ermesenda’s cup of intrigue, “but my children are just as cursed as their mother is. I will not have someone like that ruling my realm. I will not leave that kind of legacy behind. Pedro, believe me, is the better choice in this case. Just not the best choice. History often finds ways of correcting itself, my dear.”
“It does seem that way,” Ermesenda smiled, and after a quick kiss, rolled over and began to closer her eyes. Feeling the Duke roll over, she could tell he was still awake, pondering over his life and the future of his realm. Everything seemed to be crashing down around him, and yet he was resolute, bent on leaving Barcelona better than he had taken it. He was wise beyond his years, and Ermesenda respected that. Yet, still, she yearned to know the man behind the mask, and she was quite happy with what she had seen already.
“I love you,” Ermesenda shot off, wondering on what the Duke would say back.
“I know,” the Duke muttered as he was slowly captured by sleep, making the pains of his world disappear.
A Most Dangerous Game
Barcelona, Aragon
November 21st, 1067
Count Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell had taken a little bit more persuading due to the perceived insult back at the castle before he too agreed to marshal his forces once winter had passed. King Sancho of Castille, too concerned with quarrels between his own family members in Leon, decided instead of dispatching levies to assist Duke Ramon, he would dispatch his greatest general to lead the Duke’s armies against the Taifa. That man was Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar – called El Cid – one of the finest generals in Known World. He had a commanding influence on the battlefield, often making tactical decisions to then ride into combat to see them out himself. His loyal soldiers in Castille adored him, and soon, so would the Duke’s men in Barcelona. He was everything that Barcelona would want – but unfortunately, would not be arriving until early next year. While the Spains prepared for winter, Duke Ramon Berenguer de Barcelona prepared for war.
Sometimes the easiest way to prepare for war was to simply… take your mind off of things.
The Duke was doing just that.
Duke Ramon, after a vigorous workout, rolled off of Ermesenda, panting heavily after the night’s festivities. As he attempted to catch his breath, he could barely keep his thoughts straight. Court business intertwined with emotions and it all came crashing down. It had been a very long time, to say the least. On the other hand, his lover appeared normal and just fine, rolling over, her body cloaked beneath the sheets of his creaky, old bed. Only for a moment did he notice the musk of sweat in the air before he was enraptured by Ermesenda’s beauty just as he had when she arrived in August. He didn’t know what about him made her feel the way she did, but he didn’t care either. She was young and surely wouldn’t care to be occupied with the aging Duke once she left Barcelona.
“That was…incredible,” the Duke said, the words barely able to escape his lips.
“I am glad you enjoyed it,” Ermesenda smirked, a gentle finger extended toward the Duke’s bare chest, the hairs sending wonderful prickling feelings down his spine as she moved about.
The air was permeated by a deafening silence for a few moments as the Duke recovered. Rolling over to meet Ermesenda’s gaze, the Duke noticed a most inquisitive look showing through her normal girlish visage. The Duke only cocked an eyebrow as his head rested on his pillow, his gesture speaking the words that she already knew he was going to ask.
“It is nothing. Do not worry,” Ermesenda lied as she rolled over, hoping Ramon wouldn’t read her. But the Duke was much smarter than that.
“You are worried about my wife,” the Duke calmly responded.
“Of course!” she flipped around, “I know what I am doing here is wrong. I am offending Almodis. If she discovers, she will be most displeased.”
“She will never get the chance,” the Duke reassured her, as if nothing was wrong, “what I do is none of her business. And what you do is none of her business either. She and I are married, but our relationship ended long ago.”
“I see,” Ermsenda smiled, feeling much better, “so what is wrong with her anyway?”
Immediately the Duke went wide-eyed. His voiced seemed to boom throughout each corridor, stirring all who slept in the vicinity of the Duke’s bedroom. His visage was plastered with a hellish anger, and immediately the woman knew she had made a fatal error. What she saw in the throne room three months ago was something that was never meant to be there in the first place. She understood at least that Almodis was a prisoner in the castle, not the Duke’s wife or friendly advisor.
“She has been scourged by God with a terrible affliction that I shall not discuss with you now or ever. Perhaps we can talk about something else.”
Ermesenda, just for a moment, thought about running to her father, who had agreed to stay the winter in Barcelona before returning home, but she knew the consequences of that were too great. Who knows what the Duke would have done to her? The Duke, ridden with guilt at yelling, rolled over and closed his eyes, hoping sleep would quickly come and make all of this go away. He wouldn’t get the chance.
“I’m sorry,” his lover trailed off, “I didn’t understand it completely, but I do now. I am very sorry…” The Duke, unable to not forgive her, rolled back over and embraced her. Giving her a reassuring smile, he conveyed through body language that it was okay. He couldn’t expect someone on the outside to understand him as well as his own family or court did. It was a complicated scenario that would only resolve itself on the Duke’s or his wife’s deathbed.
“So…” Ermsenda began again, hoping to leave the previous happenings quickly behind her, “Pedro is going to succeed you, correct?”
“Yes,” the Duke muttered, “as he will also occupy my throne during the coming conflict. But I fear that he is not ready. Not ready for any of it. Already scandals as spreading in my court. He has not been wed for a month and he is doing what he had always done – care about himself.”
“I am sorry,” Ermesenda faked reassurance. She hadn’t even asked what the Duke felt about him. He just gave it to her… and she liked the feeling it gave. A feeling of power. The things she could learn. She had only slept with the Duke a few times, and each time his lips became looser and looser. What could she learn weeks from now? Her father was a fool, and had no power while this Duke… he had power. Nothing compared to Castile or Leon, but power nonetheless. With power came secrets, and Ermesenda was interested in secrets.
“And the worst part is he doesn’t even care!” the Duke yelled, “he would rather satisfy himself at parties than prove to me he is ready to rule my lands after I die. He will be the end of Barcelona, I just know it.”
“Then perhaps you should change your succession law?” the Duke’s lover inquired, pushing her influence over him, giving him a quick, but seductive kiss on his neck. Shivering with fantastic sensations, he eagerly obliged.
“I wish I could,” the Duke countered, his voice droning on, pouring his thoughts and feelings into Ermesenda’s cup of intrigue, “but my children are just as cursed as their mother is. I will not have someone like that ruling my realm. I will not leave that kind of legacy behind. Pedro, believe me, is the better choice in this case. Just not the best choice. History often finds ways of correcting itself, my dear.”
“It does seem that way,” Ermesenda smiled, and after a quick kiss, rolled over and began to closer her eyes. Feeling the Duke roll over, she could tell he was still awake, pondering over his life and the future of his realm. Everything seemed to be crashing down around him, and yet he was resolute, bent on leaving Barcelona better than he had taken it. He was wise beyond his years, and Ermesenda respected that. Yet, still, she yearned to know the man behind the mask, and she was quite happy with what she had seen already.
“I love you,” Ermesenda shot off, wondering on what the Duke would say back.
“I know,” the Duke muttered as he was slowly captured by sleep, making the pains of his world disappear.
And come he shall... tonight when I get home from work. I figured since it was Spring Break for me, I would treat you all for your continued support!
EDIT: In the meantime, does anyone have any suggestions for maps? I am dying to make some maps, but I only have Paint (I have Photoshop 7.0 from my fiancée, but I don't know how to use it).
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I can teach you a few tricks of the trade later in the week, once I get all my stuff done.
Absolutely. I would really appreciate it. Just let me know when you are ready and we can find some time.
Chapter 1
A Champion’s Pledge
An 18th Century Levantine painting of Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar pledging allegiance before Duke Ramon Berenguer de Barcelona.
Barcelona, Aragon
March 12th, 1068
A pleasant, cool spring breeze wafted over a lone rider as he stood atop a hill overlooking Barcelona, alleviating the slight discomfort from his chainmail for a bright few seconds. He stood in awe he cast his gaze over the lightly defended town. From this position, archers could rain hell down upon the defenders and worse yet, watch the defenders closely as they attempted to hold any enemy at bay. Several other such hills blanketed the area, making Barcelona appear a target for whatever enterprising Taifa that wanted the city for his own. Believing that there must be some sort of secret behind one of the bulwarks of Christendom in the Spains, the rider kicked at his purebred Andalusian steed, urging it forward to the city gates and do what he was meant to do here.
Reaching the gates, he found that security was much tighter than he expected. The large wooden gates were closed, though it didn’t offer much protection given the crumbling walls. The ten guards standing out front were even less impressive, only wearing poorly made leathers and brandishing dilapidated shortspears for defense. Clearly, Barcelona had seen better days if this were the only thing separating him from toppling the Duchy of Barcelona. Approaching the guards, he rested his hand on a master crafted sword – its hilt black as night and forged somewhere far from here. As he admired Barcelona’s security, one guard appearing to be the leader, approached him – something someone at Burgos would never do in the presence of a stranger.
“Hello, stranger,” the guard barked, “state your name and business.”
“Why is Barcelona shut down? Has something happened?” the rider inquired, ignoring the guard’s previous question, wondering if this place looked so bad because of conflict over the winter. Had he been sent too late?
“We have orders from His Highness Duke Ramon Berenguer,” the guard announced proudly, “now – name and business, please.”
“Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar. I am here on behalf of His Majesty King Sancho of Castille. I bear news for your Duke,” Rodrigo announced, his face devoid of diplomacy and guile. The guards all exchanged glances, wondering if he was telling the truth. In the preparation of war, Barcelona was locked down in fear of any news leaking out from their Islamic minority of the conflict to come. While their efforts wouldn’t have really done anything, it gave the populace enough reassurance in these turbulent times – even though Rodrigo was sure that this city was a few battles away from being eradicated from this earth.
“Let him in!” the guard yelled, the gates beginning to creep inward as servants labored with massive cranks to open the barrier. The guard could have denied Rodrigo entry, but did not on account of his well dress and unflinching demeanor. It appeared that indeed the rider was here for business and not for regicide.
Parading through the city, his horse began to become uneasy at the new sights, smells, and noises. Rodrigo rested a reassuring hand on the horse’s mane, petting it gently as it slowly moved forward to the castle straight ahead of him. Something that caught was Barcelona’s seemingly cosmopolitan nature – such things were unheard of in Castille which had always taken a hardline approach at ‘heathens’ within the city walls. Rodrigo had been convinced on several occasions that the Arab people were much more intelligent and much worldlier than their Christian counterparts in the Spains. And after warfare over many different Taifa, he could see why. Rodrigo didn’t understand how they had running water or well aired palaces, but he quite enjoyed it.
“Easy, Babieca,” Rodrigo spoke softly to his horse, “you will soon rest.” Babieca whinnied in approval.
Arriving at the castle, Rodrigo swung his right leg over the backside of Babieca as he dismounted. Grabbing her by the reigns, he cautiously approached the stable, with stablehands of the Duke quickly at work cleaning up after, feeding, or grooming horses. A most dirty job, but necessary to maintain horses for proper riding and maximum performance. Certainly, a well rested horse was a soldier’s dear friend. Leading Babieca over to the stable, he passed her to a servant who eagerly grabbed the horse and led her to a freshly cleaned stall. The servant, however, was barely a man, and appeared to be handling her too rough.
“Be careful with her!” Rodrigo yelled, “she was a gift from my grandfather!”
Praying for her well-treatment, Rodrigo, with a single hand placed over the hilt of his sword, strolled into the courtyard before the castle’s main entrance. Around him was what appeared to be the Duke’s personal vegetable garden, only in much worse shape as growing season had not yet begun. Passing through the front gates, two guards saluted him and asked no questions – at least news of important visitors passed efficiently through Barcelona. Soon, he would be greeted by several courtiers, who seemed to already know who he was before he even spoke his name, or spoke at all for that matter.
“Sir Rodrigo, this way please,” a courtier beckoned and Rodrigo promptly followed. He sensed that the Duke was near.
Rodrigo was lead into a small, rectangular room that was great disrepair. A red Moorish carpet – likely taken during a sack - stretched from the doorway to an elevated platform was a furnished throne stood – the Duke’s seat no doubt. No form of curtains adorned the walls, letting in uncomfortable amounts of light in, almost to the point of blinding. Whatever was the matter with Duke Ramon Berenguer, it was indeed that he lacked amble coin to provide for his state. He was able to produce only so much that he was forced to choose between raising soldiers or keeping things repaired – and clearly he had chosen the later. It was wise, and his capital was forced to bear the consequences. Such was the life of a Spanish ruler.
As Rodrigo stood in the throne room, it slowly filled with what he guessed with the Duchy’s nobility. They looked far better than this castle did, making them feel tremendously out of place as they waited for the Duke to arrive. In a mere few more moments, a chamberlain entered the room through a side corridor – likely leading to the ducal quarters – dressed in tattered clothing, ready to announce the entry of his liege. Rodrigo, being alone on his side of the room, felt as if he was center spectacle of today. He was certainly correct.
“Let all give praise to His Highness Ramon Berenguer, Duke of Barcelona!” the chamberlain announced in a most lackluster tone. His voice cast a depression over the gathered crowd who already struggled to maintain attention. As the Duke entered the room, his clothes much better than Rodrigo had expected, the chamberlain stepped forward, “Sir Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar – please step forward.”
Rodrigo, immediately obliging the command, stepped forward and knelt at the base of the podium where the Duke sat. The Duke, his bearded face settling into a grin, gestured for Rodrigo to rise.
“We are all warriors here, Rodrigo,” the Duke smiled, his voice emanating outward and surrounding all within the room.
“Highness,” Rodrigo titled his head in respect, “I have been dispatched from Castille as per your agreement with His Majesty King Sancho to assist you in your war against the Taifas.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Rodrigo,” the Duke began softly, “I have heard your many glories in the court of King Sancho. I am honored to be in your presence. I do believe that together, heathens will fall at our feet and God’s Will will be fulfilled in the coming days.”
“I will serve you as best as I can, Your Highness,” Rodrigo noted, ignoring the Duke’s zealous nature, “with your permission, I can organize your army into an effective fighting force that will be no match to any Taifa that opposes you.”
“I grant you permission to do so,” the Duke nodded furiously, “I welcome you to court, Rodrigo. May we have many victories ahead of us!”
Stepping down from his throne, the Duke embraced Rodrigo like a brother, and presented him to the court with a long extension of his arm. Clapping engulfed the room as the nobles greeted their new courtier, confident that what he said was true, and that Barcelona would be secured against future Muslim threats. What they didn’t know was that Rodrigo’s entrance into the ducal court would begin a chain of events that not even time could not stop, and the world would forever tremble at the name of Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar.
A Champion’s Pledge
An 18th Century Levantine painting of Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar pledging allegiance before Duke Ramon Berenguer de Barcelona.
Barcelona, Aragon
March 12th, 1068
A pleasant, cool spring breeze wafted over a lone rider as he stood atop a hill overlooking Barcelona, alleviating the slight discomfort from his chainmail for a bright few seconds. He stood in awe he cast his gaze over the lightly defended town. From this position, archers could rain hell down upon the defenders and worse yet, watch the defenders closely as they attempted to hold any enemy at bay. Several other such hills blanketed the area, making Barcelona appear a target for whatever enterprising Taifa that wanted the city for his own. Believing that there must be some sort of secret behind one of the bulwarks of Christendom in the Spains, the rider kicked at his purebred Andalusian steed, urging it forward to the city gates and do what he was meant to do here.
Reaching the gates, he found that security was much tighter than he expected. The large wooden gates were closed, though it didn’t offer much protection given the crumbling walls. The ten guards standing out front were even less impressive, only wearing poorly made leathers and brandishing dilapidated shortspears for defense. Clearly, Barcelona had seen better days if this were the only thing separating him from toppling the Duchy of Barcelona. Approaching the guards, he rested his hand on a master crafted sword – its hilt black as night and forged somewhere far from here. As he admired Barcelona’s security, one guard appearing to be the leader, approached him – something someone at Burgos would never do in the presence of a stranger.
“Hello, stranger,” the guard barked, “state your name and business.”
“Why is Barcelona shut down? Has something happened?” the rider inquired, ignoring the guard’s previous question, wondering if this place looked so bad because of conflict over the winter. Had he been sent too late?
“We have orders from His Highness Duke Ramon Berenguer,” the guard announced proudly, “now – name and business, please.”
“Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar. I am here on behalf of His Majesty King Sancho of Castille. I bear news for your Duke,” Rodrigo announced, his face devoid of diplomacy and guile. The guards all exchanged glances, wondering if he was telling the truth. In the preparation of war, Barcelona was locked down in fear of any news leaking out from their Islamic minority of the conflict to come. While their efforts wouldn’t have really done anything, it gave the populace enough reassurance in these turbulent times – even though Rodrigo was sure that this city was a few battles away from being eradicated from this earth.
“Let him in!” the guard yelled, the gates beginning to creep inward as servants labored with massive cranks to open the barrier. The guard could have denied Rodrigo entry, but did not on account of his well dress and unflinching demeanor. It appeared that indeed the rider was here for business and not for regicide.
Parading through the city, his horse began to become uneasy at the new sights, smells, and noises. Rodrigo rested a reassuring hand on the horse’s mane, petting it gently as it slowly moved forward to the castle straight ahead of him. Something that caught was Barcelona’s seemingly cosmopolitan nature – such things were unheard of in Castille which had always taken a hardline approach at ‘heathens’ within the city walls. Rodrigo had been convinced on several occasions that the Arab people were much more intelligent and much worldlier than their Christian counterparts in the Spains. And after warfare over many different Taifa, he could see why. Rodrigo didn’t understand how they had running water or well aired palaces, but he quite enjoyed it.
“Easy, Babieca,” Rodrigo spoke softly to his horse, “you will soon rest.” Babieca whinnied in approval.
Arriving at the castle, Rodrigo swung his right leg over the backside of Babieca as he dismounted. Grabbing her by the reigns, he cautiously approached the stable, with stablehands of the Duke quickly at work cleaning up after, feeding, or grooming horses. A most dirty job, but necessary to maintain horses for proper riding and maximum performance. Certainly, a well rested horse was a soldier’s dear friend. Leading Babieca over to the stable, he passed her to a servant who eagerly grabbed the horse and led her to a freshly cleaned stall. The servant, however, was barely a man, and appeared to be handling her too rough.
“Be careful with her!” Rodrigo yelled, “she was a gift from my grandfather!”
Praying for her well-treatment, Rodrigo, with a single hand placed over the hilt of his sword, strolled into the courtyard before the castle’s main entrance. Around him was what appeared to be the Duke’s personal vegetable garden, only in much worse shape as growing season had not yet begun. Passing through the front gates, two guards saluted him and asked no questions – at least news of important visitors passed efficiently through Barcelona. Soon, he would be greeted by several courtiers, who seemed to already know who he was before he even spoke his name, or spoke at all for that matter.
“Sir Rodrigo, this way please,” a courtier beckoned and Rodrigo promptly followed. He sensed that the Duke was near.
Rodrigo was lead into a small, rectangular room that was great disrepair. A red Moorish carpet – likely taken during a sack - stretched from the doorway to an elevated platform was a furnished throne stood – the Duke’s seat no doubt. No form of curtains adorned the walls, letting in uncomfortable amounts of light in, almost to the point of blinding. Whatever was the matter with Duke Ramon Berenguer, it was indeed that he lacked amble coin to provide for his state. He was able to produce only so much that he was forced to choose between raising soldiers or keeping things repaired – and clearly he had chosen the later. It was wise, and his capital was forced to bear the consequences. Such was the life of a Spanish ruler.
As Rodrigo stood in the throne room, it slowly filled with what he guessed with the Duchy’s nobility. They looked far better than this castle did, making them feel tremendously out of place as they waited for the Duke to arrive. In a mere few more moments, a chamberlain entered the room through a side corridor – likely leading to the ducal quarters – dressed in tattered clothing, ready to announce the entry of his liege. Rodrigo, being alone on his side of the room, felt as if he was center spectacle of today. He was certainly correct.
“Let all give praise to His Highness Ramon Berenguer, Duke of Barcelona!” the chamberlain announced in a most lackluster tone. His voice cast a depression over the gathered crowd who already struggled to maintain attention. As the Duke entered the room, his clothes much better than Rodrigo had expected, the chamberlain stepped forward, “Sir Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar – please step forward.”
Rodrigo, immediately obliging the command, stepped forward and knelt at the base of the podium where the Duke sat. The Duke, his bearded face settling into a grin, gestured for Rodrigo to rise.
“We are all warriors here, Rodrigo,” the Duke smiled, his voice emanating outward and surrounding all within the room.
“Highness,” Rodrigo titled his head in respect, “I have been dispatched from Castille as per your agreement with His Majesty King Sancho to assist you in your war against the Taifas.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Rodrigo,” the Duke began softly, “I have heard your many glories in the court of King Sancho. I am honored to be in your presence. I do believe that together, heathens will fall at our feet and God’s Will will be fulfilled in the coming days.”
“I will serve you as best as I can, Your Highness,” Rodrigo noted, ignoring the Duke’s zealous nature, “with your permission, I can organize your army into an effective fighting force that will be no match to any Taifa that opposes you.”
“I grant you permission to do so,” the Duke nodded furiously, “I welcome you to court, Rodrigo. May we have many victories ahead of us!”
Stepping down from his throne, the Duke embraced Rodrigo like a brother, and presented him to the court with a long extension of his arm. Clapping engulfed the room as the nobles greeted their new courtier, confident that what he said was true, and that Barcelona would be secured against future Muslim threats. What they didn’t know was that Rodrigo’s entrance into the ducal court would begin a chain of events that not even time could not stop, and the world would forever tremble at the name of Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar.
Army, or a horde of feudal levies and angry peasants that are unable to farm their soils?
Thank you, Mr. C. I do appreciate it.
Well, a horde of feudal levies and angry peasants, yes.Army, or a horde of feudal levies and angry peasants that are unable to farm their soils?
Hopefully Rodrigo can do something about that, though.
Fabulous update!
You've written a suitably grand entry for the arrival of a pivotal character. In addition, you've managed to carry across his personality really well - I look forward to seeing how he develops!
You've written a suitably grand entry for the arrival of a pivotal character. In addition, you've managed to carry across his personality really well - I look forward to seeing how he develops!
I have realised that I simply cannot imagine Rodrigo without picturing Charlton Heston.
Nice update. I look forward to hearing how the amry/horde manages.
Nice update. I look forward to hearing how the amry/horde manages.