As The Spirit Moves Me

Originally posted by Patric123(PDS)
we need a good england aar to match ariels

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Geeeeeez... that's like telling a little kid he's a match for Shakespeare! Thanks for not putting on any pressure, there!
Seriously, tho, Ariel's England AAR was a major inspiration and challenge. Maybe I'll get there someday.
Thank you Ariel for many hours of reading pleasure!

The real reason for picking England was I felt more comfortable with the name, places and events.

Seroiusly, thanks to all of you for responding, and so quickly!

MrT - it may be just a good story, but I recall an account ( don't remember the author ) about an ocean cruise where everyone began playing wargames ( inspired by the Boer War? memory fails ). The ones who played with reckless abandon and piles of bodies were the academics - the soldiers all wanted to keep the bloodshed down. Don't assume Dr. Rivers is NICE.

Wasa - Pass! Participation grade only.

rich-love - the names have been changed to protect the guilty!
No colleges or universities have been harmed in the making of this AAR!
Unnnnnless you count churches, shrines, temples and mosques? (gulp).

Bismarck - Thanks for your advice, by the way, none of which I used
What happened was your ideas finally kicked open the channel for Charlie to tell me what REALLY happened.
Thanks for the kick-start: writers block is such a HOLE, I don't know if I'd have pushed on without encouragement.
YOU want to see more? I want more from Cyprus. That Council of Trent got me THINKING.

Chapter the Second - "It's a dead man's party, leave your body at the door" - Oingo Boingo, Dead Man's Party

There was a sense of motion, of passage, though not of time passing. Everything was shades of gray, with dim outlines of places and faces appearing and dissolving. It seemed to be a long time before it occurred to me to try to actually do anything, but there really was no way to measure any time elapsing, so my impressions were all subjective. And, frankly, I think I was stunned.

Being dead is disorienting, at least for me. The lack of arms, legs - of body of any kind - was coupled with a lack of emotion, as though I would have been terrified if only I had felt anything at all. And so I floated through a dispassionate, gray calm.

But I began to see some faces clearer than others, and with a convulsive heave in a manner I didn't know was possible until I tried, I touched one of the faces. The gray slowly melted away, and the scene sharpened into a vista of grassy meadows and groves of trees. Ahead stretched a meandering dirt road, shaded here by trees arching overhead, and around me were men on horseback, roughly dressed. Which, as I was level with them, meant I was on horseback. It was a beautiful sunny day with an achingly blue sky and wisps of pure white clouds. A wind was sighing in the treetops and the air smelled faintly of grass, and horse, and sweat. It was intoxicating, wonderful - the most perfect moment of my life, the most precious moment I can recall, past or present. The best day of any of my lives.


I must have sighed, or moaned. The man to my right pulled back even with me and said, "My lord?". Or at least, after a moment it came to me that it was what he had said. I won't even try to translate, I'll just tell you that, with some difficulty at first, I could understand what was being said. Not English, I thought, but now I know - and I'll tell you - it just wasn't American.

My hand came up in a little wave, almost of itself, and he smiled and rode a bit ahead again. And after a time, I chanced to look down at the hands - my hands - holding the reins and they were not my hands, not the hands of a tenured professor of physics at all. They were red, roughened, toughened hands, with thick, powerful fingers, and they were guiding the horse quite well. Which was another surprise, for I've not ridden a horse since I was a child.

So I sat quietly for a bit, enjoying being somewhere and being alive, at least. And when I wondered to myself where I was, it came to me that I was on the Oxford road, headed to London.

And this knowledge was just...there... like something I had known and temporarily mislaid. And I was an important man, treasurer of the royal household and councilor to the king; I was one of the knights of England. These were my trusted retainers, most of whom I had known from childhood. My wife awaited me in London, and an audience with the king - God bless him! - and meetings of the privy council. For Harry was back from France, back from the greatest victory any Englishman could remember, back planning a campaign to recover all the lands of his forefathers. After sweet Richard and sickly Derby, how good to serve such a king!

How good to be Sir Hugh Luttrell!

As we passed back into the suburbs of London - rich, great London to my host and stinking mudhole to me - I felt a weakness that grew and grew until my sight dimmed and I knew no more.


Well, maybe you can imagine my shock, my scrambling panic. I am - I HAD been a professor of physics. What did I know about England in the Dark Ages? And most important - how did I get OUT of there and back to where I belonged? Was I stuck here, was I hallucinating? I couldn't be dreaming, because dreams aren't this clear and consistent. For certain there wasn't anyone I was going to TELL about this. I mean, they weren't burning heretics at the stake at the moment, but there wasn't any way I'd give them any ideas, either.

Within a few days - and no dream is this detailed, or lasts this long - I had worked out a few basics of my new condition. I would come to see that my hosts would carry on quite well without me, oblivious to my presence. When I exerted myself to speak or move, the host seemed to take it as his idea, used his language, and showed no surprise at being guided. My host's memories were mine to recall, though a conscious effort had to be made. Even small actions left me listless and weak, and any sustained exertion could cause me to lose consciousness, especially in those early days. I could, however, jot down memories - like visualizing a notepad, but with perfect recall - and "read" them back later, which is what I'm doing now.

I am a ghost. If that's not the right word, it is all that occurs to me now.
If medieval England is not hell, it will serve right enough.

Next I recall, I was in a richly paneled room hung with tapestries. Westminster, I would come to know, was the seat of royal and parliamentary power in London, set outside the commercial and financial hub and safely away from London's mob.

Looking about, my host recognized the knights, barons, earls and dukes, the lord bishops and others who have come for a rare meeting of the full privy council. My host was deep in conversation with a young assistant when the doors swung open to admit our lord, King Henry V. All of us in this room were richly, if uncomfortably dressed, even the aides and squires who hovered in the room's margins. The king was simply attired in dark stuffs, though of good cut and cloth; not tall or imposing in appearance but possessed of a calm, restrained nature and a look that could pierce a man through. He seated himself and motioned us all to be seated as well, and called for the Chancellor to begin.

The day's business was complex, for Harry intends to return to France. Parliament can be relied upon for funds; Agincourt and the recovery of Normandy have made this ruler wildly popular. The realm is quiet and the Lollards are laying low. The biggest problem - and one with no resolution - is that Harry's father deposed Richard II to keep his own head off the block. Having seen Henry of Derby seize the throne and become Henry IV, every baron in England thinks "why not me?". Unfortunately, there isn't any cure for this urge for "upward mobility" except to keep the monarch popular, marry the king off and produce an heir to secure the succession. Direct, resolute and thorough, this king will leave no open unrest behind in England when he takes ship for France.

The appointments and arrangements were dealt with in rapid order. The real decisions, I knew, were made in meetings before this and we are met only to ensure we all know what those decisions are. The king's younger brother, Humphrey of Gloucester, will remain as lieutenant in England; the other two brothers, John, Duke of Bedford, and Thomas, Duke of Clarence, will have commands in France. Lord Bishop Beaufort of Winchester will retain the keys of the Chancellor. Lord Bishop Langley of Durham is to concern himself with the royal marriage, as well as all foreign correspondence.

France is now in turmoil. Fearless John of Burgundy, our ally, has seized Paris and King Charles the Mad, then slaughtered the rival Armagnac faction and its leader Count Bernard. He is now in great danger of assassination in his turn. Burgundy has communicated its support for our campaign, though Henry confided to us that he thinks the Burgundians will fight to the last Englishman, which filled the room with sardonic laughter.

Scotland will be the problem Scotland has always been; Ireland no less a political swamp than ever. Strong forces must remain in the north of England with Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and precautions must be taken against Scots raids. Langley was directed to correspond with Castile and Aragon, and to comb Europe in search of useful alliances.

Few love us, you see, but no-one loves the French.


Later, in private session, Harry laid out for me what must be done with his properties and moneys. Sir Hugh protested but was overruled, and I am quite relieved. No struggling with armor, no getting shot at, no sword-swinging for me. Sir Hugh is needed to manage the royal household, Henry says - too old for campaign, I think he means, for Sir Hugh must have sixty years or more. And, quietly, he gives me papers to keep safe, detailing powers and actions in the event that Humphrey of Gloucester grows too bold while the king is away.

Most troubling to me, as the weeks of councils and private meetings go on, is the dawning realization that Sir Hugh is not respected by the other councilors. He is a knight, not a lord, not well-connected socially and he shines not with wealth or brilliance. But I know the old duffer pretty well by now, and he is a good man, dedicated to his duty and his king. I've survived faculty senates and departmental meetings, and there is no more cutthroat political maneuvering in the world than a college teacher angling for tenure. I resolve to "help" Sir Hugh along a little.

All that I can remember of Henry and medieval England is a passing acquaintance with Shakespeare's play, a dim recognition of the name Agincourt, and the knowledge that Henry marries a French princess and dies young. Followed, if I remember aright, by the Wars of the Roses. Since history can't be changed, I don't see how any of this can be helped, but if history is silent on Sir Hugh Luttrell, maybe I can improve his lot. And the best channel for this, obviously, is through the king, whom Luttrell sees daily, and who often asks for Luttrell's opinion.

Late in the summer, the king was musing to me about the morning's council meeting. The council is concerned with our wool trade in Flanders, which provides a good bit of crown revenue. They are divided between those who wish all wool merchants to work for the crown and those who wish to tax the merchants without controlling them. I saw this as an opening to recommend to his majesty that, as racing horses determines a winner, so might competing merchants give winning merchants.

After all, I reasoned, the more commerce there is, the greater the crown's share, and the more money flowing through the kingdom, the more that can be harnessed for our purposes. And Henry must have listened, because before he left for France he conferred with some of the great merchants of London and issued edicts that lessened the petty regulations and fees and provided encouragement for our traders to go abroad. And Luttrell got a nice golden "kickback" from the merchants' guild! Perhaps later I'll talk to them about insurance.

The private meeting with the king that I never will forget was the last before he boarded ship for France. I was rambling on about reforming the collection of taxes, duties and fees by appointing a central county office that could be more easily audited for graft and corruption, to rework our patchwork system into an efficient machine that would collect less tax, send more money to the king and have less stick to the bailiff's fingers. Henry was nodding agreement, saying that after he was crowned King of France the royal finances would be his first priority. Jokingly, I said that in payment for my ideas, he could pick up a vacant county in France for me while he was away. And he pierced me to my heart with a long, level look and soberly - even icily - pledged to do so. I knew I had pressed too far, even in jest, and begged his forgiveness. Henry was a kind and generous man, but quick to resent any selfish grasping from his court.

He nodded, changed the subject, and never spoke of it to me again.

Originally posted by Lord Durham

Very good. Well written.

The above passage was extremely telling. I enjoy the way you view the events through the eyes of someone who is not quite cognizant of past history. The line 'Since history can't be changed' could be debated, though. How would you ever know?

The transition from ghost to possession was nicely handled. I'll be interested to see where you go with this.

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Thank you! I was hoping someone would catch that. Please bear in mind we are being told what Dr. Rivers "believes" to be true, not what we - who topple kingdoms on a daily basis - know to be true. His hard-science background predisposes him to make statements like that.

And at this point in the story there's no counterfactual deviation ( sounds like a crime to me ). Sir Hugh Luttrell is an actual, if minor, character who did serve as head of the royal household.

It's just easier to do the explanations of historic events if the character doesn't know what's going on. Every day is a brand new day!

Fear not, the good Dr. Rivers will be enlightened. Vigorously.

rich-love - I take your point on "Being John Malkovich" and I'm really tickled - it's a good fit that I never thought of! Thanks for pointing that out.

Thank you all for your kind remarks!

Chapter the Third - 1419

Though I can “sleep” when my host sleeps, night provides me a good time to think.

I have spent many hours pondering how to relieve the poverty, misery, ignorance, filth and backwardness around me. And I have concluded that, short of supporting the innovations or ideas of others, there is little I can do. I am a tenured professor of physics, but I can’t imagine explaining to a medieval blacksmith what little I know of making better steel, for example. I can insist on my household following better sanitary practices, but even here I dare not go to far lest I be branded a heretic, a witch, or a madman. So much for all our stories of men from the future transforming the past, of armored knights on steam engines and Joan of Arc in an airplane. Because of my peculiar condition, I am forced to be a passive observer most of the time. At least if it becomes too much I can “sleep” away the days, and weeks, and years.

Winter in this England was stark and bitter, snow-covered and dark. Christmas was cheerful, though, with candles and festivals and elaborate masses through the season. Though the trial of Joan of Navarre, the king’s stepmother, for witchcraft had left everyone uneasy, still it is over and done – and the king and his army have long since left for France. Sir Hugh’s wife, Katherine, was ill with a cold but overflowing with the spirit of the holidays.

The new year brought a pleasant prize - Sir William Phelipp, then Treasurer, was involved in a scandal when some papers turned up linking him to the Lollards and the insurrection of Sir John Oldcastle. None of it was true, of course, but true enough to serve my purpose - and Sir William was gone from the council and back to his estates. Chancellor Beaufort advised Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, that the evidence was not strong enough to prosecute Sir William for heresy. His recommendation was to “Let The Lollards Be” - that man is so self-important he even speaks in capitals! Thomas, Lord Arundel would be the favorite for the vacant post, but Humphrey didn’t like what he heard of milord Arundel, and the Treasury went to me. By spring I was created Hugh, Baron Dunster and my lady wife was very pleased.

As we entered the year of our lord 1419, the royal coffers were bare. The demands of raising the royal armies and maintaining the royal fleets - i.e. paying the merchants to rent their larger, better ships - have sent coin flowing out of the vaults in rivers. Langley, of course, needed marks and pounds so that our messages to foreign courts would fall on receptive ears. In particular, he believed we must improve our friendship with Brittany, where Duc Jean was our vassal more in name than in fact.


Is their army equipped with Brittany spears? Alas, there is no-one I can ask.

But Duc Jean will receive a magnificent set of jeweled goblets, the finest made by our London goldsmiths. Oh, my ducats! Oh, my Brittany!


Our war got off to a poor start. A force under Colonel Dunlap was defeated in Guyenne on or about the 27th of January and compelled to retreat to Poitou. Colonel Broom was detached from Henry’s main army to besiege Amiens in Picardie while Henry moved on Paris. In February, the Scots came howling into Northumberland, only to be broken and scattered by the Earl of Warwick, Beauchamp.

Bishop Langley, our Foreign Secretary, reported great wars have broken out all around the Baltic. Other than increasing prices of naval stores and making trade riskier, it does not seem to concern us.

On the 27th of February - that date again! - Henry found the main French army in Artois. Their commander could not hold them; they were shot to pieces by our longbows and driven in panic from the field, the chivalry trampling their own footmen to get away. On March 14th, Campbell’s Scots made a headlong rush at Beauchamp’s men and were repulsed. Beauchamp pursued them to Edinburgh to find the Scots had retreated up into the hills.

On March 22nd, Lord Middlesex’s Home Fleet defeated a Scots fleet off the coast of Holland, and our invasion fears were greatly eased. There was revelry in the streets of London, and a great thanksgiving mass for our victories was said in St Paul’s.

Henry had confided in a letter to the council that he would seek to force the so-called king of France to terms by knocking down the royal uncles and dukes. Since the poor, sometimes-mad Charles VI was king only so long as his dukes could not agree on a successor, this plan looked promising. The blow would fall first on Charles, Duc D’Orleans.

On April 27th - I now dreaded that day of each month - we received word that Savoy had declared war on Burgundy and Henry had pledged our strength to the alliance. So we were at war with Savoy, which seemed harmless enough. The Earl of Warwick, Beauchamp, had routed the Scots from the Grampians and was besieging Glasgow in Strathclyde.

In an unexpectedly hard-fought battle on May 2nd, Henry defeated the Orleannais and besieged Orleans itself. Jean, Duke of Brittany, joined our alliance with Burgundy. Thankfully, our arms were victorious and it is our enemies who must pour out coin to raise fresh troops, our enemies whose lands lay fallow and whose towns are burnt. England was stable and our expenses could be held down, though the royal household was a poor shrunken thing this year. The royal cooks and stablers and estate managers all called me “pinchpurse” and worse, but we owed no loans and needed no fresh taxes.

In June, Aragon declared war on Navarre, which should keep them both off our back.

Through June, Lord Middlesex’s Home Fleet cruised the channel, seeking but not finding the French fleet. In July, however, the two fleets collided, and the English navy triumphed; another invasion scare was put to rest, and more proof provided that a good navy frees us from having to keep large armies in England. Bad news from the north, however, dampened our spirits; the Earl of Nottingham had withdrawn from Edinburgh just ahead of a large Scots army. Beauchamp, the Earl of Warwick had lifted the siege of Glasgow to go to his aid, and all our work in Scotland was in peril.

August 6th, Munster declared war on Burgundy, and Henry sent us letters that he had pledged our support to the Burgundians.

August 8th, a rider brought word that the Scots were in Northumberland, Berwick was surrounded, and all that country was on fire. London is ghostly quiet.

Although we got the news much later, it was around this time that Bohemia collapsed into heresy and denied any allegiance with Catholic countries. They were protesting papal exactions and abuses - with justice, I think, having seen the latest demands for funds from Pope Martin V. The two competing papacies, in Rome and in France, had only recently been reconciled, Rome literally left in ruins, the church finances in chaos - but the bishops and archbishop dress in finery, eat from gold and silver plate, ride in fine carriages, and preach the virtue of poverty and the sin of gluttony.

Friesland declared war on Burgundy on August 17th; Burgundy asked us to honor our alliance and Henry again loyally agreed. The councilors were united in apprehension; we could not see any benefit to England - or Burgundy - in the war now spreading over Europe.


In late August, Bishop Langley pays a quiet visit to my offices in Westminster. Sensing that what he has to say is sensitive- and serious - I suggest we stroll out into the gardens to talk. All, he says, has come to naught. His embassies to Aragon and Castile have been rebuffed; no marriage for Henry can be found at any of the courts of Europe. Just as bad for us is the entry of Kleves into the war, and the likelihood that Lorraine and Geldre will follow. I will not ask how he knows all this, for our genial, white-haired bishop is our spymaster. His ears are everywhere, especially in foreign courts, and his information is usually good, though dearly bought.

Are we to war with all of Europe?, he asks. There is no realm in Christendom that loves us enough to unite its family with our sovereign Plantagenets, unless we have gold with which to persuade a bride. I would gladly pay out funds for Henry’s marriage, but instead I must tell the good bishop that we have no coin and no reason to expect any before year’s end, unless the king or council will authorize me to ask for loans.

No, he muses, Henry will not spend for a bride; proud Price Hal will expect a bride’s dowry to come to him! And Humphrey and the chancellor will not risk the king’s disfavor by trying to procure a wife for him. No, he shakes his head - no loans, not now.

For all that the sun shone and the birds sang, it seemed a dark and threatening day. I know, even if these men cannot, that the king must die young. And for England’s sake, he must have a wife, and an heir.


By October, it was clear we must have additional funds. Loans were secured and 200g raised from the London bankers. From the north came mixed news; Beauchamp had beaten the Scots but bled his army white in doing so. Our army in Picardie was also weakened from repeated French sorties, and much of our new capital was spent raising troops.

November dawned with fresh reverses, as Burgundy bought a peace with Provence but left us still at war. Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester handed his duties as Lieutenant of England over to the chancellor and headed north to assist the Earl of Warwick, Beauchamp. On the 21st, the sun truly came out from behind the clouds for England: Orleans has been taken! Henry has declared Charles, Duc D’Orleans to have forsworn his allegiance to the true crown and has stripped him of his duchy. Charles of France is said to have lapsed into gibbering madness at the news, and any hope that the French would submit to us has vanished. Before Christmas, I received a short, formal note from the king reminding Lord Hugh of his promise - and awarding to him the title and County of Orleans! Were it not for me, Lord Hugh would have fainted dead away.

But the outrage of the French eliminated any thought of marrying Henry to one of Charles’ daughters. I realized then what I had done with my meddling. The price of Lord Hugh’s new title was that Henry will not marry Catherine of France. History as I knew it will be different, and the world I came from will never have come to be. I have changed the past to help a good and gentle man, and I have blotted out my time, my life and everyone I have ever known.


And yet, here I am, Bob, eh? So the story must turn out in the end, you think. Well, read on, my friend, because it’s not as simple as all that.

Chapter the Fourth - 1420 and 1421

From here on out I’m going to use more of the present voice as I’m more or less recounting things from the notes I took as they happened.

From his tent at Troyes, Henry writes Bishop Langley that he will accept a Burgundian marriage to further cement the alliance. Although the council is not pleased to bind England further to the Burgundians - they have now dragged us into war with Strassburg - any chance of a good marriage must be taken. The woman in question is a niece of Phillip the Good, a few years younger than our king but well educated and with a quiet, dark-complected beauty. Pretty she is not, but strikingly beautiful Catherine certainly is. And Henry seems to care for her, though I suspect he still desires Catherine of France more.

In December, Henry begins another siege of Paris. Plans must be made for the royal wedding, though it will be difficult to marry the king while he is on campaign.

January 24th, 1421, the royal court of France announces the marriage of Charles’ daughter Catherine to the Duke of Luxembourg, which Henry sees as a calculated insult.

February 1st, the peasants in Orleans rise up in revolt. I have been unable to leave the Treasury to take up any duties in Orleans, leaving Henry to deputize administrators for the county in my stead. I am very glad Lord Hugh is not there now! February 24th another of the French royal dukes comes tumbling down as John, Duke of Bedford accepts the surrender of Limoges in the Limousin. John then dispatches the rebels in Orleans. I will receive no revenues from those properties this year!

In March the Scots send an embassy for peace, which is refused. Henry doesn’t much care, being concerned only with France, but brother Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, and the council are determined that Scotland must be brought low. Beauchamp and Humphrey cross the border into Strathclyde with the new troops our funds have bought. April 15th, the Scots are beaten and driven back but over 4000 of our soldiers are dead, wounded and missing. Quite a taxing day for James I - and an expensive one for us!

On the 27th of April - that day again! - Amiens in Picardie falls to our forces. In Scotland, the hottest fighting is between our commanders, so Beauchamp tends to the siege of Glasgow and Humphrey of Gloucester moves into Lothian. Even the Scots must eat ( though WHAT they eat... ) and Humphrey believes they will submit if we burn their country down around their ears. Humphrey is determined to be like his famous ancestor Edward III and “Hammer” the Scots flat, because he covets the popularity his brothers in France now enjoy.

June brings welcome news: Buchan Douglas has tested his luck once too often, and is ambushed, captured and hung from a gibbet in sight of Edinburgh. June 21st the London church bells peal again, for Sable D’Olonnes in the Vendee has fallen to Thomas of Clarence and Charles of France no longer has lands on the Atlantic. Burgundy is being overrun by Dutch and German troops but none of the enemy forces threaten us. France has no field forces left to speak of, but is slowly building a new army in Champagne.

The Palatinate declares war on our alliance on July 4th, as Aragon enters an alliance with Naples and the Papal States. Could Iberian eyes be turning to the Mediterranean? Could their real target be the control of the papacy? There’s nothing we can do about it now.


A long, quiet summer and fall are broken by an embassy for peace from Friesland on October 8th. Colonel Preston is dispatched into the Highlands to stop the last Scots field force, and war sweeps across Russia as Muscovy and Novgorod battle for the rich trade routes of the north. On December 13, an exhausted Burgundy pays 32g for peace with Kleves.


January of 1421, our second year of war, opens with wild celebration as Henry V enters Paris in triumph. Over 150g pour in from crown revenues and the stability of the realm is solid as granite. Colonel Preston’s disastrous winter debacle in the Highlands goes almost unnoticed by the rest of England, but the council groans at the necessity of finding more troops to fight in Scotland.

Another Douglas, flushed with his ambush of Preston’s frozen companies, marches into the Grampians. The wild hills prove no easier for him than for us; within a week he is ambushed and sent packing. Word arrives by special messenger that John, Duke of Bedford has defeated the hated Duc de Bourbon, taken Tours in Berri, and secured peace. To keep the rest of his duchy, de Bourbon grants the county of Limousin and 30g to England. As further good news, we are informed that his majesty the king has wedded Catherine of Burgundy in a quiet ceremony at a small chapel in Paris. The royal couple return quietly to London, where her coronation takes place on February 24th. The queen is installed with her household at Windsor.

March 4th brings the first good news in two years of war in the north: Glasgow has fallen and control of Strathclyde with it. Beauchamp, the Earl of Warwick, is requested to immediately march into the Highlands so as to leave no haven for Scottish armies. Osbourne’s new troops in Northumberland will be sent to assist him. Bishop Langley recommends - and the council concurs - that a white peace with Cologne be accepted.

The peasants in Limousin revolt on April 1, but none of the cities or strongpoints are taken. There are no troops on hand and none to spare so John of Bedford must raise his siege and trek back from Nivernais. Henry masses one of the largest armies England has ever seen and marches 17,000 infantry and 5,000 cavalry into Champagne to confront the new French Royal Army there. The French army utterly disintegrates; it is a greater victory than Agincourt and Henry sends the army on to Nivernais to harry the French while he returns to England for Parliament in May.

Orleans explodes in revolt - again - in May, triggered by John of Bedford’s army tramping through. Beauchamp fails - again - in the Highlands; no cries of “A Warwick! A Warwick!” will ring out in London this time. Henry’s army is scattered all over Champagne in pursuit of the defeated French. Without Henry’s steady hand, the captains decide to pull back to regroup in Ile de France. On the 15th of May, Colonel Osbourne attacks Douglas’s Scots, still disorganized from their victory over Beauchamp. The Scots waver - and this time, when they break, there is nowhere to reform. Osbourne lays siege to Inverness.

Toulouse in Guyenne falls to Thomas, Duke of Clarence on June 13th. Duke Thomas is proving to be quite a master of siegecraft, and he moves on into Languedoc. No peace will be accepted with Scotland or France until Scotland lies prostrate under our heel! No peace with Provence unless Brittany can keep Maine!

Rebellion flares up again in Limousin on July 26th. John, Duke of Bedford, attempts to restore order but his troops are routed by screaming mobs of peasants in the streets of Limoges. Through late July and early August, Thomas, Duke of Clarence will sweep through Limousin while John’s army recovers in Poitou. August 5th sees Henry’s army winding out of Paris headed southeast into Champagne, and August 12th brings the glorious news that Admiral Exeter has beaten - has annihilated! - the combined fleets of France and Geldre off the Coast of Holland.


September brought blessedly cooler weather with a promise that the long drought of summer would break. I - as Lord Hugh - was using the daylight to study tax rolls for Wales when an unexpected step sounded in my office doorway. Looking up from the brightly-lit table, I could only dimly see a figure, robed and stooped in the dimness by the door. As he came slowly forward, I could see it was the chancellor, Bishop Henry Beaufort. His face was such a ghastly waxy white I thought he had suffered a stroke, and came to my feet in alarm. He waved off my assistance, but took the other chair as I poured him some wine, and he apologized for the interruption in a weak and thready voice.

He had, he said, had quite a shock, and he had matters to discuss. Plague Happened To Us In Bristol, he intoned in that annoyingly self-important voice. Bristol was in chaos and the death toll rising by the day. No royal troops were needed to restore order, but the city was in panic and the countryside overrun with refugees. I assured the good bishop that alms from the king’s personal household would be provided to ease the suffering in Bristol. I was able to cheer him up a bit with the latest news of Cavendish’s victory over the Dutch fleet, and let him know that the good admiral had seized the precious navigational Rutters and brought them safely home. And, I confided, her attendants were fairly sure that the queen was indeed “with child” and a baby was expected by winter. We knelt in the sunshine and prayed for long lives for the king and queen, and for an end to the suffering in Bristol.


A small force of Geldre troops attempts to lay siege to Calais in October, rather like the dog who chased the bull but didn’t know what to do when he caught it. The massive walls of Calais could have held for years, but Bishop Langley sent Reinald IV of Geldre a white peace offer, which was accepted. A white peace with Provence followed in November, as we simply couldn’t wring anything from them without invading Provence itself. Duke Jean is quite put out that his realm will not be enlarged with Maine, and so refuses to grant us military access to Breton lands, which leaves King Henry quite cross with him. Also in royal disfavor is the queen, who stayed at Windsor against the king’s instructions, but who has borne a child - and a son, praise God!, to be named Henry like his father and grandfather before him.

A small force of Savoyards have sailed from their Mediterranean home to land in Morbihan, for what reason none can fathom.


Chapter the Fifth - 1422


The realm is solidly behind King Henry and the nobles are all occupied in France rather than causing trouble here. A personal gift is dispatched to Duke Jean of Brittany - fine hunting falcons from the king’s own cote. We may not love him, but he is nearly the only friend we have. The army is undergoing horrible privations as they lay siege to Reims in Champagne. The king’s letters speak of frostbite, hunger and disease in the army; chillingly, his steward says the king is ill. The succession is secure - if only the king can live until his son is grown! If I have changed history for Lord Hugh, surely I can do so for Henry! But I cannot lecture him, I cannot go to him without cause, and I cannot minister to him because he would believe he was showing weakness to accept such aid.

All is quiet through the winter. In March I issue edicts for some minor taxes to help support our great armies. People complain - especially the merchants - but more as a matter of form than because they really mean it.

On March 20th, Reims falls and Henry returns from Champagne to Paris. Returns in a carriage, for he is too ill with flux to sit a horse. Munster has petitioned for a white peace and it is granted. Montpellier in Languedoc falls, and with it the false papal city of Avignon. The anti-pope Benedict XIII has fled to Spain, despite our efforts to snare him. Old and sick as he is, he would have been a nice bargaining chip with Rome! Bishop Langley is very cheerful, for one of the African Muslim states - Fez - has become a vassal of Portugal.

In April, however, Algiers has humbled proud Castile to the tune of 200g, which ought to keep the Castilians from bothering us. And a tearful Scots emissary is sent back to the exiled Scots court in Flanders. James I will take what peace England allows him, and be grateful for it whenever we permit it.

The king is able to rise from his bed on May 4th for the thanksgiving mass celebrating the surrender of Edinburgh to Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. He looks much better, and has recovered from his flux, but tires easily. I fear from his difficulty in breathing he may have pneumonia. Burgundy is collapsing in exhaustion, paying a token for peace with Lorraine, but giving up Franche Comte to Savoy.

July 9th is marked by the surrender of Aberdeen, securing the Grampians for us. Charles VI of France offers Picardie, Guyenne, Vendee, Languedoc and Champagne for peace, but is refused. We will have no peace until Scotland falls! Besides, Bishop Langley believes Charles is dying - and we will, he says, do better to hold out and deal with a new regime. He says a great war is brewing around Byzantium, and the Italian states who are waging it are in the pay of the pope. The noble Percy family petitions the king for aid in the matter of some estates contested by the Nevilles, but the king has never forgiven the Percys for their rebellion in 1403 and there will be no help for a Percy. Or, in the florid tones of our lord chancellor, we Deny Aid to a Great Noble Family.

Lord Hugh’s good wife, Katherine, has passed away this August 16th. He is sunk in deep gloom, and I suffer with him. At least we are not in the field with the armies.

King Henry is suffering greatly in the heat and has difficulty breathing.

In August, Burgundy is stripped of Zeeland for peace with Cologne. We are allied to a corpse! And King Henry’s steward confides that the king has dysentery again, and is wasting rapidly away. Everyone knows how little strength he has left for this fight.


August 30th, the church bells toll throughout England. Harry of Monmouth - Prince Hal - Henry V of England - is dead. Catherine is now the Widow of Windsor, and may God save King Henry VI and England!