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Now on to Rheims and a coronation. Though given the destruction its a wonde anyone could aford a literal kings ransom.
 
No, not dead. Just busy offline. Hoping to circle through all of my AARs and update.
 
The Archbishop and the Doctor

The arrival of the Archbishop of Canterbury in Oxford was cause for some considerable agitation. It was well known that the Chancellor-Bishop, Humphrey de Cherlton, was ailing and would probably not last through Christmas. Even now, in the early summer, he coughed, deep, wet, racking coughs that made those around him cover their faces for fear that his ill humours would infect them. His replacement was, of course, a matter of considerable interest to the Cardinal-Archbishop.

Thus, when the red-caped Oliver de Tuchet dismounted before the Dominican hall, he was greeted not merely by the Vice-Chancellor, but the Dominican prior, and the principals and masters of the half-dozen colleges and halls with their retinues. Tuchet swung one booted leg down wearily, patting the neck of his horse, which whickered and shook its head, and replied to the poor beast, "I know. I had hoped to arrive either early enough or late enough for something simpler." He patted the horse affectionately before turning to meet the onrushing William de Hawkesworth in his academic's robes, mace borne before him. "Your Eminence," the Vice-Chancellor boomed, falling theatrically to a knee to kiss Tuchet's ring. "Rise," Tuchet replied with a slight smile. "I take it his Grace was unable to rise?" They began to walk toward the new-finished facade of Balliol College, and the academic replied with the briefest of nods. "Mm. Yes, Eminence. He has been barely responsive in recent months." Tuchet struggled to keep up with Hawkesworth's Latin. He dealt with it on a daily basis, but the academics' familiarity with it was born of the traditional ban on any other language in their cloisters, where others might be allowed the vernacular. Thus, they had a natural, easy fluency that would probably have been the envy of many of Caesar's legionaries.

"Are there any other affairs of which I should be aware?" Tuchet asked, brushing the red cloak back from his shoulder. Hawkesworth considered, running a hand through his iron-gray hair. "There is a very promising man in Balliol. I had considered offering the current master for elevation to the Chancellor's seat, pending election and your, and King Edward's, approval, of course, and then raising this man to master. He is extremely young, though. Brilliant man, could be the next Albertus Magnus."

"Oh?" Tuchet continued in amusement. "And who is this young Jupiter?"

"His name, Eminence, is John of Wyclif."

At that moment, the subject of their discussion was holding forth among the students of Balliol College. "It is clearly evident to any man of sense that the Papacy has failed in its duties to its flock, at least wheresoever the flock is not French. Further, it is evident that His Holiness has failed to cleave to that saintly neutrality which must be maintained to claim the rights of the Peace of God, and has wandered from the grant of St. Constantine to the lease of the King of France. It is therefore open to question what right a priest ordained in Avignon, practicing in Avignon, and elevated in Avignon has to call himself Bishop of Rome." John of Wyclif was a bearded, sandy-haired man whose master's hat sat precariously atop his head, threatening to teeter forth whenever he began to gesture, which was frequently, and with great animation, during his lectures. It was perhaps surprising that, when he was not lecturing, he was shy to the point of reticence; he had in fact been nominated Master of Balliol against his will, where he had preferred instead to focus on his writing and his studies.

His voice carried from the central quadrangle of Balliol to the outer wall, where Tuchet and Hawkesworth were entering the main portico. Tuchet cocked his ear, frowning, trying to concentrate on the lecture while Hawkesworth continued talking about the administration of the university. Hawkesworth himself had no great interest in becoming Chancellor - "My place is here," he had firmly stated, as opposed to the Chancellor's duties which were primarily diplomatic - but the Vice-Chancellor had a keen mind where the candidates for the office were concerned, and Tuchet sighed before raising his hand. "This is all quite important, William, and I swear I will give it all that it is due, when we are alone. However, I wish to listen to this young giant of yours. I presume that is him?" Hawkesworth hesitated before nodding, frowning at being upstaged by the much younger man.

Tuchet and Hawkesworth stayed beneath the eaves of the quadrangle, listening to Wyclif holding forth. "How, indeed, does a priest openly go to war on behalf of a temporal power, if he is above the influence of this world? It must be that His Holiness has forgotten his duties to the faithful, and instead embraced things of this world beyond that which is seemly and needful. Thus, if the Pope wishes to be a king among kings, or even a Peer of France, he may be, but he may not be thus and also be the Vicar of Christ." Tuchet frowned, a fingertip touching the tip of his nose, tapping slowly, and Hawkesworth glanced sideways at him. This was perhaps not the outcome which he had expected. Eventually the Archbishop turned, pulling the Vice-Chancellor with him away from the lecture.

"This man is dangerous," he said flatly. "All of what he says is true, every last word of it, and were I a simple village priest I would agree with him." Tuchet drew a deep breath, the red cardinal's cape fluttering slightly as he did. "But I am not. I am the premier Lord Spiritual of England. The University is, of course, sacred in its own way, but has he been speaking outside this?"

Hawkesworth blanched. "He... he has given sermons, Eminence." Tuchet's eyes bulged. "And so the commons are being fed this? It is one thing for the University. He could even speak thus in the King's presence! But to tell the villeins that His Holiness the Pope is a wine-soaked hedonist with no more claim to spiritual authority than a swineherd... this... is... madness." Tuchet was pacing in agitation, and finally whirled to face Hawkesworth once more. "Here is what you must do. He is not to preach further here. I appreciate that he is a lecturer. Thus... I will myself endow a new hall here for my diocese. Your man Wyclif shall be its first head. Thus he shall answer to me through the Christ Church prior, and shall be responsible for my own priests' training. If I hear so much as a whisper that he has preached to laiety, I will have him stripped of his priesthood and flogged through the streets!" His voice had dropped to a hiss, and his finger jabbed Hawkesworth in the chest. "We have just made peace with His Holiness; we do not need a... a firebrand exercising the students against the Church!" Tuchet stepped back, drawing a deep breath. "Now, God save us, that is done. When may we eat?"

It could never be established for certain, of course, that Tuchet's decision to found a new Hall - Canterbury - was tied directly to the decision to silence John of Wyclif, but the students responded to the move in the typical fashion of Oxford students of the day. They rioted, pulling down cottages and burning wooden bridges. It was not until a levy was turned south from their march to Scotland that order was properly restored.

1356lollardyb.png

---

Anticipates by about nine years Simon Islip's decision to make Wyclif Master of Canterbury. I was surprised that Lollard events fired so early. I gave serious consideration to embracing it, but given the Plantagenet Curse discussed earlier regarding Jerusalem, not to be fulfilled until the reign of Henry the Crusader, I figured best not to offend the Pope TOO much. This is the only Lollard event I'll show, which isn't to say it's the only one that fired; they just all got treated the same.
 
Just a very belated heads-up. I've re-read this, and it's too good to let fade completely. I intend to see through at least the reign of Edward IV the Black.
 
The Lord of Aquitaine

For the first time in living memory, an English king wintered at Bordeu. With him were all of his living children and Queen Philippa, all quartered in the ducal palace. The army remained in the field, led by the Earl of Kent, Thomas Holland, and laying siege to castle after castle and continuing the process of reducing the lords of France to English vassals, from the south northward. This policy had its critics, chief of which was Prince Edward, whose relationship with his father had grown strained as the prospect of battle had faded into the slogging of siege warfare. Tom Holland's selection to lead the army in winter was at least partially a concession by the elder Edward to the younger; Joan of Kent remained in Bordeu while Tom Holland brought the southern lords to heel.

The concession moved the Prince of Wales but little; at sunset, two weeks before the Nativity, he brooded in the Map Chamber of the ducal palace. The room drew its name from the wonderfully worked great table that lay at its center, a table that had been built in place, for there was no way to move it. The table must have been built in the glory days of the Duchy of Aquitaine, as it was made from ebony imported at fantastic expense from the Indies, and its surface was inlaid with a map of western Europe made of wood either stained, where possible, or painted, where stains could not produce the colors desired, rubies studding towns and cities, jet for castles, sapphires for the greatest monastic holdings, and colored glass strands marking road and river, gold and cobalt spread liberally across the table's surface. There were no labels, but it was a fantastic map nonetheless, and its creation must have cost a fortune - perhaps one of Eleanor's purchases, between troubadours and falcons. The room had been built around the table, it seemed, for leaded-glass windows dominated all four walls, giving a view out over the port and allowing in sun throughout the day.

Edward stood roughly parallel to Bordeu itself, frowning down at the map and trying to trace the armies' progress in the south. Small piles of white and black pebbles dotted the map, estimates of the French and English strengths, including their various allies in Brittany and Burgundy. The piles to the north were significantly smaller than those to the south, and none of the French black piles were even worth mentioning. Two gold coins sat on London - David of Scotland and Jean of France - and one here at Bordeu. The true problem, to Edward, were three piles of ugly gray marbles, apparently selected for their coarseness and irregular shapes. Two of these lay to the north, at Rouen and Evreux; the other lay here in the south, at Pamplona. These were the levies of Navarre and Normandy. Seven thousand men could have tipped the balance in the north, but Charles the Bad lay behind the gates of Evreux and waited for the English to bleed until they needed his help.

Well, it be no matter. King Edward would like as not be in Paris before another winter came. Certainly he could not waste all his days here in the south, when there was a crown to be won? His eyes automatically slid to the large blue jewel of Rheims, northeast of Paris. They should be there even now, should indeed have been there on the feast of St. Denis, to show Paris her true king! In lieu of such sense, they tarried here in the south, winning towns and castles that would bend the knee as soon as his father were well and truly crowned. It made little sense, but the King was King, not the Prince. Such were the Prince of Wales's thoughts; he was lost in them as another figure entered the room.

She was tall, with blonde hair braided to the small of her back, with deep blue eyes made deeper blue by the gown she wore, almost matching the cobalt of the map-table's rivers. For the English court, it was a shockingly simple gown, adorned only by a chain of linked garters around her neck. She approached silently, though the prince was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not notice even when her shadow fell across the table. It was only when she touched his shoulder that he started, hand dropping to the hilt of a sword as well-worn as it was ornate. "How now, my lord?" she asked quietly as he coughed in apology. She restrained herself from smiling. It was a rare moment when Edward of Woodstock was caught off-guard.

"Joan," he managed at last, turning away from the map to face her, a smile spreading across his face despite his best efforts. "Kent is not known for its shining sun, be you certain it can spare you here?" It was a poor joke, but it was more of a joke than the prince had been inclined to make for months, and so she returned his smile. "Your brother Clarence did tell me that I would find you here." He nodded slowly, his hand rising from sword hilt to her elbow, and took a half-step back to look her over from head to toe. They had been separated barely a year now, and he felt the familiar stab of affection and more for her every time he saw her. He saw her flush at his look, and she continued speaking to bridge the moment of uncomfortable silence.

"I did hear in London that His Holiness was not best pleased by your father. Be it so?" Edward nodded absently. "It is. The thorn in the rose of the peace with His Holiness is that England is under penance. It is a most unusual thing, that a kingdom needs do contrition and not a mere man. It were not so in St. Thomas's day, certes. Then King Henry had but to crawl to the tomb and do penance. Now, the souls of all England are to travel to Purgatory until such day as a king of England can take absolution at the Holy Sepulchre." He smiled, a hard, unpleasant line with no mirth in it. "The glory of it is that this be revealed to none but my lords of Canterbury and York, and the blood royal. His Holiness wishes not to disturb the commons or the nobles with rumors of an interdict, and did go to great pains to show that this be not interdict, but intercession between Christ's Vicar and Christ Himself that the souls of all England be placed in waiting against the day."

Joan was shocked, but quickly regained her voice. "If that be so, cousin, then... have you not heard of the Master of Canterbury, the reverend Doctor Wyclif?" She was surprised by his reaction, a flare of the eyes, a quick bark of laughter. "The grumbler of Oxford? Yes, His Eminence Canterbury did write of him. He says that the matter of Wyclif's sermons is most correct, but that the time of them is not." A fleeting smile crossed her face too, and she proceeded, not knowing how what she was about to say would be received. "How can any time be wrong for God's matter, cousin? What Wyclif does say is that the correct role of His Holiness is as shepherd, not wolf. He urges that the Church take no position as befits a lord temporal, for by doing so a man no matter how pious does sully his hands with the sins of the world. Bethink you, cousin, that your father would embrace such a position, not side with Rome 'gainst his own land!"

Edward turned once more to the map. "It be not so simple, Joan." He drew his sword - a quick rasp that startled her, but he paid her no mind - and used it as a pointer. "Were we to speak openly 'gainst Rome, or even Avignon," and here his mouth quirked, for in that at least, Plantagenet and Wyclif would never disagree, "the price be excommunication. Excommunication would gird all the world against us, and we would find not merely Jean of Valoys, but all the cities and thrones and powers of the world raising their hands in anger." The tip of his sword traced the Pyrenees. "Charles of Navarre would make a good cause for bad men, to make himself Duke of Guienne and Gascony." The sword leapt northward. "The trimmed branch of Burgundy would grace Calais." Again, the sword continued its arc. "And think you that England would be at peace itself were my lord father to take up Wyclif's doctrine? Nay, and in such time we would see Scots so far south as York or even London once more." The sword dipped to the west. "You think me passing fair, dearest cousin." It was the first admission he had made of their relationship in her presence, but she had little time to register it. "Would you think me so fair if Wales did rise? A prince with no land, beggared from court to court by the foolishness of an Oxford preacher? No," he concluded, the sword disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. "I would not embrace Wyclif were I my father, though I bless him in my own chamber."

He turned back to the map, and she bowed her head for a moment. "Then be there hope for the Kingdom of England in the Kingdom of God?" she asked quietly. He turned his head toward her, smiling fully. "Be of good heart, Joan." The prince reached to take her hand, drawing it to his at the map's edge. "If the entire kingdom rest in Purgatory, there be no sins, no matter how great nor how small, not redeemed by an English king at our Lord Saviour's tomb. Thus shall we ever seek Jerusalem."

They stood thus, hand in hand, in silence, for long enough for the sun's rays to catch the gold on the map table far more brilliantly than the jewels. The roads of France sparkled and glittered in the evening light, until a voice interrupted them from behind, mild and female. "I would speak to my son, if it pleases you, my lady Kent." Joan gasped and drew her hand back, and Edward turned and took his mother's hands, raising them to his lips. Philippa of Hainault wore a wimple and an ermine-lined bodice in red and gold with a blue skirt, the King's colors, and a careful look showed the pattern of lion and fleur-de-lis imprinted into the silk. She did so not as a concession to fashion, because Philippa had always been handsome, rather than dazzling, and after thirteen children, she had become rather stout, but because she was Edward's Queen, beyond a shadow of a doubt, and just as she was the final court of appeal to bring clemency from Edward, so too, was she his strongest supporter, and she made every effort to look the part.

"Your Grace," Joan curtsied, blushing, and Philippa smiled, shaking her head. "Joan, I have known you since you were in swaddling-clothes. Please be not formal, unless you have done wrong?" Joan's blush deepened, and Edward smiled, shaking his head. "No wrong, mother. Joan did wish to talk of this man Wyclif, that is all."

"Wyclif? Heaven preserve us, that a man should think to write in English, not French of Latin!" Edward smiled despite himself at his mother's indignation, then gave Joan a minute nod and a reassuring smile. Their hands brushed once more, and she retreated as she had entered. Philippa's eyes followed her. "You are betrothed now, Edward, and she wed to one of your father's many right hands. The game which you two do play is not a children's nursery game any longer. Choose carefully." He opened his mouth to reply, but she continued as if unaware that he had anything to say on the subject of Joan of Kent. "Now, my son, mislike you your father's policy of the south first?" She stepped forward to the map table, looking over it and glancing at the ruby-studded Flemish and Dutch coast.

"Aye. The crown is not in the south."

"The crown needs a head upon which to rest, and if that head is but poorly fixed, the crown shall not stay in place long. Why, think you, have the Valoys so much trouble for their crown?" Edward considered before replying. "Because their right to it is weak, and there are many with equal or stronger right." She smiled, fingers brushing the ebony surface. "Just so. Why did their lords of France go to such measures to obtain the lands of King Richard upon his death?"

"Because Richard was a strong king and his rights to them unquestioned by any but France, though his brother John Softsword did lose them." It was obvious to him, and his irritation began to show. "Has this a point, mother?"

She looked up at him, eyes sharp all of a sudden, thoroughly out of context on the features of a woman like Philippa of Hainault. "Yes. Your father wishes to make a kingdom for you, though there be no crown, of the lands of Richard in France... a kingdom which shall ever place our strength above that of the crown of France should there be another house of Valoys. Thus, shall you marry Blanche of Navarre, that Navarre and Evreux shall be drawn to us as to a lodestone. The lady Kent has no place in this plan, my Prince. This is a matter for kings and princes, not for childhood playmates." Her voice was soft, but the message was clear. "I love Joan as my own flesh," she continued, "but I beg you, do not tempt God's wrath with her. Think of the work that your lord father has done, that you have done, here in France, and do not tempt God more than we must."

He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. "As you wish, mother. I will not tempt God or Tom Holland's wrath. Nor yours," he finally added with a smile. She returned the smile, her hand taking his, squeezing. "Bien, my lord of Aquitaine."
 
I just read this through in one sitting, and it reminded me very much of the Game of Thrones books, especially the map table (that's a good thing, by the way). Keep writing, I'm enjoying it immensely!
 
I just read this through in one sitting, and it reminded me very much of the Game of Thrones books, especially the map table (that's a good thing, by the way). Keep writing, I'm enjoying it immensely!

Well, that's hardly surprising - though if you were going to play "Guess the Author" based on any one post, it's pretty obvious I just finished "The Sunne in Splendour" with that one, and the semi-archaic speech patterns from there really show here. Book really did a good job of showing where George R. R. Martin's thought processes started when he started way back when on AGOT. "So there's a pleasure-loving king who won a civil war, and a shocking twist regarding the legitimacy of his heirs, and a stark (Hey, that's a great name! Note to self... Stark...) lord from the north who is all about the law and loves his family like nothing else... now... ADD DRAGONS AND STIR."

A return, most excellent
Setting the stage for a series of campaigns to crush the French?

More like trying to hide the fact that I was writing from a different computer than the one that has my screenshots. Next one will HOPEFULLY show how the 1350s pan out.

Hooray, tis back!

Well, you're mostly to blame for that.
 
So kind of a good news-bad news thing...

Last Friday, my wife had to be hospitalized, and they did an emergency C-section Saturday to deliver our third and four children, ten weeks early. They're both fine, before anyone panics, and they're making measurable, visible progress from day to day. I won't bore you with the details, but it means that I have no time at all to write and barely enough time to do anything else for the foreseeable future. This isn't dead by any means, but commuting back and forth from the NICU takes precedence.

Now that the copy-paste boilerplate is done, the good news for Lion & Lily is that I've already scrubbed the screenshots down and put together proper summaries of the second half of 1356. It would be appropriate to use the phrase "annus mirabilis."