Sails on the horizon - An England 1453+ AAR - Revived with NA
Part I: The Lion in Winter
The clatter of the goblet on the floor woke Henry VI, King of England from his stupor. Blinking rapidly, Henry drew himself up in his chair, drawing a look of interest from one of the hunting dogs lazing in front of the blazing hearth in front of him. When his master did little more than draw his thick bearskin robe tighter around his gaunt frame before settling back into the chair parked in the flickering shadows of the fire, the dogs peaked ears flattened, and the creature went back to warming itself against the chill of the mild midsummer night that blanketed the white tower of London. Cursing silently, Henry licked his tongue along the rough edges of his teeth, bringing moisture back to the parched bridge of his mouth. His head pounded. He had been deep in his cups when Richard, Duke of York and self-appointed Protector of England had left the Castle before nightfall, riding for Dover and ultimately bound for the fortress of Calais, last remaining outpost of the Empire built by Henry’s forebears. His eyes wandered from the fire to the doorway, and he was glad to see that the servants had locked the door to his study, keeping him safe from prying eyes. Since the start of his seizures, he had seen few other members of the Royal Court. His malady none-withstanding, he was content with his isolation. Barons lobbying for privilege and position, Cardinals spinning webs of intrigue behind masks of piety, the noise and clatter of the court held few attractions to a man that had always preferred his own company and council. As his madness has grown, his need for isolation intensified. On the advice of his Confessor, he had even started shunning the attentions of his exasperated wife.
Closing his eyes, Henry willed himself to sleep, but knew that sleep would not come. Shifting his weight and wincing, he opened his eyes and stared deep into the embers of the dying fire, in his black mood seeing there the allegorical fate of his house. The reign of the House of Lancaster was coming to its inevitable end. Cousin Richard’s increasingly unilateral leadership of the realm was evidence of the days to come, a time of civil war and accelerating strife and weakness. The humiliating peace negotiated with France but months before would be a footnote on the end of Henry’s line, when his hale young French wife had more strength and guile than the King of England. His beloved son, Edward, Prince of Wales, still yet a babe argued strongly against his doubts on his house and England, but Henry knew that neither he or his son carried the strength of earlier namesakes, Plantagenet Kings who led their Realms with firm hands and drawn sword, and meted bloody ruin to generations of Welsh, Irish, Scots, French and the heathen Saracen.
But hope still flickered, England might not yet be consigned to a footnote in history. The letter that Richard carried for the eyes of the King of the French might save Henry's crown and ultimately save England. Allied with the Scots to the North, the house of Valois had the Lion caged and declawed. The Hawks amongst the Barons of Henry’s court called for war – but, thankfully, there were but a few hawks left barring Richard of York and Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick – buzzards, however there were aplenty, picking at the carrion of a nation in decline. He cursed that he was fated to be King in such dark times. His eyes drifted to the Fleur-de-lis sitting aside the Lion on the banner above the hearth. He would not war again with France – at least not willingly and of his own volition. Even for the Plantagenets, France had always been a graveyard for English ambition. French Knights were no match for their English counterparts in battle, the vexing issue being that as soon as one French army was soundly defeated, another brood of well-groomed and plate gilded French Princelings were ready to fight. The strength of the realm of England had been worn away like a rock eroded into sand. "No" he muttered to the silent room. No victory could be found on the battlefields of Flanders or at the gates of Paris, at least not until the crowns of the British Isles were once again joined. It was to diplomacy that Henry looked to for hope. Sell Calais to the French King and fill the coffers of England for the challenge ahead, the seduction of the court of James II ~ or, failing that, backing of the Black Douglases. The Scottish must be brought to heel and the strengthening Alliance with the French broken. Raising himself from the chair, Henry raised a shaking hand and pawed at the pile of logs beside the hearth. The fresh fuel crackled on the fire, and as it burst into flame, so did Henry’s spirits….Hope was rekindled.
Part I: The Lion in Winter
The clatter of the goblet on the floor woke Henry VI, King of England from his stupor. Blinking rapidly, Henry drew himself up in his chair, drawing a look of interest from one of the hunting dogs lazing in front of the blazing hearth in front of him. When his master did little more than draw his thick bearskin robe tighter around his gaunt frame before settling back into the chair parked in the flickering shadows of the fire, the dogs peaked ears flattened, and the creature went back to warming itself against the chill of the mild midsummer night that blanketed the white tower of London. Cursing silently, Henry licked his tongue along the rough edges of his teeth, bringing moisture back to the parched bridge of his mouth. His head pounded. He had been deep in his cups when Richard, Duke of York and self-appointed Protector of England had left the Castle before nightfall, riding for Dover and ultimately bound for the fortress of Calais, last remaining outpost of the Empire built by Henry’s forebears. His eyes wandered from the fire to the doorway, and he was glad to see that the servants had locked the door to his study, keeping him safe from prying eyes. Since the start of his seizures, he had seen few other members of the Royal Court. His malady none-withstanding, he was content with his isolation. Barons lobbying for privilege and position, Cardinals spinning webs of intrigue behind masks of piety, the noise and clatter of the court held few attractions to a man that had always preferred his own company and council. As his madness has grown, his need for isolation intensified. On the advice of his Confessor, he had even started shunning the attentions of his exasperated wife.
Closing his eyes, Henry willed himself to sleep, but knew that sleep would not come. Shifting his weight and wincing, he opened his eyes and stared deep into the embers of the dying fire, in his black mood seeing there the allegorical fate of his house. The reign of the House of Lancaster was coming to its inevitable end. Cousin Richard’s increasingly unilateral leadership of the realm was evidence of the days to come, a time of civil war and accelerating strife and weakness. The humiliating peace negotiated with France but months before would be a footnote on the end of Henry’s line, when his hale young French wife had more strength and guile than the King of England. His beloved son, Edward, Prince of Wales, still yet a babe argued strongly against his doubts on his house and England, but Henry knew that neither he or his son carried the strength of earlier namesakes, Plantagenet Kings who led their Realms with firm hands and drawn sword, and meted bloody ruin to generations of Welsh, Irish, Scots, French and the heathen Saracen.
But hope still flickered, England might not yet be consigned to a footnote in history. The letter that Richard carried for the eyes of the King of the French might save Henry's crown and ultimately save England. Allied with the Scots to the North, the house of Valois had the Lion caged and declawed. The Hawks amongst the Barons of Henry’s court called for war – but, thankfully, there were but a few hawks left barring Richard of York and Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick – buzzards, however there were aplenty, picking at the carrion of a nation in decline. He cursed that he was fated to be King in such dark times. His eyes drifted to the Fleur-de-lis sitting aside the Lion on the banner above the hearth. He would not war again with France – at least not willingly and of his own volition. Even for the Plantagenets, France had always been a graveyard for English ambition. French Knights were no match for their English counterparts in battle, the vexing issue being that as soon as one French army was soundly defeated, another brood of well-groomed and plate gilded French Princelings were ready to fight. The strength of the realm of England had been worn away like a rock eroded into sand. "No" he muttered to the silent room. No victory could be found on the battlefields of Flanders or at the gates of Paris, at least not until the crowns of the British Isles were once again joined. It was to diplomacy that Henry looked to for hope. Sell Calais to the French King and fill the coffers of England for the challenge ahead, the seduction of the court of James II ~ or, failing that, backing of the Black Douglases. The Scottish must be brought to heel and the strengthening Alliance with the French broken. Raising himself from the chair, Henry raised a shaking hand and pawed at the pile of logs beside the hearth. The fresh fuel crackled on the fire, and as it burst into flame, so did Henry’s spirits….Hope was rekindled.
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