Like blklizard I came here through the WritAAR of the Week thread. I've only read the very first update (there's only so much reading I can get away with at work), but I'll slowly catch up, I promise. 
O' Flower of Scotland-A Scotland The Old Gods AAR
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Like blklizard I came here through the WritAAR of the Week thread. I've only read the very first update (there's only so much reading I can get away with at work), but I'll slowly catch up, I promise.
Good to have you on board Stuyvesant :blush:
29th September 1269
Royal Pavilion of King Farquhar I
Scots Army Near Inverinan, Argyll
Malcolm had never seen his friend so wroth. Before him Farquhar, a vein pulsing angrily in his temple, spoke to Percy Dunbar in a hushed voice which, nonetheless carried the full weight of his authority and power:
‘You will never again speak to me of this matter Percy-on pain of death-mark it well-I will not repeat myself. Friend to me you may be but all Princes can be sorely tested.’
Malcolm was truly shocked, glanced around the stuffy command tent where several other lords and captains were also beginning to look around noticing the froideur and stiffness that was suddenly emanating from their sovereign lord. He noted the look of enquiry on the face of the young Marshall of Connacht, Roderick Sdibart, commander of the Royal van and shook his head. Percy could be blunt and plain speaking at the best of times but this time even he had gone too far, suggesting, as he had, that the King’s heir, twenty two year old William of Ross’s treachery in plotting his own father’s death should be met in similar vein.
As Percy realised that he had possibly pushed his lifelong friend too far and sank to his knees and grovelled, prostrate, the Earl Marshall quickly interposed himself, ‘Your Grace mayhap we should take some evening air-I would fain discuss our dispositions for the battle tomorrow.’
Farquhar who had been eyeing Dunbar with barely contained fury and not a little disgust suddenly shook himself from his reverie, nodded imperceptibly and allowed himself to be led from the Pavilion, his guard shouting ‘Make way for the King!’ and roughly pushing aside anyone who was in the way. Once outside, the Earl Marshall called for horses and with the King acquiescing like a biddable child rode eastwards in the direction of the little Hamlet of Inverinan and, beyond it, the still majesty of Loch Awe-aptly named.
It was a fine September evening, one of those at high autumn when daylight seemed to last forever-certainly the case this far north anyway, Malcolm thought as they trotted away from the camp. The king’s guards were not far behind, close enough to intervene should someone attempt to harm them, far enough that they could not hear what was being discussed.
Which for an interminable time was precisely nothing: the King mute and Malcolm not wanting to interrupt his thoughts. Farquhar was a remarkably temperate man who had not inherited the famous Mac Ailpin anger but this time was different. At last he pulled his horse to and said sadly to his friend, ‘Wroth with that milksop Percy as I am, there is a part of me that esteems him right in this matter Malcolm.’
It was a rare day indeed when the King addressed him by his first name-they were close but not boon-companions such as he and Percy, who had an easy familiarity with each other, built up over three and a half decades-mayhap too easy sometimes, Malcolm thought ruefully: there were times when his way with the King was just not seemly, disdaining, as it did, the deference due to such high rank. They had come to a halt at a gentle bluff that led down to the Loch and to their fore, across the water, the well kept little stronghold at Kilchurn Castle, now garrisoned by Scots of course .
To their right smoke rose from multiple homesteads as dinner was cooked in the humble dwellings of the Hamlet’s inhabitants. Argyll had been a nominal part of the mighty Byzantine Empire for over ninety years but Malcolm doubted sincerely whether these humble peasants right knew or cared whether their Lords and masters were Scots or Greeks. Or hadn’t until the arrival of the Scots Army two years ago to settle once and for all ‘The Argyll question’.
Malcolm faced his Lord ‘My Liege? You reckon Percy has the right of it? Do away with your eldest son and heir? Dunbar misspoke-for certes will ask your Grace’s forgiveness on our return-‘
‘Hear me out My Lord Earl,’ Farquhar interjected firmly. ‘I will not pretend that I was not shaken to my very bones when I heard that my own son had been conspiring against me but why are we surprised? He was brought up in another Lord’s household-my cousin Adam’s, who is a great magnate, warrior and a fine Chancellor but Guardian?’ Farquhar paused to dismount from his favourite roan, ‘come walk with me.’
They set off at a steady walk along the banks of the Loch, leading their horses by the bridle. Malcolm noted with satisfaction that their Guards had split up; some riding ahead whilst the remainder stayed behind them-just as it should be. ‘You were content to send your sister’s sons there as well as I recall my Lord?’ Malcolm opined carefully ‘and they turned out not half bad eh?’
Farquhar pondered this, nodding sadly, ‘you have the right of it Malcolm of Lothian-i’truth Adam warned me seven years ago that Will was not-ah-turning out as he expected. My cousin recanted tales of a cruel and cynical streak that he had not been able to beat out of him and that whilst he had taken to his military studies was not one for putting himself in harm’s way…how is it that I could have sired someone so alien to myself? See-you even the Italian King, my steadfast friend and ally, baulked at having him marry one of his granddaughters such that I was forced to palm him off with some dim-witted Welshwoman-one of the last scions of the Morgannwgs. Think you he harbours resentment to me for that and for taking a new wife so soon after the death of his beloved mother?’
Malcolm had been content to let the King speak, troubled in the mind as he knew he was, but now offered, ‘I know not Sire. Sometimes these turns of fortune are God’s way of reminding us that we are human-a way of keeping us from becoming prideful perchance? With all your manifest achievements mayhap it is not so bad to have one wayward son.’
Farquhar could not disagree. In the last twenty years he had consolidated his gains-had supressed the Welsh revolt, whilst proving himself a brilliant strategist in the bargain. That war ended in 1246, upon the death of the claimant, in battle against Farquhar himself, on a frigid, snow swept morning outside Saint Andrews. A piece of ground not far from where his Royal Army had broken the back of the main revolt seven months previously. It was then that rumours had started at court that he had become known as ‘the wise’ king, something that made him smile in private and frown whenever he heard a courtier or baron address him as such. As Malcolm had just opined it did not do to become prideful-was an affront against almighty God.
‘Remember when my son was born, my Lord Marshall-I remember feeling such joy as I looked into Irmele’s eyes and surveyed his little puling face. Now she is gone and my son a stranger to me…’
The King seemed to be slipping into some sort of melancholy, Malcolm thought-it was not seemly as they confronted possibly the largest army these shores had ever seen. Scouts had reckoned the tally to be in excess of forty thousand-four times their numbers! ‘Sire it is true but you will not make the same mistake with your youngest, Donal, who you have kept close to you at Scone-I have seen the lad-he has much more your valour and temperament-‘
‘Aye Malcolm but it is not he who stands to inherit the throne-my Grandfather’s laws have seen to that. There are times that I wish for a return to the our old ways.’
‘The old ways brought no certainty my Liege-fractious lords could put paid to any amount of dynastic planning. This is why the laws were changed. Surely this way is more secure? And surely anything could happen..’ Malcolm let the rest remain unsaid-the King had only passed forty four summers and was part of a line of notoriously long-lived Monarchs-what providence even dictated that his son should outlive him?
Farquhar at last began to look less sad and more thoughtful. Malcolm watched the feelings pass across his face-he had always been an open and honest King, not for him the intrigue, scheming and plotting so favoured by his son and so many at court-nor the high handed ways that some Princes wore like a mantle-it was why he was loved and respected in equal measure. Thoughtfulness, in its turn, transformed into determination until the younger man said, at last, ‘If we survive tomorrow’s battle my Lord then I will want to speak with Earl Neil-find out what my Spymaster’s counsel is-mark it well-things will be different as regards my errant son and heir! And let’s face it, I have my other son Donal, my beautiful daughter Forflissa and a beautiful new young Italian Queen to distract me-some providence tells me that I may have my hands full with Ippolita eh my Lord?’ Farquhar said grinning and winking, ‘let’s away back to the camp-the men will want to know my final battle plan.’
Malcolm let out a sigh of relief as he mounted ‘they will my Liege-they will indeed and the night draws in.’
When they returned to the camp it was, as expected, to a Pavilion now full with captains as well as Farquhar’s other Battle Commander, the youngster Roderick of House Sdibart who had been doing his best to answer the many questions that were being pitched at him: when was the King returning? What were to be their dispositions on the morrow? How many did they face? There were frightened faces amongst them for all knew that the Emperor of the Greeks was taking this ‘Argyll Question’ very seriously indeed-had thus far marshalled against them some thirteen thousand which they had beaten over a series of engagements during the last week. It had cost them dear, however and their number now was reduced to a little over half the twenty thousand that they had started with. So it was with great relief that this brilliant young soldier, usually so confident, had stood aside from the Dais to let Farquhar through such that he could show them on the battle map what his intentions were.
‘Do you need some time My Liege?’ Malcolm enquired solicitously-they had only just returned, after all-surely the King would need some time to gather his thoughts?
‘No-just some watered down wine please My Lord Earl.’ Farquhar, who they had all come to trust implicitly as much for his easy way with them as his mastery on the field of battle, turned to address the throng across the table on which sat the map. ‘My friends-reports have come to me from our scouts and spies that the host facing us numbers over forty thousand…’ There was an instant hubbub of noise, gasps of shock and dismay. The king let the brouhaha play out for awhile before raising his hand,
‘Silence! Silence for the King!’ Malcolm, enraged, shouted. It had the desired effect-they quietened and listened to what their Lord had in his plans.
‘First of all, my friends, I note many of you have campaigned with me from when I was but a mere stripling of only sixteen summers-from when we put down Thomas of Munster’s revolt, then Leinster’s a few years later.’
‘You should never have let them out!’ Shouted a voice from the back in broad Gaelic-this had some laughing-good: levity was not an enemy in situations such as this, rather a trusted and comforting friend.
‘Mayhap-mayhap not, but never mind that-look how we had the sorry English fleeing from the points of our spears in our Somerset wars-mark you we will return to that in time!’ This last raised some more ribald laughter-this was what the King wanted: them rapt and eager to hear more. ‘Many of you were with me twenty years ago when we put down the Welsh revolt-some had even served with the traitorous Ulster, turned your allegiance to me after-for that I thank you.’
He paused to survey the tent from front to back, left to right, locking eyes with individual captains in turn and some of his Barons who had answered the call. Others, he knew, were still raising more levies-would they come in time? He was determined that his plan would mean that they were not needed.
He continued ‘You followed me into Lancaster and Westmoreland and helped me win the Duchy of York and its counties, Lincoln and Leicester. You have helped me to the great Duchy of Lancaster too! You have helped me build on what my ancestors have done, you are helping me fulfil a dream of a greater Scotland that holds sway over all these Isles.’
He paused again to let that sink in before continuing once more, ‘but what use is any of that whilst we have a foreign power right here in our heartlands-Greek speaking, foreign held Argyll festering here like a canker amongst the flowers of our garden-it will not do my friends! IT WILL NOT DO!’
A great roar of assent went up from all assembled-the king now had them where he wanted.
After the shouts had died he turned to the map ‘you will all know that I am a man of books-military books of course!’ Another ripple of laughter-all knew of Farquhar’s obsession with military strategy-they also knew that it made him one of the most formidable battle commanders in the known world.
‘Well I have been doing my sums. I have read that the Byzantines always transport their heavy cavalry first in any seagoing endeavour-this would explain why we have had such a hard time of it this last week-beating off attack after attack from their armoured horsemen and horse archers.’
It had truly been an attritional set of skirmishes and battles that they had fought. Ever since the beacons had, at last, flared along the Cornish coast warning of the approach of the first wave of Greeks some six weeks previously Farquhar had known this time was coming-ever since he had launched the war in August two years previously and overpowered all the major Byzantine castles and towns within the year he had known that Basileus Petros would have to respond-Byzantine pride was at stake, after all. For two years the King had, therefore, maintained a standing army of near twenty thousand in Gowrie and Earl Malcolm had sprung his own plan into action calling on yet more levies, possibly another ten thousand had answered the Commissions of Array. Scotland’s allies had also been desperately called with the Italian King, once more sending word that Italian martial might would assist their ‘true friend in amity against the Greek foe’. They had received this news only last week-when the looked for Italian army would appear, however, there was no way to tell.
‘I know that we had a hard time of it these last few days but we were fighting the shock troops of the Byzantine Army. My reckoning is that this new army that has embarked contains mainly their infantry and auxiliaries.’ There were quiet murmurings-The king was usually correct in his assessment of their enemies-why not now?’
Farquhar bent over the map gesturing them close. ‘See you the map friends-here’s how we will array ourselves…’
September 30th
On the Battlefield near Saint Moluag Chapel
The Scots Centre
Farquhar raised his visor so that he could try and see what was happening. The battle had been raging for many hours now but hard-pressed as he was he could not tell whether his plan was working. What he did know was that the longer they were on the field the slimmer became their chances of pressing to eventual victory. All depended on the shock of their action, manoeuvre and his centre holding the bulk of the Byzantines exactly where they were.
He hailed one of his household ‘bring me my destrier Thomas-I need to get a better view of the battle!’
‘At once Sire!’
Once mounted the King could see better-there were still arrows flying liberally but so enmeshed in the fighting were both sides that it was sporadic rather than persistent-he kept his shield up nonetheless. He galloped to a hillock to the right rear of his own centre battle-his knights of the body had also mounted and followed dutifully-he noted there were only two rather than the usual six-an ominous sign.
At the hillock the King was able to see, to his front, his hard pressed centre-it was buckling under the weight of the Byzantine heavy infantry charge-it was as he had planned-they just needed to hold! To left and right he could also see that Malcolm and Roderick’s wings were also folding inwards-now like a pair of long pincers hemming the massive Greek Army in. Of one thing he was certain: his army might be hopelessly outnumbered but they were fighting like demons and with a strength and resolve that the Byzantines, travel weary and sick from a sea voyage that had lasted many months, could not hope to match. Whenever they tried to deploy their few heavy Cataphractai, his Schiltroms, positioned to screen his own heavy infantry, moved to block them.
He ducked as an arrow flew past-took another on his shield. One of his knights spurred alongside, his own shield at the high port, ‘My liege-we should come down from this hillock-you are too obvious a target!’
‘A few more moments David! Watch yourself!’ The King pushed out, causing the young knight’s horse to rear and avoid another pair of arrows. He turned to a Herald ‘Boy! Get thee to our Archers and order them to supress whoever is firing at me-quick now!’
There were a few more moments of arrow-dancing before several volleys from their own archers silenced the enemy marksmen. The Byzantines were overly reliant on their Horse Archers and of these there had been little sign. Their foot archers were few in number and had not the range or power of their own welsh longbowmen. That was a battle that they had definitely won.
By this time a number of messengers, each more harried than the last had arrived at the hillock to declare that the centre was buckling.
‘I see it!’ The King shouted standing on his stirrups for better vantage-where were they? His light infantry, the mobile Highlanders from Moray and Atholl and the Isles and his heavy cavalry had not, as yet, taken a part in this battle hopefully unbeknownst to the Greek Commander. These had been secreted in the woods to their front left with the other force detaching from Malcolm’s wing on the right and beating a path to the north of Loch Nant. Their return route should bring them in on the flank and rear of the left wing of the enemy. If the plan worked…all the King knew as he surveyed the desperate scene before him, was that if they were delayed or did not appear then all would be lost soon.
Farquhar esteemed the time to be nearing noon judging by the location of the sun behind some thin cloud: they had now been fighting for many hours and would not last much longer-something needed to be done. ‘Thomas-gather the remainder of the household knights! We will ride into the thickest press of battle and shore up our flagging centre-be quick!’
Thomas of Lochalsh saluted and wheeled to gather the knights of the king’s household. In a short time they were assembled. Farquhar reckoned there must be about a hundred-it would have to do. He needed to achieve some sort of shock action for his hard-pressed centre-buy them some more time-he was certain that the two flanking detachments would arrive-his best captains had been chosen to command each force. They would not-could not fail him.
Shouting above the din to make himself heard the King gesticulated with his lance ‘follow me my knights-we will attack in wedge formation-head for the gap to our front-follow! MAC AILPIN!’
Crying in response his band of knights formed a hasty wedge and followed their King-he let his armoured destrier have his head and couched his lance. The small band raced through the gap in their own lines and smashed headlong into the Byzantine enemy to their front. As providence would have it the section they hit was comprised mainly of light infantry and were utterly shattered leaving a massive hole in the enemy lines. The force and speed of their charge took the surprised force right through to the rear of the Greek lines. Discipline took over and wheeling around they prepared to charge again-this time at the enemy rear. Discarding his shattered lance and drawing his longsword, Farquhar made a quick assessment of their numbers-they had lost very few-had achieved total surprise-time for a return. If they were to die then they would do so heroically, Farquhar thought-he suddenly had an image flash into his mind of all of his forebears from Duke Richard of Moray to his Grandfather Uhtred ‘The Magnificent’-tears came unbidden to his eyes-he hoped that he had done his noble House justice-none would talk from henceforth of Farquhar ‘The Wise’-they would whisper in awe tales of Farquhar the Brave.
‘With me my Knights-we go again! Mac Ailpin!’
‘Sire-wait! This was Thomas suddenly wheeling his destrier in front of the King’s ‘Look-you! To left and right!’
Farquhar snapped up his visor to see better-his tears were blurring his vision but he could just make out to both right and left a commotion and dust. As his vision cleared and he focused he saw the heavy horse of the Scots Army-hundreds to left and right crashing into the Byzantine Flanks and behind both groups the fast-trotting highlanders, claymores swinging as they too closed the ground to the enemy-of these there were several thousand. They watched as these now joined the battle screaming fiercely their war cries. It was if the enemy army shuddered at these two mortal blows and as they watched people started to break and run from the flanks, a trickle became a flood and suddenly the whole of the Byzantine Army was turning. For many, however there was simply nowhere to run-they were trapped by the closing arms of the Scots flanks and the lid was effectively put on by the attacking highlanders and heavy horse. It turned into a slaughter-the victorious Scots army chased the remnants of the proud Byzantines right back to their ships anchored off Oban.
Afterword:
It was reckoned to be one of the most glorious victories, against the odds, that had ever been recorded in the mediaeval world. Of his initial 11,501 Farquhar lost 3,500 but his victory was complete. Of the Byzantines less than 3,000 of their starting 42,622 were allowed to flee back to their ships. A host of Byzantines potentates were captured including the flank commanders, Baron Ioulianos of Kazanlak and Count Tiberios of Olva. The Byzantine general had himself been slain on the field of battle. The myriad prisoners would fill Scots coffers in ransom payments for years to come.
Ironically a few days after the battle with his own army swelled by another ten thousand Scots and Irish levies an Italian host under the esteemed noble Condottiere Arnau-Miró arrived with a further nine thousand-they were not needed!
It is said that The King was invested with the long lost Earldom of Argyll by his Marshall, Malcolm of Lothian, upon the field of Battle itself that forever after was named after the little chapel that stood in its midst, named appropriately, Saint Moluag, Argyll’s very own patron saint and sometime companion of Saint Columba.
Royal Pavilion of King Farquhar I
Scots Army Near Inverinan, Argyll
Malcolm had never seen his friend so wroth. Before him Farquhar, a vein pulsing angrily in his temple, spoke to Percy Dunbar in a hushed voice which, nonetheless carried the full weight of his authority and power:
‘You will never again speak to me of this matter Percy-on pain of death-mark it well-I will not repeat myself. Friend to me you may be but all Princes can be sorely tested.’
Malcolm was truly shocked, glanced around the stuffy command tent where several other lords and captains were also beginning to look around noticing the froideur and stiffness that was suddenly emanating from their sovereign lord. He noted the look of enquiry on the face of the young Marshall of Connacht, Roderick Sdibart, commander of the Royal van and shook his head. Percy could be blunt and plain speaking at the best of times but this time even he had gone too far, suggesting, as he had, that the King’s heir, twenty two year old William of Ross’s treachery in plotting his own father’s death should be met in similar vein.
As Percy realised that he had possibly pushed his lifelong friend too far and sank to his knees and grovelled, prostrate, the Earl Marshall quickly interposed himself, ‘Your Grace mayhap we should take some evening air-I would fain discuss our dispositions for the battle tomorrow.’
Farquhar who had been eyeing Dunbar with barely contained fury and not a little disgust suddenly shook himself from his reverie, nodded imperceptibly and allowed himself to be led from the Pavilion, his guard shouting ‘Make way for the King!’ and roughly pushing aside anyone who was in the way. Once outside, the Earl Marshall called for horses and with the King acquiescing like a biddable child rode eastwards in the direction of the little Hamlet of Inverinan and, beyond it, the still majesty of Loch Awe-aptly named.
It was a fine September evening, one of those at high autumn when daylight seemed to last forever-certainly the case this far north anyway, Malcolm thought as they trotted away from the camp. The king’s guards were not far behind, close enough to intervene should someone attempt to harm them, far enough that they could not hear what was being discussed.
Which for an interminable time was precisely nothing: the King mute and Malcolm not wanting to interrupt his thoughts. Farquhar was a remarkably temperate man who had not inherited the famous Mac Ailpin anger but this time was different. At last he pulled his horse to and said sadly to his friend, ‘Wroth with that milksop Percy as I am, there is a part of me that esteems him right in this matter Malcolm.’
It was a rare day indeed when the King addressed him by his first name-they were close but not boon-companions such as he and Percy, who had an easy familiarity with each other, built up over three and a half decades-mayhap too easy sometimes, Malcolm thought ruefully: there were times when his way with the King was just not seemly, disdaining, as it did, the deference due to such high rank. They had come to a halt at a gentle bluff that led down to the Loch and to their fore, across the water, the well kept little stronghold at Kilchurn Castle, now garrisoned by Scots of course .
To their right smoke rose from multiple homesteads as dinner was cooked in the humble dwellings of the Hamlet’s inhabitants. Argyll had been a nominal part of the mighty Byzantine Empire for over ninety years but Malcolm doubted sincerely whether these humble peasants right knew or cared whether their Lords and masters were Scots or Greeks. Or hadn’t until the arrival of the Scots Army two years ago to settle once and for all ‘The Argyll question’.
Malcolm faced his Lord ‘My Liege? You reckon Percy has the right of it? Do away with your eldest son and heir? Dunbar misspoke-for certes will ask your Grace’s forgiveness on our return-‘
‘Hear me out My Lord Earl,’ Farquhar interjected firmly. ‘I will not pretend that I was not shaken to my very bones when I heard that my own son had been conspiring against me but why are we surprised? He was brought up in another Lord’s household-my cousin Adam’s, who is a great magnate, warrior and a fine Chancellor but Guardian?’ Farquhar paused to dismount from his favourite roan, ‘come walk with me.’
They set off at a steady walk along the banks of the Loch, leading their horses by the bridle. Malcolm noted with satisfaction that their Guards had split up; some riding ahead whilst the remainder stayed behind them-just as it should be. ‘You were content to send your sister’s sons there as well as I recall my Lord?’ Malcolm opined carefully ‘and they turned out not half bad eh?’
Farquhar pondered this, nodding sadly, ‘you have the right of it Malcolm of Lothian-i’truth Adam warned me seven years ago that Will was not-ah-turning out as he expected. My cousin recanted tales of a cruel and cynical streak that he had not been able to beat out of him and that whilst he had taken to his military studies was not one for putting himself in harm’s way…how is it that I could have sired someone so alien to myself? See-you even the Italian King, my steadfast friend and ally, baulked at having him marry one of his granddaughters such that I was forced to palm him off with some dim-witted Welshwoman-one of the last scions of the Morgannwgs. Think you he harbours resentment to me for that and for taking a new wife so soon after the death of his beloved mother?’
Malcolm had been content to let the King speak, troubled in the mind as he knew he was, but now offered, ‘I know not Sire. Sometimes these turns of fortune are God’s way of reminding us that we are human-a way of keeping us from becoming prideful perchance? With all your manifest achievements mayhap it is not so bad to have one wayward son.’
Farquhar could not disagree. In the last twenty years he had consolidated his gains-had supressed the Welsh revolt, whilst proving himself a brilliant strategist in the bargain. That war ended in 1246, upon the death of the claimant, in battle against Farquhar himself, on a frigid, snow swept morning outside Saint Andrews. A piece of ground not far from where his Royal Army had broken the back of the main revolt seven months previously. It was then that rumours had started at court that he had become known as ‘the wise’ king, something that made him smile in private and frown whenever he heard a courtier or baron address him as such. As Malcolm had just opined it did not do to become prideful-was an affront against almighty God.
‘Remember when my son was born, my Lord Marshall-I remember feeling such joy as I looked into Irmele’s eyes and surveyed his little puling face. Now she is gone and my son a stranger to me…’
The King seemed to be slipping into some sort of melancholy, Malcolm thought-it was not seemly as they confronted possibly the largest army these shores had ever seen. Scouts had reckoned the tally to be in excess of forty thousand-four times their numbers! ‘Sire it is true but you will not make the same mistake with your youngest, Donal, who you have kept close to you at Scone-I have seen the lad-he has much more your valour and temperament-‘
‘Aye Malcolm but it is not he who stands to inherit the throne-my Grandfather’s laws have seen to that. There are times that I wish for a return to the our old ways.’
‘The old ways brought no certainty my Liege-fractious lords could put paid to any amount of dynastic planning. This is why the laws were changed. Surely this way is more secure? And surely anything could happen..’ Malcolm let the rest remain unsaid-the King had only passed forty four summers and was part of a line of notoriously long-lived Monarchs-what providence even dictated that his son should outlive him?
Farquhar at last began to look less sad and more thoughtful. Malcolm watched the feelings pass across his face-he had always been an open and honest King, not for him the intrigue, scheming and plotting so favoured by his son and so many at court-nor the high handed ways that some Princes wore like a mantle-it was why he was loved and respected in equal measure. Thoughtfulness, in its turn, transformed into determination until the younger man said, at last, ‘If we survive tomorrow’s battle my Lord then I will want to speak with Earl Neil-find out what my Spymaster’s counsel is-mark it well-things will be different as regards my errant son and heir! And let’s face it, I have my other son Donal, my beautiful daughter Forflissa and a beautiful new young Italian Queen to distract me-some providence tells me that I may have my hands full with Ippolita eh my Lord?’ Farquhar said grinning and winking, ‘let’s away back to the camp-the men will want to know my final battle plan.’
Malcolm let out a sigh of relief as he mounted ‘they will my Liege-they will indeed and the night draws in.’
When they returned to the camp it was, as expected, to a Pavilion now full with captains as well as Farquhar’s other Battle Commander, the youngster Roderick of House Sdibart who had been doing his best to answer the many questions that were being pitched at him: when was the King returning? What were to be their dispositions on the morrow? How many did they face? There were frightened faces amongst them for all knew that the Emperor of the Greeks was taking this ‘Argyll Question’ very seriously indeed-had thus far marshalled against them some thirteen thousand which they had beaten over a series of engagements during the last week. It had cost them dear, however and their number now was reduced to a little over half the twenty thousand that they had started with. So it was with great relief that this brilliant young soldier, usually so confident, had stood aside from the Dais to let Farquhar through such that he could show them on the battle map what his intentions were.
‘Do you need some time My Liege?’ Malcolm enquired solicitously-they had only just returned, after all-surely the King would need some time to gather his thoughts?
‘No-just some watered down wine please My Lord Earl.’ Farquhar, who they had all come to trust implicitly as much for his easy way with them as his mastery on the field of battle, turned to address the throng across the table on which sat the map. ‘My friends-reports have come to me from our scouts and spies that the host facing us numbers over forty thousand…’ There was an instant hubbub of noise, gasps of shock and dismay. The king let the brouhaha play out for awhile before raising his hand,
‘Silence! Silence for the King!’ Malcolm, enraged, shouted. It had the desired effect-they quietened and listened to what their Lord had in his plans.
‘First of all, my friends, I note many of you have campaigned with me from when I was but a mere stripling of only sixteen summers-from when we put down Thomas of Munster’s revolt, then Leinster’s a few years later.’
‘You should never have let them out!’ Shouted a voice from the back in broad Gaelic-this had some laughing-good: levity was not an enemy in situations such as this, rather a trusted and comforting friend.
‘Mayhap-mayhap not, but never mind that-look how we had the sorry English fleeing from the points of our spears in our Somerset wars-mark you we will return to that in time!’ This last raised some more ribald laughter-this was what the King wanted: them rapt and eager to hear more. ‘Many of you were with me twenty years ago when we put down the Welsh revolt-some had even served with the traitorous Ulster, turned your allegiance to me after-for that I thank you.’
He paused to survey the tent from front to back, left to right, locking eyes with individual captains in turn and some of his Barons who had answered the call. Others, he knew, were still raising more levies-would they come in time? He was determined that his plan would mean that they were not needed.
He continued ‘You followed me into Lancaster and Westmoreland and helped me win the Duchy of York and its counties, Lincoln and Leicester. You have helped me to the great Duchy of Lancaster too! You have helped me build on what my ancestors have done, you are helping me fulfil a dream of a greater Scotland that holds sway over all these Isles.’
He paused again to let that sink in before continuing once more, ‘but what use is any of that whilst we have a foreign power right here in our heartlands-Greek speaking, foreign held Argyll festering here like a canker amongst the flowers of our garden-it will not do my friends! IT WILL NOT DO!’
A great roar of assent went up from all assembled-the king now had them where he wanted.
After the shouts had died he turned to the map ‘you will all know that I am a man of books-military books of course!’ Another ripple of laughter-all knew of Farquhar’s obsession with military strategy-they also knew that it made him one of the most formidable battle commanders in the known world.
‘Well I have been doing my sums. I have read that the Byzantines always transport their heavy cavalry first in any seagoing endeavour-this would explain why we have had such a hard time of it this last week-beating off attack after attack from their armoured horsemen and horse archers.’
It had truly been an attritional set of skirmishes and battles that they had fought. Ever since the beacons had, at last, flared along the Cornish coast warning of the approach of the first wave of Greeks some six weeks previously Farquhar had known this time was coming-ever since he had launched the war in August two years previously and overpowered all the major Byzantine castles and towns within the year he had known that Basileus Petros would have to respond-Byzantine pride was at stake, after all. For two years the King had, therefore, maintained a standing army of near twenty thousand in Gowrie and Earl Malcolm had sprung his own plan into action calling on yet more levies, possibly another ten thousand had answered the Commissions of Array. Scotland’s allies had also been desperately called with the Italian King, once more sending word that Italian martial might would assist their ‘true friend in amity against the Greek foe’. They had received this news only last week-when the looked for Italian army would appear, however, there was no way to tell.
‘I know that we had a hard time of it these last few days but we were fighting the shock troops of the Byzantine Army. My reckoning is that this new army that has embarked contains mainly their infantry and auxiliaries.’ There were quiet murmurings-The king was usually correct in his assessment of their enemies-why not now?’
Farquhar bent over the map gesturing them close. ‘See you the map friends-here’s how we will array ourselves…’
September 30th
On the Battlefield near Saint Moluag Chapel
The Scots Centre
Farquhar raised his visor so that he could try and see what was happening. The battle had been raging for many hours now but hard-pressed as he was he could not tell whether his plan was working. What he did know was that the longer they were on the field the slimmer became their chances of pressing to eventual victory. All depended on the shock of their action, manoeuvre and his centre holding the bulk of the Byzantines exactly where they were.
He hailed one of his household ‘bring me my destrier Thomas-I need to get a better view of the battle!’
‘At once Sire!’
Once mounted the King could see better-there were still arrows flying liberally but so enmeshed in the fighting were both sides that it was sporadic rather than persistent-he kept his shield up nonetheless. He galloped to a hillock to the right rear of his own centre battle-his knights of the body had also mounted and followed dutifully-he noted there were only two rather than the usual six-an ominous sign.
At the hillock the King was able to see, to his front, his hard pressed centre-it was buckling under the weight of the Byzantine heavy infantry charge-it was as he had planned-they just needed to hold! To left and right he could also see that Malcolm and Roderick’s wings were also folding inwards-now like a pair of long pincers hemming the massive Greek Army in. Of one thing he was certain: his army might be hopelessly outnumbered but they were fighting like demons and with a strength and resolve that the Byzantines, travel weary and sick from a sea voyage that had lasted many months, could not hope to match. Whenever they tried to deploy their few heavy Cataphractai, his Schiltroms, positioned to screen his own heavy infantry, moved to block them.
He ducked as an arrow flew past-took another on his shield. One of his knights spurred alongside, his own shield at the high port, ‘My liege-we should come down from this hillock-you are too obvious a target!’
‘A few more moments David! Watch yourself!’ The King pushed out, causing the young knight’s horse to rear and avoid another pair of arrows. He turned to a Herald ‘Boy! Get thee to our Archers and order them to supress whoever is firing at me-quick now!’
There were a few more moments of arrow-dancing before several volleys from their own archers silenced the enemy marksmen. The Byzantines were overly reliant on their Horse Archers and of these there had been little sign. Their foot archers were few in number and had not the range or power of their own welsh longbowmen. That was a battle that they had definitely won.
By this time a number of messengers, each more harried than the last had arrived at the hillock to declare that the centre was buckling.
‘I see it!’ The King shouted standing on his stirrups for better vantage-where were they? His light infantry, the mobile Highlanders from Moray and Atholl and the Isles and his heavy cavalry had not, as yet, taken a part in this battle hopefully unbeknownst to the Greek Commander. These had been secreted in the woods to their front left with the other force detaching from Malcolm’s wing on the right and beating a path to the north of Loch Nant. Their return route should bring them in on the flank and rear of the left wing of the enemy. If the plan worked…all the King knew as he surveyed the desperate scene before him, was that if they were delayed or did not appear then all would be lost soon.
Farquhar esteemed the time to be nearing noon judging by the location of the sun behind some thin cloud: they had now been fighting for many hours and would not last much longer-something needed to be done. ‘Thomas-gather the remainder of the household knights! We will ride into the thickest press of battle and shore up our flagging centre-be quick!’
Thomas of Lochalsh saluted and wheeled to gather the knights of the king’s household. In a short time they were assembled. Farquhar reckoned there must be about a hundred-it would have to do. He needed to achieve some sort of shock action for his hard-pressed centre-buy them some more time-he was certain that the two flanking detachments would arrive-his best captains had been chosen to command each force. They would not-could not fail him.
Shouting above the din to make himself heard the King gesticulated with his lance ‘follow me my knights-we will attack in wedge formation-head for the gap to our front-follow! MAC AILPIN!’
Crying in response his band of knights formed a hasty wedge and followed their King-he let his armoured destrier have his head and couched his lance. The small band raced through the gap in their own lines and smashed headlong into the Byzantine enemy to their front. As providence would have it the section they hit was comprised mainly of light infantry and were utterly shattered leaving a massive hole in the enemy lines. The force and speed of their charge took the surprised force right through to the rear of the Greek lines. Discipline took over and wheeling around they prepared to charge again-this time at the enemy rear. Discarding his shattered lance and drawing his longsword, Farquhar made a quick assessment of their numbers-they had lost very few-had achieved total surprise-time for a return. If they were to die then they would do so heroically, Farquhar thought-he suddenly had an image flash into his mind of all of his forebears from Duke Richard of Moray to his Grandfather Uhtred ‘The Magnificent’-tears came unbidden to his eyes-he hoped that he had done his noble House justice-none would talk from henceforth of Farquhar ‘The Wise’-they would whisper in awe tales of Farquhar the Brave.
Charge of King Farquhar 1 at Battle of St Moluag Sep 30th 1269
‘With me my Knights-we go again! Mac Ailpin!’
‘Sire-wait! This was Thomas suddenly wheeling his destrier in front of the King’s ‘Look-you! To left and right!’
The Battle of St Moluag September 30th 1269
Farquhar snapped up his visor to see better-his tears were blurring his vision but he could just make out to both right and left a commotion and dust. As his vision cleared and he focused he saw the heavy horse of the Scots Army-hundreds to left and right crashing into the Byzantine Flanks and behind both groups the fast-trotting highlanders, claymores swinging as they too closed the ground to the enemy-of these there were several thousand. They watched as these now joined the battle screaming fiercely their war cries. It was if the enemy army shuddered at these two mortal blows and as they watched people started to break and run from the flanks, a trickle became a flood and suddenly the whole of the Byzantine Army was turning. For many, however there was simply nowhere to run-they were trapped by the closing arms of the Scots flanks and the lid was effectively put on by the attacking highlanders and heavy horse. It turned into a slaughter-the victorious Scots army chased the remnants of the proud Byzantines right back to their ships anchored off Oban.
Afterword:
It was reckoned to be one of the most glorious victories, against the odds, that had ever been recorded in the mediaeval world. Of his initial 11,501 Farquhar lost 3,500 but his victory was complete. Of the Byzantines less than 3,000 of their starting 42,622 were allowed to flee back to their ships. A host of Byzantines potentates were captured including the flank commanders, Baron Ioulianos of Kazanlak and Count Tiberios of Olva. The Byzantine general had himself been slain on the field of battle. The myriad prisoners would fill Scots coffers in ransom payments for years to come.
Ironically a few days after the battle with his own army swelled by another ten thousand Scots and Irish levies an Italian host under the esteemed noble Condottiere Arnau-Miró arrived with a further nine thousand-they were not needed!
It is said that The King was invested with the long lost Earldom of Argyll by his Marshall, Malcolm of Lothian, upon the field of Battle itself that forever after was named after the little chapel that stood in its midst, named appropriately, Saint Moluag, Argyll’s very own patron saint and sometime companion of Saint Columba.
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That was really well written. Seeing that the ransom payments can provide such a nice income, maybe you can milk Byzantium in the future when you need some funds. I'm hoping that the conclusion of the war with Byzantium doesn't transition into internal conflicts.
We've all been there, I think!
Another fantastic chapter that has me wanting to play my own Scottish game soon, and a real pleasure to read.
When would you recommend as the most entertaining Scottish date to start at, iyho?
Hey Khryses thanks a lot. It is a most exciting game. How could you not write about it? Hehe. I'd advocate starting at the beginning and see if you can see off the Viking threat. I managed it by some very Machiavellian strategy (I.e. Appease Ivar the Boneless with money, gifts and your Chancellor doing their utmost to toady and wait for the inevitable Gavelkind succession on his death to reduce what he owns in Scotland to a blithering wreck!
Now the prospect of you playing a Scotland AAR and writing about it is a very appealing one indeed! :wub:
867 you say? Well I do like a challenge...
You're very kind, but I think I'll wait on doing one I'm going to write up until after I finish my Outremer one, particularly if we last to and through the EUIV period (which will be especially fun as I haven't actually played it yet).
Maybe if I find the daily updates get too much and go to weekly, then I might do a Scottish one in parallel? Though I doubt I'd be able to even approach your excellent characterization...
Your characterisation is pretty darn good mr I have to say-good luck with whatever you plan to do-whatever it is you will have an ardent follower here that's for sure :wub:
State of the Nations February 1272
I thought it might be useful at this stage to show you just what the rest of the known world is looking like at this stage. Note that immediately following his epic victory over the Byzantines Farquhar is faced with a revolt from none other than the son of the rebellious Duke of Ulster, Roderick II. It involves his own spymaster Earl Neil of Dunbar...
The revolt is put down in 2 years and never really threatens the King as the rebels are never able to muster more than about five thousand to their cause where Farquhar keeps in the field an army of fifteen thousand!
As can be seen England remains an absolute basket case-it has never really recovered from the internecine warfare that toppled House Reginar during the reign of King Laurence I. Scots eyes are fixed greedily on the rump counties that were the Petty Kingdom of Mercia (Warwick, Worcester and Shrewsbury)-now England again and Durham that lies alone in a sea of Scottish blue. England as a force is effectively finished-time to gobble it up...
Like England France and Northern Spain are deeply fragmented. I haven't really been keeping an eye on happenings in my closest European neighbours but France briefly blobbed and then broke apart again whilst the Christians Kingdoms of Northern Spain have not been able to get any headway against the Moors...surprised the Pope is so fixated on Poland and seems to have disregarded his near neighbours in Spain...
The Moors remain dominant in southern Spain and North Africa-come on Pope-get your act together!
Italy, The Byzantine Empire and Poland are the dominant players here..maybe that's why successive Popes have been so fixated on Poland...hmmmm
No dominant player here either
So no really badass players here-was sad not to see HRE form to be honest-England did, France did but they haven't lasted. Onwards the Empire of the Celts
I thought it might be useful at this stage to show you just what the rest of the known world is looking like at this stage. Note that immediately following his epic victory over the Byzantines Farquhar is faced with a revolt from none other than the son of the rebellious Duke of Ulster, Roderick II. It involves his own spymaster Earl Neil of Dunbar...
The revolt is put down in 2 years and never really threatens the King as the rebels are never able to muster more than about five thousand to their cause where Farquhar keeps in the field an army of fifteen thousand!
The British Isles
As can be seen England remains an absolute basket case-it has never really recovered from the internecine warfare that toppled House Reginar during the reign of King Laurence I. Scots eyes are fixed greedily on the rump counties that were the Petty Kingdom of Mercia (Warwick, Worcester and Shrewsbury)-now England again and Durham that lies alone in a sea of Scottish blue. England as a force is effectively finished-time to gobble it up...
France and Northern Spain
Like England France and Northern Spain are deeply fragmented. I haven't really been keeping an eye on happenings in my closest European neighbours but France briefly blobbed and then broke apart again whilst the Christians Kingdoms of Northern Spain have not been able to get any headway against the Moors...surprised the Pope is so fixated on Poland and seems to have disregarded his near neighbours in Spain...
Spain and North Africa
The Moors remain dominant in southern Spain and North Africa-come on Pope-get your act together!
Central/South and Eastern Europe
Italy, The Byzantine Empire and Poland are the dominant players here..maybe that's why successive Popes have been so fixated on Poland...hmmmm
Scandinavia
No dominant player here either
The known world
So no really badass players here-was sad not to see HRE form to be honest-England did, France did but they haven't lasted. Onwards the Empire of the Celts
The map... it hurts my eyes... quickly, conquer England so at least the British Isles look soothing!
The map... it hurts my eyes... quickly, conquer England so at least the British Isles look soothing!
I know! Don't you worry that is my intent. I am just amazed at how fragmented Europe is...no proper France, no HRE-poor!
Once you unify the British Isles, it doesn't look like you will have too many powerful enemies. They are so fractured that you just have to divide and conquer. What's your goal after unifying the British Isles?
It will depend on the traits of my rulers to be honest-if they are the ambitious types then we will see about France-watch this space hehe
9th September 1278
The Olde Boar Inn
Abingdon, Oxfordshire
The tavern was thick with smoke coming from the overworked kitchens and this in spite of the fact that all the windows were wide open to try and let in some of the late summer air from the clear Oxfordshire night sky. The tall, rangy hooded man picking his way between the human detritus of one of the less salubrious establishments in this part of what was left of England was not unhappy at this state of affairs, however-it suited him to work in the shadows for his particular line of work. He had ordered his men at arms to remain outside-and hidden at that-his only protection a dirk secreted amongst his clothes. Of his high rank there was no sign and that was how he intended to keep it. If any here caught wind of the fact that he was high born he would not last a moment of that he was sure.
Presently he came to one end of the Inn-the farthest from the entrance and one that seemed to be deepest in gloom. This would be where he would find his man and sure enough, sat at a table all alone, despite the busyness of the tavern, was a wiry, hard faced bearded man of indeterminate age and feral appearance.
‘Master Townley I presume?’ The Earl said smoothly. The man had been expecting him, beckoned for him to sit opposite. With practised eye Earl Neil MacAilpin of Dunbar, Spymaster of Scotland and distant cousin of the King, noted the right hand still under the table, no doubt grasping a dagger, whilst the other was on the table in some sort of gesture of openness. Well two could play at that game the Scot thought and matched the stance.
‘And what am I to call you?’ The Englishman mouthed in a low voice, his latin passable for a commoner-it was the only language that they could both speak-the Earl had no English and the commoner no Gaelic. Nonetheless the highborn lord was impressed-his ability in this ancient language indicated an education maybe for the Holy Orders.
‘You may call me “Harald” Master Townley. If that is actually your name of course for you can rest assured that Harald is not mine…’
The Englishman smiled at that showing a mouth full of broken teeth-not a pleasant sight thought the Earl but then he was used to lordly pleasures and had a full set and that even despite a few years spent in prison for being the focus of the rebellion that rocked the realms just after his King’s monumental victory over the Byzantines almost ten years previously. It was a foolish undertaking and one in which he had been a passive, if not unwilling participant-he had been Spymaster of all Scotland after all. Luckily for him the King had a fondness for his cousin even if not for his endless scheming: he had been well treated.
Well he was back in that position now, a different, mayhap kinder man. Not as quick in mind these days either, he thought ruefully, but still grateful to serve his King and cousin. Luckily for him his predecessor had been a bungling idiot-what Bishop makes a good spymaster he thought? So here he was undertaking possibly the most difficult mission there could be in behalf of his Liege Lord, for what was more delicate or unnatural than the crafting of the death of your own son?
‘I know what purpose it is that you bend your design to my Lord Earl’ Townley grunted. ‘I know also that the target has evaded not one but three previous attempts on his life.’
If the Earl was astonished at the forensic knowledge that was on show by his counterpart he did not show it. ‘You are well informed Sir-well informed indeed.’ A pause whilst he beckoned over one of the serving wenches and ordered a tankard of ale for himself and his companion.
‘Aye that I am My Lord of Dunbar-that I am-let me see: the first was in December 1274 if I be not mistaken. An amateur affair-only to be expected from the Crownlands.’ Townley paused to drain his tankard in one huge swallow. Smiling that gap-toothed grin again he ordered the serving girl back ‘bring us four each woman! My friend here is buying.’ She looked at him uncomprehendingly until he switched to English, repeating the request and adding something, Dunbar was thinking, that had them both guffawing at his expense.
The Earl was unfazed-one advantage of being the Realm’s Spymaster was that he could purloin whatever funds he needed no questions asked even if the High Steward was the King’s nineteen year old second son Donal. Now here was a man who should be king-just, temperate and honest and though prone to the classic Mac Ailpin fury-this was seldom displayed and only when pushed to the very brink-usually by his errant, cynical older brother, The Duke of York, Prince William, heir to the throne with whom he got on not at all. As for the ribbing and laughing that he was the subject of he would let that pass too-he had a thick skin.
Townley was speaking again, ‘…only last spring when the third attempt was made. Dear dear-who do you think you were hiring My Lord to carry out these killings and I wonder what the Royal Treasurers thought of this periodic draining of their coffers-an expensive business no?’
‘I can assure you, Sirrah, that I was not involved in the commission of any amateurs. Our relationship goes back many years. Think you that I would hire these poltroons?’
A rattling laugh emerged from the throat of Townley ‘well at least they did away with his only son eh? Now that was almost well done but involved no-specialists shall we say? Only the boy’s nurse, gentleman of the chamber, a leaking boat and a King’s iron will. Just a shame they spilled their guts eh? “Good” King Farquhar not so fucking good now is he?’
Neil winced at the Anglo-Saxon profanity. He did wonder when exactly his cousin’s patience with his wayward son had ran out. Was it when he had learned of the Prince’s plot to kill him or was it as he watched the young man become a most intemperate and cynical highborn lord-now Duke of York as well as earl of Ross. The King must have observed and seen, in his estranged eldest, the ruination of all that he and his forebears had struggled for so many years to build. At some point he had decided that William could not accede to the throne-especially not when there was so capable a replacement in his beloved second son, Donal. But that he would encompass not only the Prince’s death but also that of his six year old child was a never ceasing source of wonderment to him-he really had not thought that Farquhar would harbour such a ruthless streak.
‘The King of Scots has been absolved of that particular-ah-deed by none other than the Holy Father himself-can rest easy in the eyes of God.’ The Earl intoned-he had practised this line on many occasions-was adept at it now.
‘Indeed’ chortled Townley, ‘I wonder, however, who will absolve him of the murder of his own son…?’
‘No one will know if you do your job properly Master Assassin. Of course you do realise that it will only be a matter of time before my King holds dominion over all these Isles. Your act will not be forgotten.’
The Englishman looked thoughtful, ‘ahh unquiet England-now reduced to a rump now that the Duchy of Hereford and its three counties are in Scots hands-that and Durham. And here we are with Scots armies trampling all over our lands in Oxford and your man, Prince William of York in command no less-does the King of Scots wish to put him in harms way for he is no soldier that one if what I hear is to be believed?’ Townley looked the Scotsman in the eye-almost challenging him. ‘Not that I care who lords it over us-you oatmeal savages and whisky drinkers could not make a worser job of it than our own English Lords eh?’
This time it was Dunbar’s time to smile ruefully ‘there are plenty of plots in Scotland Englishman-we just have stronger Kings to put them down with.’
‘You would know.’ Was the instant response-I should have been prepared for that, the Earl thought-an obvious retort.
‘Anyway Sirrah-I did not come to bandy words all night with such as you-you know what is to be done. Name your price-I grow hungry.’ A scar that cut across his temple was throbbing, a sign that the inscrutable Englishman was getting under his skin-literally!
‘Ah let me see: the murder of the heir to the Scots throne and commander of the army hereabouts, surrounded by men at arms, guards and others as he will be …that will be five hundred gold crowns.’
‘Five hundred! You jest Sir! We will pay you two hundred no more!’
‘I do not get out of bed for less than three hundred my Lord-still less do away with a King’s son-four hundred and no less!’
The Earl was amused in spite of himself-he knew how this game was played and played it well, ‘I will give you two hundred in cash right now-call it a down payment. We have a chest of coin waiting outside and pony and cart to transport it in for you. The remaining one hundred and fifty you will receive when the deed is done.’
There was an interminable pause whilst Townley digested this new offer. Finally he smiled wickedly and declared, ‘done! Let us shake on it my Lord.’ Townley now displayed both hands and took the Earl’s in one roughly calloused and grimy paw.
‘Do not fail me Master Assassin,’ Dunbar growled menacingly, ‘and if you do see to yourself before you are caught!’ He gathered his cloak, stood, nodded briefly to the Englishman and shouldered his way to the exit and out into the clear and sweet smelling night air. If there was any man in all the Isles who could take care of the King’s business it was Master Lucas Townley, also known as Malik Mak-Tahti, sometime adherent of the Hashashin Sect of Outremer…
Afterword by the Croyland Chronicle:
The murder, most foul, of Prince William of York was a feat that has been marvelled at ever since. The killer passed several days within the privy pit that was used to carry away waste from the English army. After working his way to the latrines that served the Prince, it was a relatively simple matter for the killer to stab his quarry, up through the privet seat and through Duke William’s anus whilst he was relieving himself, thus killing him in the most painful manner possible. Of sound there must have been little, however, as the heir to the Scots throne was not discovered for many hours. It was said that his face was contorted into such a rictus of pain that those who laid eye on it were haunted forever more.
On being told of the dread news it is said that the King wept bitterly. In secret, the realm rejoiced, however, for they loved William not and esteemed the King’s next born son, Donal, very highly. For his part, the King went about his business from thenceforth mournfully and with heavy heart.
He was to die almost exactly a year after the foul deed. Some say it was of a broken heart, others of a simple ague but whether he did so with a clear conscience has never been recorded.
The Olde Boar Inn
Abingdon, Oxfordshire
The Olde Boar, Abingdon
The tavern was thick with smoke coming from the overworked kitchens and this in spite of the fact that all the windows were wide open to try and let in some of the late summer air from the clear Oxfordshire night sky. The tall, rangy hooded man picking his way between the human detritus of one of the less salubrious establishments in this part of what was left of England was not unhappy at this state of affairs, however-it suited him to work in the shadows for his particular line of work. He had ordered his men at arms to remain outside-and hidden at that-his only protection a dirk secreted amongst his clothes. Of his high rank there was no sign and that was how he intended to keep it. If any here caught wind of the fact that he was high born he would not last a moment of that he was sure.
Presently he came to one end of the Inn-the farthest from the entrance and one that seemed to be deepest in gloom. This would be where he would find his man and sure enough, sat at a table all alone, despite the busyness of the tavern, was a wiry, hard faced bearded man of indeterminate age and feral appearance.
‘Master Townley I presume?’ The Earl said smoothly. The man had been expecting him, beckoned for him to sit opposite. With practised eye Earl Neil MacAilpin of Dunbar, Spymaster of Scotland and distant cousin of the King, noted the right hand still under the table, no doubt grasping a dagger, whilst the other was on the table in some sort of gesture of openness. Well two could play at that game the Scot thought and matched the stance.
‘And what am I to call you?’ The Englishman mouthed in a low voice, his latin passable for a commoner-it was the only language that they could both speak-the Earl had no English and the commoner no Gaelic. Nonetheless the highborn lord was impressed-his ability in this ancient language indicated an education maybe for the Holy Orders.
‘You may call me “Harald” Master Townley. If that is actually your name of course for you can rest assured that Harald is not mine…’
The Englishman smiled at that showing a mouth full of broken teeth-not a pleasant sight thought the Earl but then he was used to lordly pleasures and had a full set and that even despite a few years spent in prison for being the focus of the rebellion that rocked the realms just after his King’s monumental victory over the Byzantines almost ten years previously. It was a foolish undertaking and one in which he had been a passive, if not unwilling participant-he had been Spymaster of all Scotland after all. Luckily for him the King had a fondness for his cousin even if not for his endless scheming: he had been well treated.
Well he was back in that position now, a different, mayhap kinder man. Not as quick in mind these days either, he thought ruefully, but still grateful to serve his King and cousin. Luckily for him his predecessor had been a bungling idiot-what Bishop makes a good spymaster he thought? So here he was undertaking possibly the most difficult mission there could be in behalf of his Liege Lord, for what was more delicate or unnatural than the crafting of the death of your own son?
‘I know what purpose it is that you bend your design to my Lord Earl’ Townley grunted. ‘I know also that the target has evaded not one but three previous attempts on his life.’
If the Earl was astonished at the forensic knowledge that was on show by his counterpart he did not show it. ‘You are well informed Sir-well informed indeed.’ A pause whilst he beckoned over one of the serving wenches and ordered a tankard of ale for himself and his companion.
‘Aye that I am My Lord of Dunbar-that I am-let me see: the first was in December 1274 if I be not mistaken. An amateur affair-only to be expected from the Crownlands.’ Townley paused to drain his tankard in one huge swallow. Smiling that gap-toothed grin again he ordered the serving girl back ‘bring us four each woman! My friend here is buying.’ She looked at him uncomprehendingly until he switched to English, repeating the request and adding something, Dunbar was thinking, that had them both guffawing at his expense.
The Earl was unfazed-one advantage of being the Realm’s Spymaster was that he could purloin whatever funds he needed no questions asked even if the High Steward was the King’s nineteen year old second son Donal. Now here was a man who should be king-just, temperate and honest and though prone to the classic Mac Ailpin fury-this was seldom displayed and only when pushed to the very brink-usually by his errant, cynical older brother, The Duke of York, Prince William, heir to the throne with whom he got on not at all. As for the ribbing and laughing that he was the subject of he would let that pass too-he had a thick skin.
Townley was speaking again, ‘…only last spring when the third attempt was made. Dear dear-who do you think you were hiring My Lord to carry out these killings and I wonder what the Royal Treasurers thought of this periodic draining of their coffers-an expensive business no?’
‘I can assure you, Sirrah, that I was not involved in the commission of any amateurs. Our relationship goes back many years. Think you that I would hire these poltroons?’
A rattling laugh emerged from the throat of Townley ‘well at least they did away with his only son eh? Now that was almost well done but involved no-specialists shall we say? Only the boy’s nurse, gentleman of the chamber, a leaking boat and a King’s iron will. Just a shame they spilled their guts eh? “Good” King Farquhar not so fucking good now is he?’
Neil winced at the Anglo-Saxon profanity. He did wonder when exactly his cousin’s patience with his wayward son had ran out. Was it when he had learned of the Prince’s plot to kill him or was it as he watched the young man become a most intemperate and cynical highborn lord-now Duke of York as well as earl of Ross. The King must have observed and seen, in his estranged eldest, the ruination of all that he and his forebears had struggled for so many years to build. At some point he had decided that William could not accede to the throne-especially not when there was so capable a replacement in his beloved second son, Donal. But that he would encompass not only the Prince’s death but also that of his six year old child was a never ceasing source of wonderment to him-he really had not thought that Farquhar would harbour such a ruthless streak.
‘The King of Scots has been absolved of that particular-ah-deed by none other than the Holy Father himself-can rest easy in the eyes of God.’ The Earl intoned-he had practised this line on many occasions-was adept at it now.
‘Indeed’ chortled Townley, ‘I wonder, however, who will absolve him of the murder of his own son…?’
‘No one will know if you do your job properly Master Assassin. Of course you do realise that it will only be a matter of time before my King holds dominion over all these Isles. Your act will not be forgotten.’
The Englishman looked thoughtful, ‘ahh unquiet England-now reduced to a rump now that the Duchy of Hereford and its three counties are in Scots hands-that and Durham. And here we are with Scots armies trampling all over our lands in Oxford and your man, Prince William of York in command no less-does the King of Scots wish to put him in harms way for he is no soldier that one if what I hear is to be believed?’ Townley looked the Scotsman in the eye-almost challenging him. ‘Not that I care who lords it over us-you oatmeal savages and whisky drinkers could not make a worser job of it than our own English Lords eh?’
This time it was Dunbar’s time to smile ruefully ‘there are plenty of plots in Scotland Englishman-we just have stronger Kings to put them down with.’
‘You would know.’ Was the instant response-I should have been prepared for that, the Earl thought-an obvious retort.
‘Anyway Sirrah-I did not come to bandy words all night with such as you-you know what is to be done. Name your price-I grow hungry.’ A scar that cut across his temple was throbbing, a sign that the inscrutable Englishman was getting under his skin-literally!
‘Ah let me see: the murder of the heir to the Scots throne and commander of the army hereabouts, surrounded by men at arms, guards and others as he will be …that will be five hundred gold crowns.’
‘Five hundred! You jest Sir! We will pay you two hundred no more!’
‘I do not get out of bed for less than three hundred my Lord-still less do away with a King’s son-four hundred and no less!’
The Earl was amused in spite of himself-he knew how this game was played and played it well, ‘I will give you two hundred in cash right now-call it a down payment. We have a chest of coin waiting outside and pony and cart to transport it in for you. The remaining one hundred and fifty you will receive when the deed is done.’
There was an interminable pause whilst Townley digested this new offer. Finally he smiled wickedly and declared, ‘done! Let us shake on it my Lord.’ Townley now displayed both hands and took the Earl’s in one roughly calloused and grimy paw.
‘Do not fail me Master Assassin,’ Dunbar growled menacingly, ‘and if you do see to yourself before you are caught!’ He gathered his cloak, stood, nodded briefly to the Englishman and shouldered his way to the exit and out into the clear and sweet smelling night air. If there was any man in all the Isles who could take care of the King’s business it was Master Lucas Townley, also known as Malik Mak-Tahti, sometime adherent of the Hashashin Sect of Outremer…
Afterword by the Croyland Chronicle:
The murder, most foul, of Prince William of York was a feat that has been marvelled at ever since. The killer passed several days within the privy pit that was used to carry away waste from the English army. After working his way to the latrines that served the Prince, it was a relatively simple matter for the killer to stab his quarry, up through the privet seat and through Duke William’s anus whilst he was relieving himself, thus killing him in the most painful manner possible. Of sound there must have been little, however, as the heir to the Scots throne was not discovered for many hours. It was said that his face was contorted into such a rictus of pain that those who laid eye on it were haunted forever more.
On being told of the dread news it is said that the King wept bitterly. In secret, the realm rejoiced, however, for they loved William not and esteemed the King’s next born son, Donal, very highly. For his part, the King went about his business from thenceforth mournfully and with heavy heart.
He was to die almost exactly a year after the foul deed. Some say it was of a broken heart, others of a simple ague but whether he did so with a clear conscience has never been recorded.
The assassination of one's son isn't going to be a precedent for something, right? Seeing all those pretenders, look like you'll be busy putting down rebellions during the new king's early reign. I guess it's always a good test to see if the new king is indeed ready to rule Scotland.
Well Farquhar was pretty desperate to do something and the fact that William plotted to kill him was pretty unforgivable. His stats were horrid (nothing above 8 and lots that would give a malus against such as cynical). Once Farquhar lost the patience trait I felt it was time to act..
Re the pretenders. They are both children (half brothers to the new King-Queen Ippolita bore him four kids!) so I don't think too much to worry about to be honest. We will see...
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Been working my way up through this AAR over the past week or so. I haven't quite caught up with the latest chapter yet, but I figured I'd drop you a line letting you know that I've been enjoying it immensely so far
Been working my way up through this AAR over the past week or so. I haven't quite caught up with the latest chapter yet, but I figured I'd drop you a line letting you know that I've been enjoying it immensely so far
Hey thanks so much Specialist290-it's always great to hear feedback like that
Glad that you are enjoying it-I have been too. Absolutely loving the story arcs and the span of history