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Also, while I'm at it (just checked my inbox, see):




As with anything, the important thing isn't who you vote for, but that you vote at all!

Of course, this went on a new page. The last post on the previous page is also new, and kind of more important than this. In some respects. Please go back and read that too. :p
 
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The promised set-up update! Hopefully there are two or three people still waiting for it. :p

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"Following the initial missive, a wave of investiture law changes rolled across Europe, forcing the Holy See to take action ..."
- Excerpt from The Crusades: When, where and why?




Alto Aragon, Iberia
January 30th, 1140


Spirits were not high in the modest courtroom, located in a mountain castle practically leaning against the south face of the Pyrenees. Present was one old, embittered man, and two pensive women. They were all Kings and Queens. At least nominally.

Sancho III, the Exiled King of Castile, rubbed his palms against his forehead. He was weary. Weary of the war, the never-ending strings of defeat – always retreating, never advancing. Even now that his throne was being used for a chicken coop by some perfumed heathen, his crown just a fool's prop, there seemed to be no escape– the struggle continued, the war was never really over. Why else was he here, with these two shrews, hoping to invoke some manner of divine intervention by pleading to the uncaring Holy Father in Rome?

Corexia, the dowager Queen of Navarre, barked «Are we all in agreement?»

«Aye,» Sancho murmured, emptying another wine cup.

«Yes,» came the clearly articulated mewl from Ermesinda, the young Queen of Aragon.

Together, the three of them ruled what remained of Christian Iberia – some paltry patches of land in the Pyreneean shadow.

They leaned over, and each placed their signature and wax seal on the bottom.

Sancho got up. «Being that I have no Kingdom,» he said drily, «I volunteer to take what remains of my men, along with your chancellors, and travel to Rome myself.»

This was their last, most desperate recourse. They had tried before, of course, when it became evident that the wave of muslims washing over Iberia would oust them, sooner or later.

«Perhaps the His Holiness will hear us this time,» Ermesinda offered. Pausing, she regarded the missive, then added: «If not, all of Iberia will be in Muslim hands within a few decades.»


The Holy See, Rome
March 24th, 1140


«More letters, Father.»

The Vicar of Christ on Earth, Pope Victor III, sank back in his ornate, wooden chair. The look he shot at his chamberlain was not one of truth and reconciliation. «Will they ever leave me in peace, Giuseppe?»

«I suspect they will not, at least not until you ascend the Kingdom of Heaven yourself.»

Smiling laconically, the servant set down yet another pile of letters on the Holy Father's desk. As he cut the first wax seal, Giuseppe could see trepidation clearly written on Victor's face. Moments after his coronation, the near-heathen new King of Norway, had asked his Dukes – no, Jarls – to vote on the matter of investiture. Of course, they had all been in favour of free investiture. Earlier this month, the missive had arrived, informing them of the decision – backed by a dense, frustratingly sound and eloquent theological argument. The Pope assumed some maverick bishop had formulated it for the newfangled, young King – Giuseppe thought otherwise, although he had yet to voice that thought. However clever he was, the fact remained that his Kingdom was a glorified coastline, located on the extreme northern periphery of Christendom. More worrying, however, was the string of similar missives which had followed in the wake of the first.

One by one, rulers small and large were presenting suspiciously similar arguments, and a wave of disempowering changes to crown laws were slowly stripping the Holy Father of the instruments through which he wielded most of his power.

Most of.

«Giuseppe – this one isn't like the others.»

«Is someone voting to institute papal investiture?»

«No – it's a plea for military aid, from... No, Again?»

«The Spaniards?»

«Sancho, Ermesinda, Corexia – all who remain.»

«And what do they ask for?»

«They want me to commission a ... Crusade?» Victor shuddered visibly. «A crusade – to free Iberia from the Muslims.»

The Pope then jolted to his feet and began pacing, muttering to himself as much as to Giuseppe: «I can't do that – the Crusade was an utter failure, an embarrassment for all of Christendom...»

Giuseppe nodded. The Crusade – the word itself evoked a rush of unpleasant associations. Spectacular military defeats at the hands of – vastly – martially and numerically superior heathens. Utter failure in attempting to reclaim the Holy City of Jerusalem.

«Perhaps, Father – »

«What?»

«Perhaps this is your opportunity to reforge the notion of Crusades.»

«No – or ...» The Pope threw his hands up. «H-how?»

Giuseppe leaned over the desk. «First,» he said, raising a finger, «the Iberian muslims are very different from the ones indigenous to the Holy Land – they are not nomadic desert warriors, rather, they live in garish cities, wear fine silks, and drink copious amounts of wine.»

Pope Victor III nodded.

Another finger raised, Giuseppe continued. «Second – you have just received letters from courts all over Europe, informing us of their decision to reverse their laws of investiture. They would make fools of the Holy See – but a successful Crusade would reaffirm your authority.»
«And finally – clever though the arguments of the Norwegian King may be, his fellow monarchs all know they act against your will – by extension against the will of God. This makes them afraid.» Giuseppe fixed his master with a piercing stare. «Make it simple – they must answer the call to arms, and pledge to aid Navarra and Aragon, or they will be excommunicated in short order.»

Giuseppe waved his three extended fingers towards the Pope. Victor III looked terrified. «I can't do that!»

«Ah, but you forget that you are The Holy Father. You can, in fact, do that.»

«If I excommunicate them all, there's no telling what will happen!»

Giuseppe shrugged. «The idea is that they'll respond rather then risk excommunication. I suggest you go directly to the source of the problem – start with the Norwegian King. His reign has just begun, an excommunication would hamper his ability to rule severely.»

«This scheme of yours, Giuseppe, it is fraught with risk.»

«Fortunately, Father, as soon as you make it your scheme, we can all rely on your divine infallibility.»



Dorset, England
April 5th, 1140


The young King Osulf I of England mustered his best authoritative voice, and shouted at the new arrival: «What news?»

«Your wife, my liege, is bedridden.»

Clamping the armrests of his throne, his voice quivering, he asked: «How fares she?»

«She, uh – well, the midwives say she's tired. Because of the child.»

«Make ... Make sure she is well.»

The household servant cocked an eyebrow. «Yes, my lord.»

A handmaiden leaned close to the servant, whispered something, leading them both into a low chuckle.

Osulf could only imagine what they had been whispering about.

What colour will the child be?

The old French King Othon had brought at least one thing of value back from the failed crusade of times past, when he had been young – the ebony-skinned Fana, whom he wed and made Queen. Her daughter Adalmode was just a shade paler than Fana, but more than dark enough to stand out in a crowd.

The colour of his wife's skin was the source of much wonder, amusement and rumour at court, he knew. Osulf felt nothing but adoration for Adalmode, yet sometimes, he couldn't help but join them in wondering – what colour would the child be?

The union between the houses of Godwin and Capet was an ongoing affair, with new tethers fastened every generation – this was no different, although it had been engineered in its entirety by his father, Eadric. He had died before he could arrange a betrothal for his youngest son and Osulf's youngest brother, three-year old Siward.

I should show some initiative – some authority!

He could try to cement some new alliances ... But with who? After a moment of pondering, he called out for a scribe.

The new King of Norway was young, by reputation brilliant, and proven to be strategically gifted. He also had two daughters. The eldest one, Osulf seemed to recall, was already betrothed to a Prince of some easterly people. But the younger one – she was around Siward's own age.

Of course, his people – loyal subjects as they were – were naturally skeptical of all things Norse. And who could blame them? He would have to convince them that they could no longer let themselves be governed by the embers of old feuds, and instead cultivate relations with their neighbours. Harald Hardråde was long dead, and none of his successors had ever been discovered to have designs on England. There were rummagings in Scotland, however, and possibly Ireland...

But that's not my problem.

The Scribe arrived, trailing parchment, and Osulf began to dictate.



Håtuna, Sweden
August 26th, 1140


At last, there would be peace between Sweden and Denmark. The Danish delegation had arrived earlier in the day, and they were here not just to reaffirm the uneasy truce forced by the sudden Norwegian occupation of territories from both sides – they were also coming to see Princess Elin in the flesh.

Björn Tykesson looked every part the norse warrior of myth – tall, broad of shoulder, fair-haired. He flanked his younger sister on one side, their father, King Tyke, hovering on the other.

Elin was fidgeting. «When do they get here? What's he like?»

Björn placed a hand on her shoulder. «You'll see when they get here – not long now.»

The Princess was fourteen, and the truce had been sealed with her betrothal to the much older Danish prince – Poul. Björn had never met the man, but a sense of natural rivalry had seeped into his veins, making his blood boil. Not only would be he be robbed of the chance to kill him on the battlefield – the pampered dandy was going to abscond with his sister. Yet he remained composed, quiet. His father depended on him.

The Danes arrived, being formally announced by their own royal guard, and a string of formalities and empty, but tense pleasantries followed in a haze. Poul looked like a younger version of his father, King Einar – lanky, dark-haired. They were canny negotatiors and competent commanders both. Elin involuntarily shied away from the scrutinizing glance Poul shot her, and Björn quietly extended his arm behind her, keeping his sister in place. He leaned in, whispering: «This won't take long. No running away.»

Elin nodded, and straightened.

Einar stepped forward, ushering Poul along. «You look enchanting, Princess,» the older man said. «I am very glad we came here to meet you in advance.»

He smiled in a kindly fashion. Not quite the grandfatherly old man he wants to be, Björn thought sourly. It seemed to have the desired effect on Elin, however – her tension loosened slightly.

The Danish King gestured to his son. «You'll have to excuse him for being tight-lipped – no doubt mesmerized by your beauty and grace.»

Poul responded with a deep bow, aimed mostly at Elin, and – for the first time – said something.
«I see I stand to gain the most by far from this betrothal – your graces are considerable, Princess. I can only hope that in the end, I will be worthy of you.»

Elin flushed. Björn wanted to punch the Danish prince. The Princess tried to say something, fumbled for words, and eventually decided against it. Instead, she turned and sought an exit, with as much grace as she could muster. Tyke gave her a fatherly look, and turned to his guests with a shrug.

«She's shy – but I think she likes you.»

***​

Following the initial conversation, the two kings – Einar and Tyke – adjourned to a private chamber to, as they said, curse King Are of Norway in unison, and perhaps formulate a strategy for striking back.

Left with one another for company, Björn and Poul exchanged equally uneasy looks.

«You might as well sit,» Björn muttered, indicating a nearby table with accompanying chairs. A servant rushed in to offer them each a goblet of wine. Poul took his. Björn mouthed mead to the servant, who scurried off. Then he sat, waiting.

«I get the sense you don't like me,» Poul offered casually.

Björn snorted. «We've been killing each other on and off for thirty years – and now we're trading my sister for a truce.»

Poul smiled apologetically. «Would that I could marry you, then.»

Björn almost laughed, and so decided to change subjects. «What's your take on the new Norwegian King?»

«You mean the one who just snagged a considerable chunk of our inheritances?»

Björn nodded glumly.

«He's sharp, obviously. Never met him in battle before – the old Queen had ties to my family.»

«I heard he had her killed.»

«That is a popular rumour. I haven't decided yet if I believe it.»

The servant arrived with an ornate horn of mead for Björn.

«What if it's true?»

Poul stared into his goblet of wine. «Would it matter – I mean, he's made his play now, regardless. Whether he killed her or not, we are obliged to answer him on the field of battle.»

Björn drank deeply. «I don't understand his reasoning – did he expect us to keep warring while he took our land?»

«It's not an unreasonable line of thought. Troubling as it may be, I fear that, once Norway has been pacified, the days of peace between us will be numbered.»

«Why is that?»

«We're neighbours, we're always going to find something to war over. As soon as this treaty is forgotten, our children or grandchildren will unsheathe their swords again.»

«You think too much.»

Poul shrugged. «Must be the wine.»



Leiningen, Franconia
December 15th , 1140


«I don't care how club-footed she is! In fact, she could have two – or, god help us, three – clubfeet, and you would still marry her!» Holy Roman Emperor Heinrich III bellowed at his sulking son, also named Heinrich. His sulking, lazy, and near-imbecilic son, who was still his best hope for an heir.

«But I don't want to.» Heinrich the Younger pouted.

I probably shouldn't have let him have everything he wanted as a child.

«Doesn't matter. You're going to,» the emperor insisted. «She's clever – sharp as a tack – and you're going to need someone like that. If not, I might as well serve you up for the King of Bohemia myself – stick you on a spit, grill you, and push an apple straight down your stupid throat.»

His son blanched.

Sighing, Heinrich continued in a milder tone. «Look – the Premyslids would eat you alive. They'll still try, but with a wife who can do the thinking for you, maybe you have a chance of keeping your ungainly backside perched on that throne.»

«But – she's ugly!»

«She's not. And if she was, it wouldn't matter – but still. She's quite comely. Just... Well, don't look at her foot – now, as I was saying....»

The kaiser paced the room.

«If, by some manner of divine intervention, you should manage to procreate and, by the gods, produce an heir with your looks and his mother's brains, then I'll have done what I could.»

Prince Heinrich stomped his foot. «But I don't want to!»

His father closed the distance between them with a few quick steps, and sent his son tumbling to the floor with a backhand slap. «You're a man grown now,» the Kaiser growled at his cowering son. «Act like one – this isn't a matter for debate.»

Looking at the quivering form that was his heir, the Holy Roman Emperor was filled with something he thought might be bottomless despair. He held out his hand, and Heinrich grasped, carefully, and was pulled abruptly to his feet. The emperor dusted the boy off with a few gruff slaps, then looked him square in the eyes.

«You are marrying Grethe Glumsdotter. A Princess – deposed though her mother may be – is far better than you deserve.»
 
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Wait what? What Norwegian Inheritance? I must've missed that part...
 
yay! nice update, and ima lready curious about whats going to happen: crusade, war and more intrestign things!

There will be loads of stuff going on - not all the monarchs featured in the update are quite as safely seated on their thrones as they might think!

Wait what? What Norwegian Inheritance? I must've missed that part...

If you're thinking of the part where the princes say something about inheritances, they're just referring to those parts of the of Sweden and Denmark which Norway had conquered. They're both in line for their respective thrones, after all.

Also: I just added a Table of Contents to the first post in this thread. Direct links to all the posts containing updates, and a section for the extras.
 
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Norway conquered parts of Denmark and Sweden? I only remember heavy emphasis on a retarded queen and civil warfare. No international Viking Conquest.
 
It's not ever been described "real-time" in the narrative, as it took place in the otherwise uneventful years between Queen Gyda being deposed and the story picking up again properly a few years later. Hence why Björn and Poul are just referencing it - the territories aren't hugely important, but they are something of a precursor to future events. Are just decided to immediately capitalize on the constant wars between Swedes and Danes to grab some land from both.

Sorry for the confusion. :)

There happens some other stuff in between there too that's not really suitable for a narrative but is, the way I see it, historical prerequisites for elements of the narrative to come - like extensive military reforms and expansion of infrastructure. That'll also just be referenced later.