Chapter Three, Part One
Sorry for the late update, ladies and gents. Exams and the sudden discovery that I have to move out of my house in two weeks have sorta set me back in the writing department. Admittedly, I could have played a little less EU3, but it just hard to concentrate at the moment. Well, here you go! I hope you all enjoy.
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Chapter Three: Paying the Ferryman
A New Order
The Duchy of Barcelona was quickly becoming a divided place – and it was apparent to everyone except its leader, Duke Ramon Berenguer, Patriarch of the House of Sunifred. This period of history would be one of the Duchy’s black marks before its end in 1086. This period would be known as the Gilded Regency, as after Pedro Ramon had committed himself to treachery, Barcelona entered a period of much havoc as the Regent absorbed the majority of the income of Barcelona for his own purposes – mainly mercenaries. These mercenaries served two purposes: keep the people at bay and prepare for the day where he would march on his father. Pedro even began stylizing himself as “His Highness,” which was a direct challenge to his father. Yet with the bustle of Rodrigo’s lightening campaign, and the Duke’s refusal to ever enter Barcelona again, there was nothing anyone really could do…
Barcelona, The Spains
March 1st, 1071
“So, gentlemen, what do you say? Do we have a deal?” Pedro looked down from the perch that was his throne, having refused from the beginning to stand and greet anyone that was not his equal. His piercing eyes descended over his guests, casting a blackened shadow over the room. However, his guests could care less. They were more interested in the business end of his conversation.
The creditor scratched his chin, rubbing the spiky stubble on his chin as the offer presented to him danced throughout his conscious, weighing the positives and negatives, and seeing if trusting the Regent was applicable. He could stand to make quite a bit of money from this deal, but if anything was like father – he wouldn’t ever be paid. Pedro seemed different though, so perhaps it was time to make an exception. These were changing times, and changing times called to his inner-gambler.
“50,000 denarii is a lot of money… Your Highness,” the creditor began, nearly forgetting to mention Pedro’s assumed title, “but I am willing to risk it. You seem to be a fair person, unlike your father who has taken out several loans from various loans and repaid nothing – including myself.”
“To be fair,” Pedro waved his hand and hissed, “you loaned him coin with the campaign as collateral. You should have seen this coming. He needs all the money he can muster to continue his holy war against Islam. Don’t expect anything he returns.”
“Every idiot knows he is not returning. The only question is – should I expect the same treatment from you?” the creditor raised a curious eyebrow, wondering if entering this castle was even worth his time.
“You shall address me properly!” Pedro screamed as he rose from his chair, standing upright from atop his throne, bearing down on his pathetic subject below him. It was a place Pedro liked to me – above anyone and everyone. It was where he had power – power over life and death. No one else had power like he, not even his father. He truly was the master of Barcelona, and if he had to enforce that through treachery and hired thugs – then so be it, “or else money isn’t the only thing you will lose to today. Consider your tongue to be the first thing to adorn my crown when Navarre submits to me.”
“I apologize, Your Highness,” the creditor bent his neck, trying to recover whatever had been lost in the negotiations.
“Good,” Pedro sat back down in his chair, “payment will begin in one year…”
“One year!?” the creditor stepped forward, raising an arm is protest, but immediately regretted it as the unsheathing of swords echoed behind him.
“One year,” Pedro begain again, “whatever outstanding balance remains shall be repaid in full at the fifth anniversary of this transaction. I believe those are fair terms?”
“They are, Your Highness,” the creditor rumbled, clenching and unclenching his jaw in anger.
“Good! See to Stewardess Adelaida to deal with the peculiar details,” Pedro waved a ringed hand toward the door, “now off you go! Shoo! I have more important things to do now.”
As the creditor was cleared from the room by his thugs, he was only allowed a few moments to bask in the glory that was his ego. Breathing in a deep breath of fresh air, his calm was interrupted by a slow yet rhythmic singular clap emanating from behind him. Peeking his head around the large wooden throne, he spotted his veiled mother in her usual black dress slowly approaching the throne. Though he could not see her face, he could feel her happiness as she entered. It had been nice to see his mother happy once again after so many years of forced imprisonment.
“A splendid performance, Pedro! I could feel the aura in the room as I watched from the bedchambers. You did a masterful job – I could hardly tell you apart from your old personality,” Almodis complimented, making her way around the front of the throne. Pedro, immediately springing from his seat, made his way down the staircase from his perch and embraced his mother.
“I have had a great teacher,” Pedro squeezed his mother tight, to then let her go and lean against the side of the staircase. Almodis smiled deviously behind her curtained visage, seeing her creation grow stronger each day. Soon, he would be ready to do his job for Barcelona. It would only be a matter of time, no doubt.
“What is our next move?” Pedro asked anxiously, hoping from some insight from his mother.
“The key to controlling Barcelona is the army,” Almodis obliged her son, “that has been the way things have been since the days of the Spanish March under Charlemagne.”
“The Spanish what?” Pedro raised a curious eyebrow. Almodis sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. Only for a moment she wished her eldest son would have taken more time for his studies then his promiscuity.
No matter,” Almodis saved face, “whoever controls the army controls the state – and we do not have control. Your father and Rodrigo do. As far as anyone is concerned, we have no legitimacy.
“I despise Rodrigo,” Pedro spat poison, “he has caused nothing but trouble since he came. He has polluted my sister and now he holds the Duke in his hands like clay! Rodrigo must die!”
“I am inclined to agree,” Almodis clasped her hands together and let them hang, nodding in approval, “but Rodrigo cannot die. Not yet, anyway. He is far too popular. Killing him now will just make the soldiers suspect. I can only imagine that a few fingers would be pointed back at home.”
“Then what do we do?” Pedro inquired, a concerned look dampening his face, laying his future in the hands of his mother who had equally no idea what was next. Immediately, however, both scheming people jumped at the noise of a few solemn footsteps, followed by the loud creak of the double doors bursting open with several armed guards following the Chancellor, Bernat de Baslu. The man approaching them was the bishop of their diocese, Alfons de Canãmas – having been appointed several years ago by Rome to serve in Barcelona. Pedro, a man unconcerned with his afterlife, immediately sprung to action by drawing a dagger out of his boot. He rapidly approached the bishop, pointing the blade at him. The bishop responded by throwing his hands into the air, unsure of why this was happening.
“What are you doing here, holy man?” Pedro screamed at the top of his lungs, inching closer and closer to the priest.
“I tried to stop him!” de Baslu yelled, directing the soldiers to surround Bishop Alfons, “he must have circumvented my guards.”
“Stand down, Chancellor,” Almodis chimed in, looking over Alfons’ soldier to a most distraught de Baslu, “I believe we can resolve this diplomatically,” Almodis turned her head to her son, who caught her gaze and sheathed the knife from whence it came, “why are you here, exactly?”
“Well,” the aged Bishop cleared his throat, “I couldn’t help but overhear all this talk about intrigue and murder. I took it upon myself to investigate. I had tried to get in directly, but your chancellor blocked my way. So I just went around. Very easy actually – I would suggest you check that.”
“I don’t understand,” Pedro blurted out, “are you spying on me? Who side are you on?”
“A spy wouldn’t reveal himself like I had, Your Highness,” Bishop Alfons winked a wrinkled eyelid, “but I am on no one’s side but with God. God is displeased with the way the campaign is being handled, and I am here to correct that. I am here to offer advice if I am allowed to do so.”
“Speak up,” Almodis waved her hand, beckoning the priest to continue.
“The infidels are foul, barbaric creatures that are being treated as equals rather than subjects. I have been dismayed ever since the fall of Zaragoza. A prince of heathens given authority over a city conquered by God’s faithful? We are truly in dark days if we sit at the same table with those only a short few years ago would have taken any chance to destroy us,” Bishop Alfons began, settling into an uneasy pace that caught the annoyance of Pedro, rolling his eyes several times between the bishop’s pauses and starts, “but luckily for the both of you, I happen to have a few ears in the army – and I will be happy to lend them to you for the right price.”
“And what would that price be, bishop?” Almodis asked, her voice strained with apprehension.
“Only that the complete religious authority over the lands conquered by the Army of Barcelona. I will make sure those territories benefit this city economically, militarily, and indeed, spiritually. That is all I require – and I do believe it is not too unreasonable,” Bishop Alfons clapped his hands together, looking to the chancellor, Pedro, and Almodis. De Baslu’s face turned sour with uncertainty, and luckily it went unnoticed. Everyone was far too busy considering the priest’s offer. It was simple, but what did he really want? Surely there was much more to gain than religious authority over a few conquered territories.
“I see no issue,” Almodis stated, crossing her arms, “what say you Your Highness?”
“I can accept your terms, Alfons,” Pedro replied, looking nervously toward his mother for approval. He could get none, as the veil draped over her face was equally as calculating as she. It was no matter – the issue was closed.
“Excellent! Now that all of this is settled,” the bishop paused for a few moments, his aged head cocking slightly to the side, “what should I arrange?” While the question technically for Pedro, his mother cut him off as he opened his mouth to speak.
“Pedro will join the Army of Barcelona on their next engagement. Earning the respect of the army is certainly a step in the right direction. Bonds are best forged in blood, and some courage on the battlefield will turn far more heads than a bag of gold or some tempting words,” Almodis interjected.
“But mother, I do not know…”
“No matter, you shall be properly instructed in the art of hand-to-hand combat. You must learn someday if we shall ever confront your father. No day is better than today, am I correct?” Almodis smiled, Pedro becoming increasingly uneasy by the minute as the conversation continued. Everything was happening far too fast for his liking.
His palms and face dripping with nervous sweats, everything he knew and understood was being changed. Pedro had been swept into the firestorm of rebellion practically against his will. As he mother made arrangements for almost everything in his life, he couldn’t help but wonder and think why all of this was happening. As the world around him zoomed about, he only stood his ground, becoming enveloped by a damning silence that permeated his senses even as people entered and exited the room. He was a traitor, a scheming fratricide, and now a damned soul.
To what end?
