I second the thought about Brittany
Hmmmm...I will consider the matter with my Council like any good King would hehehe...watch this space
O' Flower of Scotland-A Scotland The Old Gods AAR
- Thread starter Asantahene
- Start date
-
We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
Hmmmm...I will consider the matter with my Council like any good King would hehehe...watch this space
They are great-hope I can hold them though and thanks re the maps-loved putting them together!
Great AAR, Asantahene! Love the maps-how do you make them?
Hey GreatUberGeek-thanks for the support-I really do appreciate it and thrive on it :blush: The maps I used an app on my Mac called Draw-once I had worked it out you can then add shapes etc to existing photos-it took a while but well worth it-really glad you liked
Town of Roscommon, Connacht, Ireland
30th September 1126
The principle dwelling of the picturesque castle town and seat of the Dukes of Connacht nestled at the heart of Ireland, between the dense woodland of Knockcroghery to the west and the mighty Lough Ree in the east. It had long played host to first the Petty Kings of Connacht then its Dukes but in the warm autumn of 1126 its august visitor was none other than the King himself. This was towards the last leg of an eighteen month royal progress that had commenced in Wales in the spring of 1125-not long after the birth of their fourth child-Princess Megan, had traversed through Scotland and its Isles during the summer and autumn of that year, paused during the winter, then had recommenced once the snows had melted in the year 1126. Laurence had taken his time, stopping at every town and burgh in that greenest of Isles. Long had the peoples of Ireland complained that their King was of the Scots, had forgotten his ancestors own roots as Ard Ri-High King and uniter of the warring factions there.
And they had not held back in their desire to greet their King, to touch him, to hail him, to beseech him. Laurence, always flanked by his beautiful wife-Queen of Scots, Forflissa of Clan Mac Rag Naill, the puissant family that were now Dukes of Munster through her older brother Adam, son of Earl Ewan of Carrick, who had married the Duchess Mariota and thus elevated that family to new heights. Such were the advantages in those times of many children and advantageous marriage compacts! This same Adam was the current elective choice to inherit the Kingdom of Ireland itself should some evil befall Laurence. The King was not displeased-he liked his brother in law and there would be time enough to promote the cause of his eldest Robert, now under the guardianship of the warrior-like Ewan of Connacht-brother of the late slain Brice.
Stone castles were a new sight in Ireland-indeed in Scotland-this practice having been brought to the Islands by the Normans some eighty years previously but the royal party were pleased to be housed in one such sturdy and thrusting structure. On that particular afternoon, in the Solar, the King was bent over a very large map of Northern Europe. With him was his Chancellor, the venerable Valdemar, Duke of Orkney and Vestlander- a man well travelled and knowledgeable about the affairs of the world: he had even pilgrimaged to Rome in his younger days and had been much impressed by the splendour and the decadence that he had witnessed in that eternal city.
‘The crusade called by the Holy Father will be lost Sire of that I am certain for though the Doge of Venice has contributed some say no less than twenty five thousand men to the battle it will not be enough to fend off the heretic hordes of the Caliph and his acolytes..’
‘Twenty five thousand you say?’ Laurence interrupted incredulous
‘Aye my Liege that is what my spies tell me.’
The King whistled softly-if his combined realms could muster half those numbers it would be nothing short of a miracle-manpower was still his Achilles heel. He hoped that he had earlier in the year instituted a measure with his new Marshall, his cousin Aufrica’s son Wihtræd, the Earl of Powys who he had elevated to Duke of Gwynedd and then Marshall of all the Realms. The boy had much promise, was a student of warfare like himself and a keen learner. He had left that young man in Gowrie recruiting two new retinues: one a Shock Troop of Archers and heavy Infantry, the other a new type of Pike unit, invented in the highlands: the Schiltrom. To complete the picture the King had instructed his Marshall to scour Northern Europe for the heavy destrier favoured by the Normans-that warlike race. He wanted something different from the hardy but light shaggy garron pony so favoured by the Scots-something that could achieve true shock action and allow large sections of his army to manoeuvre and flank the enemy.
‘Nonetheless my Lord Duke do you not think the Pope will look favourably upon us were we to join this daring venture? My mind goes back to an Ancestor of mine: Kenneth of ill-fame, excommunicated and ruined for not being close enough to the Papal plottings. I would fain avoid such a fate.’
The Duke pondered this, ‘My Liege speaks true: Kenneth III was indeed overthrown because he allowed his martial lusts to obscure his spiritual needs-allowed Lords inimical to himself to persuade the Pope then to excommunicate him. But that Pope was weak-Hilarius is not and there is no indication from our representative at the Vatican that the Holy Father esteems you not…’
‘Nonetheless the Lords Spiritual here are clamouring for me to make some gesture Orkney-Giric most of all.’ The King said ruefully. He had come under increasing pressure ever since the Crusade had been called in the previous year to support it. His Court Chaplain, Bishop Giric of Elgin had been the most vociferous.
‘You are not secure enough yet to commit yourself or large numbers of soldiers to a cause on the other side of the world Sire-make a gesture-say you will commit troops and delay! That will raise your standing in Papal eyes whilst not endangering your realms.’
The King beamed; ‘a great idea Valdemar! A great idea-we will make it so!’
Laurence next pointed towards Scandinavia, ‘what of these parts my lord? You have much interest there do you not? What of these lands that swear fealty to me though I have heard of neither? What are they called?’
‘They are Telemark and Rogaland and both your vassals through me. However you should be aware that Prince Tibor of Hungary has been plotting to put a puppet of his on the throne of Vestlander-I am opposing him directly as Duke there and-‘
The King yawned loudly and conspicuously stopping Valdemar in mid flow ‘I confess My Lord Duke that I find the affairs of provincial Norse lands not to my liking-not at all. I was not even aware that I had interests in these demesnes until you told me these few months past.’
‘My King-I’
‘Your Grace you are hurt are you not?’ The King asked solicitously-his interruption had not been subtly done but Valdemar could be so insufferably boring! He moved to appease his Chancellor, ‘what I can do for you my Lord is send troops to contest the King of Norway’s attempts to annex Fareyar-how will that please you?’
At this the older man’s serious features softened into a grateful smile-his de jure islands of the Faeries had been independent ever since the revolt led by Bragi in the reign of Richard I. He had oft pressed the new King on the matter but had got the distinct impression that his new Liege was not in the slightest interested-this changed all of that. Whether of course they would be in time to wrest the Islands from the Norwegian King was another matter-the Norwegians had been besieging the Island for some months.
The King’s focus was back on the map: ‘here in Europe, look you your Grace, I see the power of the three states of West Francia, Lotharingia and East Francia. All other realms are like mice scrabbling around for their leavings!’
‘True Sire but see you Italy-they too have grown strong over the years!’
‘And Byzantium-they still act as the bulwark against the infidel Turks. I like not what I see in Spain mind. It seems our fellow catholic monarchs there have made little headway against the Muslim defilers.’
They pored over the map contesting this and debating that until the bells of the Castle chapel were signalling nones indicating that the afternoon was well underway.
‘Some of my advisors are urging me to look towards Brittany or Northumbria with a view to lay claims to the lands there-they say there are many dwelling thereabouts who share our Celtic blood and would welcome such a move. What say you my Lord Duke?’
The Duke was secretly aghast-to move against Northumbria would risk all-out war with England and its allies-utter folly. Brittany may be easier but was across the English Sea and these were domains long coveted by the rulers of mighty West Francia. He spoke carefully, however-it did not do to displease this King-he was fair but there was a cruel streak in him that lurked just beneath the seemingly pious and fair exterior. ‘My Lord King I am sure that I could work to fabricate claims to the various counties of Brittany but of its seven counties all but one are of Breton culture-distant relations to us Celts-more akin to the peoples of Cornwall who esteem you not...’ Valdemar paused to see if he could gauge any sort of reaction from his sire. Of the other’s face there was only inscrutability.
He continued evenly, ‘Northumbria is wholly Saxon my Liege-no fellow Celts there to rouse into revolt. No I would suggest that whoever has advised you has done so without proper research into their subject matter.’
Laurence eyed the man steadily and there appeared a strained silence between the two men that lasted for long moments before the King broke into a broad grin and slapped his older advisor on the shoulder exclaiming ‘Ah Valdemar! This is why I appointed you my Chancellor despite your advancing years. You are not afraid to speak your mind-you served my Uncle, King Richard, well and by God man you are doing the same for me!’
At which point they were interrupted by the entrance of Laurence’s Queen followed by their brood; twelve year old Robert, flanked by his younger brothers Ewan and Thomas. A wet nurse carried the one year old Princess Megan, still suckling at her teats. Laurence could not help but feel proud: his wife was no love match but they got on well enough the two of them. He loved her for her kind, just nature-her love of pleasure whether in the marriage bed or outside of it and her pride. She kept his baser instincts in check-those times when a coarser, more primal nature beckoned such as that time when he had seriously contemplated visiting some of his prisoners after the Welsh wars-those were times when he drew upon her light to efface the darkness that sometimes threatened to overcome him…
‘Ah here is my Lady wife and what has she brought?’ The King stooped down to grasp his youngest son, six year old Thomas in his arms, picking him up and twirling the delighted boy round and round in the air. The Queen watched with a wry smile upon her face: for all his faults Laurence was utterly devoted to his sons-would that he will be as taken with his daughter she hoped.
But there was no doubt that Laurence loved his children equally-after his vigorous game with Thomas he ruffled Ewan’s bright red hair, putting a fatherly arm round his shoulder whilst at the same time engaging his rather more serious eldest son, Robert in earnest conversation. ‘And how go your studies my boy? Is the Duke of Connacht as stern a tutor as they say?’
The handsome, similarly red-headed Robert, heir to the Kingdoms of Scotland and Wales-though not yet Ireland-nodded vigorously doing his best to sound as manly as possible. This was no easy feat of course with his voice yet to properly deepen: the resulting pitch was often more comic than serious. ‘He is everything a tutor could be father-I have missed you though.’
This last was a sign that in spite of it all the green fens and bogs of Ireland were not Scotland and the boy missed his real home. It was expedient though that the Royal family’s ties to Ireland were strengthened-this lad was to be King.
At that point there was a commotion from the far end of the room as in bustled Mayor Fergus of Dingwall-his Master of Secrets. Though he was an essential part of his Privy Council, Laurence’s heart always sank when he made an entrance, unannounced, like this: it was usually a herald of ill tidings. The Queen-ever sensitive politically advised the children that they were to leave their Lord father to his Councillors and all hurried from the Solar.
Laurence turned to Fergus, ‘well my Lord Mayor this has better be worth the interruption-what brings you hotfoot from Scotland?’
The Mayor, a greying, slight, bearded man with a stoop who made an art form of blending into the background was for once standing out, his face flushed and sweaty in the September heat. ‘My Lord King, grave tidings-as you know the Earl of Atholl has never been your friend and has long sought to limit your powers. Up until now none of us has borne him any mind…’
‘Out with it Dingwall!’ Snapped Valdemar to his fellow Councillor ‘Enough of this dissembling!’
If the Spymaster was ruffled by this intemperate outburst from the Duke he did not show it merely pausing before continuing. ‘Well my spies tell me that Duchess Eva of the Isles has committed herself and the warlike Islanders to the cause. We estimate that were they to rise in revolt they could muster nearly three thousand to their banners.’
Laurence paused not a whit, ‘is that all my Lord? All this has brought you to our presence here? I am truly esteemed that you would think such trivial news worth the trip!’
‘There is more my Lord…much more. It seems that they have also contracted with one of the Lords of your Council to press a claim for the throne of Scotland itself-someone who could significantly swell the numbers sworn to the cause. My Lord King I have it on good authority that your own Chancellor, Valdemar, Duke of Orkney and Vestlander has thrown his lot in with the plotters!’
There was a pregnant and suspense laden hiatus whilst Laurence assimilated this dread news-he turned his implacable gaze upon Valdemar and all that he needed to see was reflected back in the older man’s expression. ‘Orkney get thee gone from my sight for I do see danger and disobedience in your eyes!’
And without so much as an obeisance that potent Lord from the North was gone leaving the King to contemplate the meaning of loyalty in his troublesome vassals.
At last he spoke ‘Dingwall fetch me my Lord of Connacht-he is just the man to replace Valdemar as Chancellor. Meantime have your spies watch the Orkneyman like a hawk-these factions seperate cannot really challenge me…together, however…’ The King did not need to complete the sentence.
‘Already done my King,’ the smooth Mayor intoned slyly ‘already done…’
30th September 1126
The principle dwelling of the picturesque castle town and seat of the Dukes of Connacht nestled at the heart of Ireland, between the dense woodland of Knockcroghery to the west and the mighty Lough Ree in the east. It had long played host to first the Petty Kings of Connacht then its Dukes but in the warm autumn of 1126 its august visitor was none other than the King himself. This was towards the last leg of an eighteen month royal progress that had commenced in Wales in the spring of 1125-not long after the birth of their fourth child-Princess Megan, had traversed through Scotland and its Isles during the summer and autumn of that year, paused during the winter, then had recommenced once the snows had melted in the year 1126. Laurence had taken his time, stopping at every town and burgh in that greenest of Isles. Long had the peoples of Ireland complained that their King was of the Scots, had forgotten his ancestors own roots as Ard Ri-High King and uniter of the warring factions there.
Roscommon Castle Modern Day
And they had not held back in their desire to greet their King, to touch him, to hail him, to beseech him. Laurence, always flanked by his beautiful wife-Queen of Scots, Forflissa of Clan Mac Rag Naill, the puissant family that were now Dukes of Munster through her older brother Adam, son of Earl Ewan of Carrick, who had married the Duchess Mariota and thus elevated that family to new heights. Such were the advantages in those times of many children and advantageous marriage compacts! This same Adam was the current elective choice to inherit the Kingdom of Ireland itself should some evil befall Laurence. The King was not displeased-he liked his brother in law and there would be time enough to promote the cause of his eldest Robert, now under the guardianship of the warrior-like Ewan of Connacht-brother of the late slain Brice.
Stone castles were a new sight in Ireland-indeed in Scotland-this practice having been brought to the Islands by the Normans some eighty years previously but the royal party were pleased to be housed in one such sturdy and thrusting structure. On that particular afternoon, in the Solar, the King was bent over a very large map of Northern Europe. With him was his Chancellor, the venerable Valdemar, Duke of Orkney and Vestlander- a man well travelled and knowledgeable about the affairs of the world: he had even pilgrimaged to Rome in his younger days and had been much impressed by the splendour and the decadence that he had witnessed in that eternal city.
‘The crusade called by the Holy Father will be lost Sire of that I am certain for though the Doge of Venice has contributed some say no less than twenty five thousand men to the battle it will not be enough to fend off the heretic hordes of the Caliph and his acolytes..’
‘Twenty five thousand you say?’ Laurence interrupted incredulous
‘Aye my Liege that is what my spies tell me.’
The King whistled softly-if his combined realms could muster half those numbers it would be nothing short of a miracle-manpower was still his Achilles heel. He hoped that he had earlier in the year instituted a measure with his new Marshall, his cousin Aufrica’s son Wihtræd, the Earl of Powys who he had elevated to Duke of Gwynedd and then Marshall of all the Realms. The boy had much promise, was a student of warfare like himself and a keen learner. He had left that young man in Gowrie recruiting two new retinues: one a Shock Troop of Archers and heavy Infantry, the other a new type of Pike unit, invented in the highlands: the Schiltrom. To complete the picture the King had instructed his Marshall to scour Northern Europe for the heavy destrier favoured by the Normans-that warlike race. He wanted something different from the hardy but light shaggy garron pony so favoured by the Scots-something that could achieve true shock action and allow large sections of his army to manoeuvre and flank the enemy.
The Duke pondered this, ‘My Liege speaks true: Kenneth III was indeed overthrown because he allowed his martial lusts to obscure his spiritual needs-allowed Lords inimical to himself to persuade the Pope then to excommunicate him. But that Pope was weak-Hilarius is not and there is no indication from our representative at the Vatican that the Holy Father esteems you not…’
‘Nonetheless the Lords Spiritual here are clamouring for me to make some gesture Orkney-Giric most of all.’ The King said ruefully. He had come under increasing pressure ever since the Crusade had been called in the previous year to support it. His Court Chaplain, Bishop Giric of Elgin had been the most vociferous.
‘You are not secure enough yet to commit yourself or large numbers of soldiers to a cause on the other side of the world Sire-make a gesture-say you will commit troops and delay! That will raise your standing in Papal eyes whilst not endangering your realms.’
The King beamed; ‘a great idea Valdemar! A great idea-we will make it so!’
Laurence next pointed towards Scandinavia, ‘what of these parts my lord? You have much interest there do you not? What of these lands that swear fealty to me though I have heard of neither? What are they called?’
‘They are Telemark and Rogaland and both your vassals through me. However you should be aware that Prince Tibor of Hungary has been plotting to put a puppet of his on the throne of Vestlander-I am opposing him directly as Duke there and-‘
The King yawned loudly and conspicuously stopping Valdemar in mid flow ‘I confess My Lord Duke that I find the affairs of provincial Norse lands not to my liking-not at all. I was not even aware that I had interests in these demesnes until you told me these few months past.’
‘My King-I’
‘Your Grace you are hurt are you not?’ The King asked solicitously-his interruption had not been subtly done but Valdemar could be so insufferably boring! He moved to appease his Chancellor, ‘what I can do for you my Lord is send troops to contest the King of Norway’s attempts to annex Fareyar-how will that please you?’
At this the older man’s serious features softened into a grateful smile-his de jure islands of the Faeries had been independent ever since the revolt led by Bragi in the reign of Richard I. He had oft pressed the new King on the matter but had got the distinct impression that his new Liege was not in the slightest interested-this changed all of that. Whether of course they would be in time to wrest the Islands from the Norwegian King was another matter-the Norwegians had been besieging the Island for some months.
The King’s focus was back on the map: ‘here in Europe, look you your Grace, I see the power of the three states of West Francia, Lotharingia and East Francia. All other realms are like mice scrabbling around for their leavings!’
‘True Sire but see you Italy-they too have grown strong over the years!’
‘And Byzantium-they still act as the bulwark against the infidel Turks. I like not what I see in Spain mind. It seems our fellow catholic monarchs there have made little headway against the Muslim defilers.’
They pored over the map contesting this and debating that until the bells of the Castle chapel were signalling nones indicating that the afternoon was well underway.
‘Some of my advisors are urging me to look towards Brittany or Northumbria with a view to lay claims to the lands there-they say there are many dwelling thereabouts who share our Celtic blood and would welcome such a move. What say you my Lord Duke?’
Northumbria
Brittany
The Duke was secretly aghast-to move against Northumbria would risk all-out war with England and its allies-utter folly. Brittany may be easier but was across the English Sea and these were domains long coveted by the rulers of mighty West Francia. He spoke carefully, however-it did not do to displease this King-he was fair but there was a cruel streak in him that lurked just beneath the seemingly pious and fair exterior. ‘My Lord King I am sure that I could work to fabricate claims to the various counties of Brittany but of its seven counties all but one are of Breton culture-distant relations to us Celts-more akin to the peoples of Cornwall who esteem you not...’ Valdemar paused to see if he could gauge any sort of reaction from his sire. Of the other’s face there was only inscrutability.
He continued evenly, ‘Northumbria is wholly Saxon my Liege-no fellow Celts there to rouse into revolt. No I would suggest that whoever has advised you has done so without proper research into their subject matter.’
Laurence eyed the man steadily and there appeared a strained silence between the two men that lasted for long moments before the King broke into a broad grin and slapped his older advisor on the shoulder exclaiming ‘Ah Valdemar! This is why I appointed you my Chancellor despite your advancing years. You are not afraid to speak your mind-you served my Uncle, King Richard, well and by God man you are doing the same for me!’
At which point they were interrupted by the entrance of Laurence’s Queen followed by their brood; twelve year old Robert, flanked by his younger brothers Ewan and Thomas. A wet nurse carried the one year old Princess Megan, still suckling at her teats. Laurence could not help but feel proud: his wife was no love match but they got on well enough the two of them. He loved her for her kind, just nature-her love of pleasure whether in the marriage bed or outside of it and her pride. She kept his baser instincts in check-those times when a coarser, more primal nature beckoned such as that time when he had seriously contemplated visiting some of his prisoners after the Welsh wars-those were times when he drew upon her light to efface the darkness that sometimes threatened to overcome him…
‘Ah here is my Lady wife and what has she brought?’ The King stooped down to grasp his youngest son, six year old Thomas in his arms, picking him up and twirling the delighted boy round and round in the air. The Queen watched with a wry smile upon her face: for all his faults Laurence was utterly devoted to his sons-would that he will be as taken with his daughter she hoped.
But there was no doubt that Laurence loved his children equally-after his vigorous game with Thomas he ruffled Ewan’s bright red hair, putting a fatherly arm round his shoulder whilst at the same time engaging his rather more serious eldest son, Robert in earnest conversation. ‘And how go your studies my boy? Is the Duke of Connacht as stern a tutor as they say?’
The handsome, similarly red-headed Robert, heir to the Kingdoms of Scotland and Wales-though not yet Ireland-nodded vigorously doing his best to sound as manly as possible. This was no easy feat of course with his voice yet to properly deepen: the resulting pitch was often more comic than serious. ‘He is everything a tutor could be father-I have missed you though.’
This last was a sign that in spite of it all the green fens and bogs of Ireland were not Scotland and the boy missed his real home. It was expedient though that the Royal family’s ties to Ireland were strengthened-this lad was to be King.
At that point there was a commotion from the far end of the room as in bustled Mayor Fergus of Dingwall-his Master of Secrets. Though he was an essential part of his Privy Council, Laurence’s heart always sank when he made an entrance, unannounced, like this: it was usually a herald of ill tidings. The Queen-ever sensitive politically advised the children that they were to leave their Lord father to his Councillors and all hurried from the Solar.
Laurence turned to Fergus, ‘well my Lord Mayor this has better be worth the interruption-what brings you hotfoot from Scotland?’
The Mayor, a greying, slight, bearded man with a stoop who made an art form of blending into the background was for once standing out, his face flushed and sweaty in the September heat. ‘My Lord King, grave tidings-as you know the Earl of Atholl has never been your friend and has long sought to limit your powers. Up until now none of us has borne him any mind…’
‘Out with it Dingwall!’ Snapped Valdemar to his fellow Councillor ‘Enough of this dissembling!’
If the Spymaster was ruffled by this intemperate outburst from the Duke he did not show it merely pausing before continuing. ‘Well my spies tell me that Duchess Eva of the Isles has committed herself and the warlike Islanders to the cause. We estimate that were they to rise in revolt they could muster nearly three thousand to their banners.’
Laurence paused not a whit, ‘is that all my Lord? All this has brought you to our presence here? I am truly esteemed that you would think such trivial news worth the trip!’
‘There is more my Lord…much more. It seems that they have also contracted with one of the Lords of your Council to press a claim for the throne of Scotland itself-someone who could significantly swell the numbers sworn to the cause. My Lord King I have it on good authority that your own Chancellor, Valdemar, Duke of Orkney and Vestlander has thrown his lot in with the plotters!’
There was a pregnant and suspense laden hiatus whilst Laurence assimilated this dread news-he turned his implacable gaze upon Valdemar and all that he needed to see was reflected back in the older man’s expression. ‘Orkney get thee gone from my sight for I do see danger and disobedience in your eyes!’
And without so much as an obeisance that potent Lord from the North was gone leaving the King to contemplate the meaning of loyalty in his troublesome vassals.
At last he spoke ‘Dingwall fetch me my Lord of Connacht-he is just the man to replace Valdemar as Chancellor. Meantime have your spies watch the Orkneyman like a hawk-these factions seperate cannot really challenge me…together, however…’ The King did not need to complete the sentence.
‘Already done my King,’ the smooth Mayor intoned slyly ‘already done…’
Alas my lord, I argued Brittany should be in your dominion for celtic reasons...Northumberland would be weaken England and give you more
strategic depth.
strategic depth.
Not ready for expansionist wars yet for internal domestic reasons as you shall see in my next posts (in other words all is not quiet in my Welsh domains-a lot has happened in Laurence's reign most of it inwards facing...)
Definitely 'reasonable enough' I had to use a judiciously arranged alliance with England to bail me out of an a Independence war with that bitch Myfanwy! Watch this space...
It's good to see over 3000 views but not getting a lot of feedback to this story. Are people enjoying it? Is the rate of 1 post a week sufficient I'm wondering?
Scone Palace Dungeons, Gowrie, Scotland
10th November 1141
The Gaoler scrambled to his feet-he had not been expecting visitors at this hour and as the flickering torchlight illuminated the cowled face of the leader of this particular one he gasped audibly before trying to force his not inconsiderable bulk onto its knees.
‘My Liege…’
‘Rise Sirrah! I would see the Countess Myfanwy.’ Laurence had not been able to sleep-his thoughts haunted by dark thoughts of harming those high ranking captors in his care.
‘Sire!’ The grunting, now sweating man fumbled for the right set of keys, locating them after what seemed an interminable time. He snatched occasional surreptitious glances at the King’s face but if Laurence was irritated at the delay there was nothing on his fine features to show it-the Scots monarch was lost in his own thoughts.
The party was led down a damp and musky corridor-here the dungeons were open and those cells left and right were peopled with the high ranking prisoners of Laurence’s Welsh and Irish wars. It was 1141 but the Celtic realms had only been at peace these last three years-the preceding eleven had been those of what seemed like endless wars between first Myfanwy’s Wales and then an Irish Pretender: Malmure’s Irish host.
In the end Laurence had won but only because of the timely assistance of their English allies and the skilled generalship of his foremost battle commander, Ewan of Connacht. There were testing times during the deich mbliana an chogaidh-the decade of war-such as when the Lotharingian’s sacked Scone, took the palace and imprisoned two of Laurence’s young daughters. The news drove the King half mad with fear and nerves but, with a herculean effort, he had pulled himself together and continued to prosecute the war with his real enemy in South Wales. It was a frightening time to have a large foreign army ranging freely through his Kingdom but Laurence had to put his trust in the reluctance of King Norbert of Lotharingia to harm Royal Princesses, not to mention wee bairns such as his Agnes and Megan.
After unlocking the heavy oaken door to the room at the end of the corridor-a closed one, the gaoler stood aside. Laurence motioned for his two guards to wait outside and taking a torch from one of them he entered.
The flickering torchlight illuminated a willowy figure on the bed at the far side of the frigid room. She was wrapped in the threadbare blankets that she had managed to cajole from her captors. They had been told to treat her harshly but she was not a once anointed queen for lacking any charm or guile-it had not taken her too long to melt the hardest of hearts and solicit some concessions from her captors. It was just as well to ease her comfort as the years had progressed-she had been captive for six years now and there was no end in sight.
She had struggled upright on hearing the noisy unlocking of the door and squinted at the visitor not able to see as her eyes adjusted to the sudden light. When she realised who had come to see her it was her turn to gasp in shock-instinctively she cringed, cowering against the bed and wrapping herself still more tightly in the blanket like a cocoon.
‘You!’ Was all she could hiss. The fear written all over her face was very satisfying for Laurence and it brought a smile to his face. It was a smile that carried as much warmth as the cold Scots November air, however.
Myfanwy of House Morgannwg, once anointed Queen of Wales, suddenly remembered herself and rose from the bed to properly face her tormenter.
‘I trust that you have come to release me and restore me to my Lands My Lord?’
‘Silence harlot!’ The vehemence and savagery of the King’s voice quelled this attempt at defiance. ‘I did not come here to bandy words with a traitor! No I have come to see what the Welsh dragon is made of before I leave you in the care of someone who will out your fires for all eternity.’
Laurence was standing not three paces from her and at these last words Myfanwy shrank back again-tears now streaming down her face. ‘You have been our ruin-you and your cursed House-since time immemorial. Wales should be ruled by the true Welsh-not the upstart Scots with your dreams of a United Celtic Hegemony-curse you to hell Mac Ailpin!’
‘Kind words as always Countess.’ Laurence intoned deliberately using neither her royal epithet or that of her Duchy of Deheubarth as both were titles which he had stripped from her in successive wars. ‘I chose to remember your naming me Pretender especially when news reached me of the imprisonment of my young daughters by your ally Norbert…’ The torchlight made Laurence’s eyes glitter like those of a cat…or worse.
‘You would have done the same-the girls were not harmed My Lord!’ Myfanwy spat and then with defiance returning: ‘I see that your love of family did not stop you remarrying not one month after the death of your saintly wife these two years past-it is a wonder you were even out of mourning garb-‘
With one swift stride the King closed the distance between them and struck the erstwhile Queen a backhander that drove her to the ground.
‘You will not mention my family again during this audience bitch or the death that is coming to you will be so slow and protracted that you will beg me for death! That I do promise you!’
Myfanwy picked herself up and whether with pride or because it was all she knew she raised her chin high-she was a Morgannwg-she would face this man-her nemesis-come what may.
‘What is it you want from me my King?’ This last was spoke with a voice dripping with sarcasm. Her jaw stung from the blow but she did a good job in hiding it-of her tears there were now no more.
‘I want only one thing my Lady’ the King said evenly, he had composed himself now, ‘Malmure’s rebellion-the one that almost finished me coming hard on the heels of your own-fully fifteen thousand men he gathered to his banners-were you in congress with that man?’
At this Myfanwy tilted back her head and laughed- a laugh that bordered on the edge of madness-long and loud it was before she spoke jeeringly, ‘Malmure was my man Laurence-planted in the Irish heartlands, one of them-but also one of mine-yes that was my doing too.’ And then her voice trailing off wistfully, ‘we almost succeeded too-you had to marry your son off to the English to call them in as allies..’
‘I did what I must Myfanwy-the English and the martial prowess of the Duke of Connacht saved the day. Besides Malmure’s armies were ill lead-full of peasants allowing Connacht to best them with significantly inferior numbers.’
Laurence raised the torch to see whether he had inflicted any lasting damage to his enemy-her eye was already swelling he noted with a degree of satisfaction. He had not indulged his cruel streak for many years-Forflissa had been a positive influence on him in that regard. His current consort, Alienor of Aquitaine was a young girl-she was no break on the darker elements of his character.
‘One thing I will say for you Myfanwy-these wars you initiated and that I won have earned me the respect of my nobles. My realms are now at peace-no more craving after new conquests and ambitions for me. If I live out my dotage in gentle civility that will do for me-this much you have given me.’
More evenly now Laurence addressed her ‘your wars cost me eight years-your own from 1128 to 1135 then Malmure’s for another two years after that. These are years that I will never get back My Lady…’
‘Indeed not My Lord-I hear that you were more apt to hide behind your castle wars whilst your sons and nobles fought for you-most manly.’
If these words stung the King he did not show it-he remained silent as Myfanwy warmed to her theme. ‘Yes indeed your vaunted sons Robert, Ewan and Thomas-Ewan is the warrior is he not? How long do you think-look you, before he starts to desire one of your many Kingdoms-much as I hear your erstwhile protégé, Gwynedd does now.’
She looked searchingly at him wanting to know if any of this was hitting home. ‘Yes a Queen has her spies even in this place My Lord-even here. Whatever you do to me one thing that I can promise is that you will know no peace either from your lords or from your sons-‘
‘Quiet! Witch!’ Laurence snapped, his patience finally exhausted. ‘This audience is at end. I have arranged for you to meet one of my trusted artisans. He will cool the dragon’s ardour in you for once and for all-our time here is at an end. Good day to you my lady.’
With that the King turned on his heel and throwing open the door he called to the Gaoler ‘oil up the rack-I want her stretched until she can stretch no more!’
Myfanwy’s screams of terror echoed down the hall as the gaoler and the Kings guards entered the cell with looks of grim determination on their faces…
10th November 1141
The Gaoler scrambled to his feet-he had not been expecting visitors at this hour and as the flickering torchlight illuminated the cowled face of the leader of this particular one he gasped audibly before trying to force his not inconsiderable bulk onto its knees.
‘My Liege…’
‘Rise Sirrah! I would see the Countess Myfanwy.’ Laurence had not been able to sleep-his thoughts haunted by dark thoughts of harming those high ranking captors in his care.
‘Sire!’ The grunting, now sweating man fumbled for the right set of keys, locating them after what seemed an interminable time. He snatched occasional surreptitious glances at the King’s face but if Laurence was irritated at the delay there was nothing on his fine features to show it-the Scots monarch was lost in his own thoughts.
The party was led down a damp and musky corridor-here the dungeons were open and those cells left and right were peopled with the high ranking prisoners of Laurence’s Welsh and Irish wars. It was 1141 but the Celtic realms had only been at peace these last three years-the preceding eleven had been those of what seemed like endless wars between first Myfanwy’s Wales and then an Irish Pretender: Malmure’s Irish host.
In the end Laurence had won but only because of the timely assistance of their English allies and the skilled generalship of his foremost battle commander, Ewan of Connacht. There were testing times during the deich mbliana an chogaidh-the decade of war-such as when the Lotharingian’s sacked Scone, took the palace and imprisoned two of Laurence’s young daughters. The news drove the King half mad with fear and nerves but, with a herculean effort, he had pulled himself together and continued to prosecute the war with his real enemy in South Wales. It was a frightening time to have a large foreign army ranging freely through his Kingdom but Laurence had to put his trust in the reluctance of King Norbert of Lotharingia to harm Royal Princesses, not to mention wee bairns such as his Agnes and Megan.
After unlocking the heavy oaken door to the room at the end of the corridor-a closed one, the gaoler stood aside. Laurence motioned for his two guards to wait outside and taking a torch from one of them he entered.
The flickering torchlight illuminated a willowy figure on the bed at the far side of the frigid room. She was wrapped in the threadbare blankets that she had managed to cajole from her captors. They had been told to treat her harshly but she was not a once anointed queen for lacking any charm or guile-it had not taken her too long to melt the hardest of hearts and solicit some concessions from her captors. It was just as well to ease her comfort as the years had progressed-she had been captive for six years now and there was no end in sight.
She had struggled upright on hearing the noisy unlocking of the door and squinted at the visitor not able to see as her eyes adjusted to the sudden light. When she realised who had come to see her it was her turn to gasp in shock-instinctively she cringed, cowering against the bed and wrapping herself still more tightly in the blanket like a cocoon.
‘You!’ Was all she could hiss. The fear written all over her face was very satisfying for Laurence and it brought a smile to his face. It was a smile that carried as much warmth as the cold Scots November air, however.
Myfanwy of House Morgannwg, once anointed Queen of Wales, suddenly remembered herself and rose from the bed to properly face her tormenter.
‘I trust that you have come to release me and restore me to my Lands My Lord?’
‘Silence harlot!’ The vehemence and savagery of the King’s voice quelled this attempt at defiance. ‘I did not come here to bandy words with a traitor! No I have come to see what the Welsh dragon is made of before I leave you in the care of someone who will out your fires for all eternity.’
Laurence was standing not three paces from her and at these last words Myfanwy shrank back again-tears now streaming down her face. ‘You have been our ruin-you and your cursed House-since time immemorial. Wales should be ruled by the true Welsh-not the upstart Scots with your dreams of a United Celtic Hegemony-curse you to hell Mac Ailpin!’
‘Kind words as always Countess.’ Laurence intoned deliberately using neither her royal epithet or that of her Duchy of Deheubarth as both were titles which he had stripped from her in successive wars. ‘I chose to remember your naming me Pretender especially when news reached me of the imprisonment of my young daughters by your ally Norbert…’ The torchlight made Laurence’s eyes glitter like those of a cat…or worse.
‘You would have done the same-the girls were not harmed My Lord!’ Myfanwy spat and then with defiance returning: ‘I see that your love of family did not stop you remarrying not one month after the death of your saintly wife these two years past-it is a wonder you were even out of mourning garb-‘
With one swift stride the King closed the distance between them and struck the erstwhile Queen a backhander that drove her to the ground.
‘You will not mention my family again during this audience bitch or the death that is coming to you will be so slow and protracted that you will beg me for death! That I do promise you!’
Myfanwy picked herself up and whether with pride or because it was all she knew she raised her chin high-she was a Morgannwg-she would face this man-her nemesis-come what may.
‘What is it you want from me my King?’ This last was spoke with a voice dripping with sarcasm. Her jaw stung from the blow but she did a good job in hiding it-of her tears there were now no more.
‘I want only one thing my Lady’ the King said evenly, he had composed himself now, ‘Malmure’s rebellion-the one that almost finished me coming hard on the heels of your own-fully fifteen thousand men he gathered to his banners-were you in congress with that man?’
At this Myfanwy tilted back her head and laughed- a laugh that bordered on the edge of madness-long and loud it was before she spoke jeeringly, ‘Malmure was my man Laurence-planted in the Irish heartlands, one of them-but also one of mine-yes that was my doing too.’ And then her voice trailing off wistfully, ‘we almost succeeded too-you had to marry your son off to the English to call them in as allies..’
‘I did what I must Myfanwy-the English and the martial prowess of the Duke of Connacht saved the day. Besides Malmure’s armies were ill lead-full of peasants allowing Connacht to best them with significantly inferior numbers.’
Laurence raised the torch to see whether he had inflicted any lasting damage to his enemy-her eye was already swelling he noted with a degree of satisfaction. He had not indulged his cruel streak for many years-Forflissa had been a positive influence on him in that regard. His current consort, Alienor of Aquitaine was a young girl-she was no break on the darker elements of his character.
‘One thing I will say for you Myfanwy-these wars you initiated and that I won have earned me the respect of my nobles. My realms are now at peace-no more craving after new conquests and ambitions for me. If I live out my dotage in gentle civility that will do for me-this much you have given me.’
More evenly now Laurence addressed her ‘your wars cost me eight years-your own from 1128 to 1135 then Malmure’s for another two years after that. These are years that I will never get back My Lady…’
‘Indeed not My Lord-I hear that you were more apt to hide behind your castle wars whilst your sons and nobles fought for you-most manly.’
If these words stung the King he did not show it-he remained silent as Myfanwy warmed to her theme. ‘Yes indeed your vaunted sons Robert, Ewan and Thomas-Ewan is the warrior is he not? How long do you think-look you, before he starts to desire one of your many Kingdoms-much as I hear your erstwhile protégé, Gwynedd does now.’
She looked searchingly at him wanting to know if any of this was hitting home. ‘Yes a Queen has her spies even in this place My Lord-even here. Whatever you do to me one thing that I can promise is that you will know no peace either from your lords or from your sons-‘
‘Quiet! Witch!’ Laurence snapped, his patience finally exhausted. ‘This audience is at end. I have arranged for you to meet one of my trusted artisans. He will cool the dragon’s ardour in you for once and for all-our time here is at an end. Good day to you my lady.’
With that the King turned on his heel and throwing open the door he called to the Gaoler ‘oil up the rack-I want her stretched until she can stretch no more!’
Myfanwy’s screams of terror echoed down the hall as the gaoler and the Kings guards entered the cell with looks of grim determination on their faces…
Last edited:
Telling the events via the conversation was rather interesting. I liked it!
Also, a 67-1 view-post ratio doesn't seem too unusual around these parts. I'm not entirely sure why.
But yes, readers, you should comment on the AARs you read. It's very encouraging when you do so!
Also, a 67-1 view-post ratio doesn't seem too unusual around these parts. I'm not entirely sure why.
But yes, readers, you should comment on the AARs you read. It's very encouraging when you do so!
it was nice retaliation t play with her a little before give her to Lord to be judged for her betrayal against the King A craven Scotish King does not sound well
A craven Scotish King does not sound well
Thanks Idhrendur really appreciate that. It can be a bit lonely sometimes and I kinda get to wondering if people are still reading
it was nice retaliation t play with her a little before give her to Lord to be judged for her betrayal against the King
You're right re 'Craven' but to be honest I just withdrew him from the battle lines. There are far better generals like Ewan of Connacht who's become something of a rock, his Marshall Witraed and his 2 younger sons!
Thanks for the feedback though. I was beginning to lose faith in anyone still reading this
Good show, a generation of peace is called for but brittany must be yours, eventually.
Brittanny before bits of England methinks. I think old Laurence has lost the stomach for warring after almost losing his kingdoms in these 2 decade long wars of independence. + he's lost 3 counties through inheritance now (1 in each kingdom so I think he may focus on some lightning wars to win them back...)
Maybe Brittany is for his rather warlike sons-and I don't mean his heir: watch this space...:ninja:
Great updates! Haven't had a lot of time lately, that's my main problem. Rather horrific little...thing at the end.
Rather horrific little...thing at the end.
Great updates! Haven't had a lot of time lately, that's my main problem.
Hey GreatUberGeek thanks for reply-no worries-good to see you're still on board and yes it was but had to be written about haha