NavAARra: A little kingdom modestly refusing to go down
- Thread starter Cornelius Rex
- Start date
-
We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
Time to make Granny share the wealth! Navarra needs cash! Or, rather, Sancho needs cash. Keeping maids quiet isn't as cheap as it used to be.
So nobody thinks Sancho can relax...
... Or make a tour of the Middle East
?
Not that those aren't good ideas.
... Or make a tour of the Middle East
?Not that those aren't good ideas
.
1074-1075. The War of the Two Sanchos (or, Family get-together)
Ha. If only...
I had already started the journey back to Córdoba, kind of parading along with my faithful victorious army and all that, when the Borg suggested we should have a really big celebration this Christmas, a "Reconquista festival" sort of thing, or a "Concilium Regnum Hispaniae" for short (it may be wrongly spelled, I left my Bishop at Denia), and invite all the leaders of old Hispania to the shindig. That is, my cousins and their people, plus all our vassals. Everyone meets and gets to know and appreciate each other, and we can put the years of religious strife behind us to build "a peaceful, progressive, tolerant common peninsula" (her words). I loved the idea and sent the invitations straight away, not even waiting to get down from the horse.
I could already see it. It was to be a family event, all warm and congratulatory, the start of many years of peace an collaboration and general goodyness and...
... and then I got this message from my cousin in Castilla:
"Hello Sancho, I heard about that kinda party you want to throw for some pogrom or raid or whatever that you've done against those poor moors. I gotta tell you that I personally disapprove of moor-bashing and religion wars in general, and I don't see what's the point in bragging that you've gone and won a fisticuff or two against some poor pillow-head. I'll be asking my vassals to avoid the party, and really hope that you learn to behave in a more enlightened, tolerant and mature way in the future. Best regards, your cousin Sancho".
Yes. You read right.
The twerp.
It seems I threw some sort of a fit. I don't quite remember that day, but the Borg keeps a bed-side diary and I've snatched a couple of pages. Don't believe everything you read, she's a bit picturesque.
"The night the war started we had set up camp on a forested hill by the banks of a river. The soldiers had dug the trenches and built the palisade that the Marshall always insists on, ever since Zaragoza, and were now gathered by the side of several hundred fires. The liveries of our many lords flapped in the cold wind.
The courier from Burgos reached the army camp at the dark of noon, and went right into the Royal Tent. His Majesty was departing with us at the time, and greeted the messenger warmly, then asked us to wait in the Council Tent nearby while he read the parchment. The Marshall and the Spymistress lingered by the exit, just beyond the light of the torches, and I waited for them in spite of the cold. And so we heard his Royal Highness as he called the messenger closer and asked him if the message was real. We thought He sounded a bit strange. The messenger said that he had been by the King of Castilla when it was dictated. Oh, so you were, were you, said the King. Yes, I was, said the messenger. And then there was a bang, and a crash, and a shout, and the castilian courier came half running, half stumbling out of the tent, his eyes wild, his doublet rumpled and the parchment open in his hand.
García tripped him to the muddied ground and Laura stuck her foot on his head in a very definite and crunchy way, while I grabbed at the parchment. We read it by the flickering light of the torches, and we understood. The Royal Tent shook with His anger, pain, and unchristian expletives. The guards looked at us worried, and many courtiers started to gather at the noise. The Marshall signalled that they should stay out.
We went into the Council Tent, and put the parchment on the Table. The nobles and commanders followed us, seeking news and explanations, and they had them. In a short while, the leadership of the army was gathered in the dark tent, and not a single brow was unfurrowed. Conversations swirled angrily, feet were stamped, swords handled, scimitars unfastened, and warrior eyes were hurt after listening to someone read the note. We all knew our King, who is kind and attentive if not too careful, and we all knew how much his family had made him suffer since childhood and until he tore them from the reins of the Kingdom in 1066.
Then the tent flap was thrust aside, and the torches flickered in a gust of wind. The King was in the entrance, looking on the gathering. His face was darkened, but I could see a very unfamiliar look on it. He walked to the Council Table, and his nobles made way, not daring to approach him.
I see that you already know, he said. I can't guess how, but I've come to expect it. And you have all heard what the King of Castilla thinks of us. You!, he said, pointing at the fierce Emir of Zaragoza, who refuses to allow churches in his land and wears the Navarran red as a talisman. You and I crossed swords long ago, when your father was Emir. Our armies died on the ramparts of Zaragoza, and so few of us came over them that you could have pushed us back with ten soldiers, if so many had been alive inside the city. Brave fisticuffs!, I say. And you have followed my banner and led my armies to the Pillars of Hercules and back. You and your turban!
Here! Badajoz!, said the King, and an old, crooked, one-eyed Emir stepped forth, one handspan of his scimitar shining out of the scabbard. You and I have shared wars, trusting to each other to hold their ground and care for the other. Amr of Cuenca! The first of my mahomedan vassals to come to my faith, if not always to my points of view. Dukes of Porto and Galicia! You have travelled Hispania with me, and rode over the Andalusian sierras until a handful of your men were left, and still persevered.
He turned and looked at the circle of his people, whose upturned faces now shone with pride. You have died for me, he said, now almost whispering. Most of our fathers' generation has died under my banners, either fighting them or fighting my enemies, and often both at different times. Every one of you bears scars for me, and your lands are full of widows to pay for my peace. You have overcome doubts, and perils, and odds too impossible to mention. You, my Counts and Sheiks, my Dukes and Emirs, have made Navarra! You have built a country that can stand in the face of the Turks and not be afraid!
And now -the King was lowering his voice again- my dear cousin does not think you fit to associate with his people. He thinks we've been playing pillow games these ten years! He says he does not care to come to our party!
I say, let him! And I say, with the Prophet, that if he won't come to the party... WE WILL TAKE THE PARTY TO HIM!
The Council Tent erupted in acclamations, swords raised, and the King strode out of it followed by his faithful, talking with the Catalan Duke, and García by his side looking very, very happy."
Ahem. Well, something along those lines must have happened. To tell the truth, if my inner council hadn't made the thing public, I don't think I'd have made a fuss of it (Sancho was always a bit of a brute, but family's family and no harm done)... but since the whole army knew, I just could not let the injury pass. And... let's say that I suspect that is the reason they made it public.
So, to make a long story short:
November 17th. General mobilization of my Catalan vassals (the only undented troops left in the kingdom). The main army turns north. Every troop gets going toward Castilla (yes, the camel-coloured country in the north - that colour again).
February 27th. The troops arrive at Alfonso's provinces in two fronts. I greet him with a declaration of war (having just remembered a claim on his throne and on one of his domain provinces, beautifully forged by the Borg's dark clerks on the way here).
This time, my León ally joins the fray. Family reunion, indeed. We Jimenez stick together. On the head, preferably.
I blast the Castilian troops away, leading the veterans. The famous Rodrigo "El Cid" Díaz, my cousin's famous man-eating Marshall, manages to avoid me by claiming a previous engagement.
March 21st, Soria surrenders.
July 7th 1075, festivity of San Fermín, Burgos surrenders. That's the second domain province of my cousin, and it's just about time since the Castilians are besieging Navarra itself. Cousin Sancho manages to unscrew his hammered-in helmet, sees the light, and renounces the throne of Castille in my favour; I behave kindly and renounce my own claims, vassalizing everyone instead.
To thank the day's patron saint, I decree that the Borg's bull-running-while-dressed-in-white-and-red festival be henceforth celebrated every year on the 7th of July, and be known as the Fiestas of San Fermín. The locals start partying right away, by loosing the bulls on the retiring Castilian troops. Absolutely spectacular.
On July the 12th I get the Borg's latest report on my vassals. Looks good: all of them seem loyal and contented, with the slight exception of my Emir of Badajoz. He's the heir of the dear, mad old pirate that was first over the walls of Burgos. And just as loony.
She also shows me the updated map. You'd think it looks good, doesn't it?
All's well that ends well, then? Only two Jimenez kingdoms survive, and we're allied (and I'm so much stronger than my cousin). The end of the Curse of Doña Muña, isn't it?
And the future looks even brighter, since my boy Luis will inherit the largest French dukedom to top it all up. The throne of Navarra looks quite secure, doesn't it?
Doesn't it?
I thought so too. Then, on February 12th 1076, I got the latest news from Aquitaine. I don't understand how, but my dear father-in-law has changed his succession laws and Luis is no longer his heir.
I have to confess I lost my temper again at the news. I even smashed a vase with the ceremonial scepter. And a seneschal or two, I think. Not that I keep track of how many there are, you know. But I think I did.
Why can't just one of my plans work well? Every calculation, every plot I've made in the last ten years has gone belly-up, and I've spent years correcting them. And now this.
I'm so very, very tired...
Ha. If only...
I had already started the journey back to Córdoba, kind of parading along with my faithful victorious army and all that, when the Borg suggested we should have a really big celebration this Christmas, a "Reconquista festival" sort of thing, or a "Concilium Regnum Hispaniae" for short (it may be wrongly spelled, I left my Bishop at Denia), and invite all the leaders of old Hispania to the shindig. That is, my cousins and their people, plus all our vassals. Everyone meets and gets to know and appreciate each other, and we can put the years of religious strife behind us to build "a peaceful, progressive, tolerant common peninsula" (her words). I loved the idea and sent the invitations straight away, not even waiting to get down from the horse.
I could already see it. It was to be a family event, all warm and congratulatory, the start of many years of peace an collaboration and general goodyness and...
... and then I got this message from my cousin in Castilla:
"Hello Sancho, I heard about that kinda party you want to throw for some pogrom or raid or whatever that you've done against those poor moors. I gotta tell you that I personally disapprove of moor-bashing and religion wars in general, and I don't see what's the point in bragging that you've gone and won a fisticuff or two against some poor pillow-head. I'll be asking my vassals to avoid the party, and really hope that you learn to behave in a more enlightened, tolerant and mature way in the future. Best regards, your cousin Sancho".
Yes. You read right.
The twerp.
It seems I threw some sort of a fit. I don't quite remember that day, but the Borg keeps a bed-side diary and I've snatched a couple of pages. Don't believe everything you read, she's a bit picturesque.
"The night the war started we had set up camp on a forested hill by the banks of a river. The soldiers had dug the trenches and built the palisade that the Marshall always insists on, ever since Zaragoza, and were now gathered by the side of several hundred fires. The liveries of our many lords flapped in the cold wind.
The courier from Burgos reached the army camp at the dark of noon, and went right into the Royal Tent. His Majesty was departing with us at the time, and greeted the messenger warmly, then asked us to wait in the Council Tent nearby while he read the parchment. The Marshall and the Spymistress lingered by the exit, just beyond the light of the torches, and I waited for them in spite of the cold. And so we heard his Royal Highness as he called the messenger closer and asked him if the message was real. We thought He sounded a bit strange. The messenger said that he had been by the King of Castilla when it was dictated. Oh, so you were, were you, said the King. Yes, I was, said the messenger. And then there was a bang, and a crash, and a shout, and the castilian courier came half running, half stumbling out of the tent, his eyes wild, his doublet rumpled and the parchment open in his hand.
García tripped him to the muddied ground and Laura stuck her foot on his head in a very definite and crunchy way, while I grabbed at the parchment. We read it by the flickering light of the torches, and we understood. The Royal Tent shook with His anger, pain, and unchristian expletives. The guards looked at us worried, and many courtiers started to gather at the noise. The Marshall signalled that they should stay out.
We went into the Council Tent, and put the parchment on the Table. The nobles and commanders followed us, seeking news and explanations, and they had them. In a short while, the leadership of the army was gathered in the dark tent, and not a single brow was unfurrowed. Conversations swirled angrily, feet were stamped, swords handled, scimitars unfastened, and warrior eyes were hurt after listening to someone read the note. We all knew our King, who is kind and attentive if not too careful, and we all knew how much his family had made him suffer since childhood and until he tore them from the reins of the Kingdom in 1066.
Then the tent flap was thrust aside, and the torches flickered in a gust of wind. The King was in the entrance, looking on the gathering. His face was darkened, but I could see a very unfamiliar look on it. He walked to the Council Table, and his nobles made way, not daring to approach him.
I see that you already know, he said. I can't guess how, but I've come to expect it. And you have all heard what the King of Castilla thinks of us. You!, he said, pointing at the fierce Emir of Zaragoza, who refuses to allow churches in his land and wears the Navarran red as a talisman. You and I crossed swords long ago, when your father was Emir. Our armies died on the ramparts of Zaragoza, and so few of us came over them that you could have pushed us back with ten soldiers, if so many had been alive inside the city. Brave fisticuffs!, I say. And you have followed my banner and led my armies to the Pillars of Hercules and back. You and your turban!
Here! Badajoz!, said the King, and an old, crooked, one-eyed Emir stepped forth, one handspan of his scimitar shining out of the scabbard. You and I have shared wars, trusting to each other to hold their ground and care for the other. Amr of Cuenca! The first of my mahomedan vassals to come to my faith, if not always to my points of view. Dukes of Porto and Galicia! You have travelled Hispania with me, and rode over the Andalusian sierras until a handful of your men were left, and still persevered.
He turned and looked at the circle of his people, whose upturned faces now shone with pride. You have died for me, he said, now almost whispering. Most of our fathers' generation has died under my banners, either fighting them or fighting my enemies, and often both at different times. Every one of you bears scars for me, and your lands are full of widows to pay for my peace. You have overcome doubts, and perils, and odds too impossible to mention. You, my Counts and Sheiks, my Dukes and Emirs, have made Navarra! You have built a country that can stand in the face of the Turks and not be afraid!
And now -the King was lowering his voice again- my dear cousin does not think you fit to associate with his people. He thinks we've been playing pillow games these ten years! He says he does not care to come to our party!
I say, let him! And I say, with the Prophet, that if he won't come to the party... WE WILL TAKE THE PARTY TO HIM!
The Council Tent erupted in acclamations, swords raised, and the King strode out of it followed by his faithful, talking with the Catalan Duke, and García by his side looking very, very happy."
Ahem. Well, something along those lines must have happened. To tell the truth, if my inner council hadn't made the thing public, I don't think I'd have made a fuss of it (Sancho was always a bit of a brute, but family's family and no harm done)... but since the whole army knew, I just could not let the injury pass. And... let's say that I suspect that is the reason they made it public.
So, to make a long story short:
November 17th. General mobilization of my Catalan vassals (the only undented troops left in the kingdom). The main army turns north. Every troop gets going toward Castilla (yes, the camel-coloured country in the north - that colour again).
February 27th. The troops arrive at Alfonso's provinces in two fronts. I greet him with a declaration of war (having just remembered a claim on his throne and on one of his domain provinces, beautifully forged by the Borg's dark clerks on the way here).
This time, my León ally joins the fray. Family reunion, indeed. We Jimenez stick together. On the head, preferably.
I blast the Castilian troops away, leading the veterans. The famous Rodrigo "El Cid" Díaz, my cousin's famous man-eating Marshall, manages to avoid me by claiming a previous engagement.
March 21st, Soria surrenders.
July 7th 1075, festivity of San Fermín, Burgos surrenders. That's the second domain province of my cousin, and it's just about time since the Castilians are besieging Navarra itself. Cousin Sancho manages to unscrew his hammered-in helmet, sees the light, and renounces the throne of Castille in my favour; I behave kindly and renounce my own claims, vassalizing everyone instead.
To thank the day's patron saint, I decree that the Borg's bull-running-while-dressed-in-white-and-red festival be henceforth celebrated every year on the 7th of July, and be known as the Fiestas of San Fermín. The locals start partying right away, by loosing the bulls on the retiring Castilian troops. Absolutely spectacular.
On July the 12th I get the Borg's latest report on my vassals. Looks good: all of them seem loyal and contented, with the slight exception of my Emir of Badajoz. He's the heir of the dear, mad old pirate that was first over the walls of Burgos. And just as loony.
She also shows me the updated map. You'd think it looks good, doesn't it?
All's well that ends well, then? Only two Jimenez kingdoms survive, and we're allied (and I'm so much stronger than my cousin). The end of the Curse of Doña Muña, isn't it?
And the future looks even brighter, since my boy Luis will inherit the largest French dukedom to top it all up. The throne of Navarra looks quite secure, doesn't it?
Doesn't it?
I thought so too. Then, on February 12th 1076, I got the latest news from Aquitaine. I don't understand how, but my dear father-in-law has changed his succession laws and Luis is no longer his heir.
I have to confess I lost my temper again at the news. I even smashed a vase with the ceremonial scepter. And a seneschal or two, I think. Not that I keep track of how many there are, you know. But I think I did.
Why can't just one of my plans work well? Every calculation, every plot I've made in the last ten years has gone belly-up, and I've spent years correcting them. And now this.
I'm so very, very tired...
Last edited:
Curses! You'd have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for those pesky Frenchies! Looks like the Aquitanian vassals didn't fancy being ruled by a Spaniard, and forced Guillaume to change his succession law to elective.
@ Doctor Z, he hasn't met any Irish, so he isn't as worried about them as he should be .
@ Rivus, well, he's always sending vassalization offers that way...
@ Kurt, Sancho's a real lamb, but with a bit of provocation he can do that. Having always been afraid of the Cid was an added reason.
@ AllmyJames, I guess that was it.
@ enf91, at that stage, when Sancho had money, he could create a few duchies and a kingdom. But up to now, he has never bothered about his own prestige (that's the Borg's job).
Upcoming: the one-but-last sketched update. After two pieces, we'll be in unwritten (if not unplayed) territory. Your input will be ever more important to shape the story.
.@ Rivus, well, he's always sending vassalization offers that way...
@ Kurt, Sancho's a real lamb, but with a bit of provocation he can do that
. Having always been afraid of the Cid was an added reason.@ AllmyJames, I guess that was it.
@ enf91, at that stage, when Sancho had money, he could create a few duchies and a kingdom. But up to now, he has never bothered about his own prestige (that's the Borg's job).
Upcoming: the one-but-last sketched update. After two pieces, we'll be in unwritten (if not unplayed) territory. Your input will be ever more important to shape the story.
Last edited:
February 1076-January 1077. Nation building (or, Baby, I'm home)
Hello again. Yes, please come in. Sit around, will you, and find the drinks yourselves. I'll be with you shortly. Just sending some vassalization offers... one never knows.
Last time you were around, I was still a bit dispirited, you understand. I had a feeling of defeat because my dear little boy, Luis (whom I'd just got back to after four years of continuous wars) was disinherited by his French grandad.
But, if you think about it, what's a dukedom more or less? I'd just built him a friggin' empire! I'd pushed the moors to the sea! Or rather, I'd beaten them into tax-paying submission, which is so much more useful. Navarra was working beautifully, too, with healthy coffers, faithful vassals, and a six-province domain that I haven't still got to tour completely. And (let's not forget) I'd finally managed to get my little place by the sea on the Catalan coast.
Not to mention I'd done away with the Curse of Doña Muña. Granny's fratricidal setup is over: the Reconquista is done, and the only Christian kingdoms left in Hispania are allies. My ex-rivals send me nice notes and call me "just". Yes, that Sancho is cousin Sancho, sometime king of Castilla.
Plus, Granny's got herself into some seaside retirement place where she plays cards or poisons apples or something, and I don't have to listen to her nagging any longer.
And Navarra leads the prestige tables around the world.
All in all, not too bad, don't you think? What if it was done in spite of strategic blunders too numerous to mention? What if I'd come within a hair's breadth of losing it all so many times that my Marshall thinks I do it on purpose (and he enjoys it, which is worse)?
It worked. I won. The Borg is putting a positive spin on everything. And (even if we're technically at war with the Seljuk Turks) we're at peace.
I've been putting the time to good use ever since. Fortifying and building up the realm.
Creating new and nice-sounding titles like "King of Portugal". Taking some quality time with the kids. Enlarging the family. Yes. Yes, thank you. You're too kind. Yes, she's well. Looking great, in fact.
It's been a peaceful year. My first one. It's nice to be home.
Although, I have to admit, after almost a year of goodness I'm getting kind of restless...
Hello again. Yes, please come in. Sit around, will you, and find the drinks yourselves. I'll be with you shortly. Just sending some vassalization offers... one never knows.
Last time you were around, I was still a bit dispirited, you understand. I had a feeling of defeat because my dear little boy, Luis (whom I'd just got back to after four years of continuous wars) was disinherited by his French grandad.
But, if you think about it, what's a dukedom more or less? I'd just built him a friggin' empire! I'd pushed the moors to the sea! Or rather, I'd beaten them into tax-paying submission, which is so much more useful. Navarra was working beautifully, too, with healthy coffers, faithful vassals, and a six-province domain that I haven't still got to tour completely. And (let's not forget) I'd finally managed to get my little place by the sea on the Catalan coast.
Not to mention I'd done away with the Curse of Doña Muña. Granny's fratricidal setup is over: the Reconquista is done, and the only Christian kingdoms left in Hispania are allies. My ex-rivals send me nice notes and call me "just". Yes, that Sancho is cousin Sancho, sometime king of Castilla.
Plus, Granny's got herself into some seaside retirement place where she plays cards or poisons apples or something, and I don't have to listen to her nagging any longer.
And Navarra leads the prestige tables around the world.
All in all, not too bad, don't you think? What if it was done in spite of strategic blunders too numerous to mention? What if I'd come within a hair's breadth of losing it all so many times that my Marshall thinks I do it on purpose (and he enjoys it, which is worse)?
It worked. I won. The Borg is putting a positive spin on everything. And (even if we're technically at war with the Seljuk Turks) we're at peace.
I've been putting the time to good use ever since. Fortifying and building up the realm.
Creating new and nice-sounding titles like "King of Portugal". Taking some quality time with the kids. Enlarging the family. Yes. Yes, thank you. You're too kind. Yes, she's well. Looking great, in fact.
It's been a peaceful year. My first one. It's nice to be home.
Although, I have to admit, after almost a year of goodness I'm getting kind of restless...
Last edited:
You know, the African coast would look good coated in a nice coat of... uh... Vomit, I guess.
Are you telling me that you're going to allow your cousin at Burgos to roam wild without a real lord over him?
@ Doctor Z, yes, Navarra's kingdom colour is a bit icky . So much better a Danish red, for instance. On the other hand it makes for great visibility of province names...
Re North Africa, they don't look very menacing right now, but since Sancho is getting twitchy, who knows.
@ enf91, I get it with F2 (or, on the Macbook, with fn+F2). I learned it on these forums a couple of months ago, I could never find it before.
@ Kurt, I think Sancho gets a sort of vicarious pleasure from thinking that the only reason León still exists is... because he lets them. On the other hand, León his completely neutered: too small to matter, without any way of growing, and allied to Navarra itself. So very close to being a vassal .
. So much better a Danish red, for instance. On the other hand it makes for great visibility of province names...Re North Africa, they don't look very menacing right now, but since Sancho is getting twitchy, who knows
.@ enf91, I get it with F2 (or, on the Macbook, with fn+F2). I learned it on these forums a couple of months ago
, I could never find it before.@ Kurt, I think Sancho gets a sort of vicarious pleasure from thinking that the only reason León still exists is... because he lets them
. On the other hand, León his completely neutered: too small to matter, without any way of growing, and allied to Navarra itself. So very close to being a vassal .
Well, last pre-cooked story coming up very shortly.
Any further bets on where will Sancho's banner go next? We have Ireland, Italy, Burgos, North Africa.... Granny's no longer keeping the odds (so she says) but I think she would mention more options...
Any further bets on where will Sancho's banner go next? We have Ireland, Italy, Burgos, North Africa...
. Granny's no longer keeping the odds (so she says) but I think she would mention more options...
Well, France is always a good candidate for dissolving into chaos. Plus there's unfinished business with Duke William of Aquitaine.
Or maybe the answer is 'downhill,' if Sancho gets himself killed too soon in one of his moments of 'strategic genius'!
Or maybe the answer is 'downhill,' if Sancho gets himself killed too soon in one of his moments of 'strategic genius'!
January 1077-December 1077. By right of conquest (or, The outrageous expenses of foreign travel).
Who-ho. I'm having this last year written down by the best monks in Christendom. I'm having them compose an epic poem, a song, and a baby's nursery book.
Yes, you guessed the reason. I want to control exactly what gets told about it. I mean, if the Peninsular Wars were talked of as "lucky bloopers" before the Borg's scribes rewrote History, I don't know what the independent media would say of this. Or rather, I do. Which makes it worse.
But let's start at the beginning. Remember back in January 1077 I was feeling a bit bored and over-swamped by family, kingdom, and other home duties. I was starting to miss the battlefield, the rough and frank discussions of the command tent, the army wenches... And I was amazed at the manpower that Navarra was gathering (over 60.000 fighters, when I had always had to make do with less than a tenth of that).
In short, I was looking for an excuse to leave the Palace and generally throw about the weight of my new kingdom. Not being around during a pregnancy has always been a favourite of mine, too.
So when one January morning, hardly woken up, Agnes up and says:
"Sancho, honey, do you know what daddy wrote on his latest letter?"
"Hmm?". I'm usually not at my brightest until after noon, but it pays to sound as if one is listening.
"He says he disinherited Luis because of the thick-headed way you behaved when I told you I was thinking of becoming a martial nun".
"Oh, he does, does he?"
"He says you're so used to having your way with all those moorish push-overs that you've conquered, that you can't handle an Aquitanian girl, much less a whole duchy of them."
"Really."
"He says you're practically a degenerate moor now, all soft and woolly and probably wearing sandals. Says you couldn't beat a proper Christian army without getting them drunk first."
"Indeed". I smile tolerantly at the old bigot's words. "Well, he's got it wrong. I am wearing sandals these days... but I did beat cousin Sancho..."
"And he says you wear your hair all strange".
"That does it. Call García right..."
(boinnng) "Yes, Sire?"
"... away. Ahem. Marshall, we have a matter to discuss. And kindly refrain from hiding in my bedroom furniture in the future, will you?".
"Yes, Sire".
"Tell the Spymistress to get out from under the bed and join me in the War Room".
"Yes, Sire".
On January 23rd 1077, while the news of the pregnancy is still in the air, I ring the general mobilization bell, which gets a practically unanimous response (the vassals were evidently feeling the boredom too). And we ship almost every single man into France, south and north in a nice pincer movement. I also get the Borg's dark clerks to sharpen their pencil and unexpectedly find me a few nice new claims on counties.
Yes, we were going against the most powerful duchy on the map (and, very probably, against the kingdom of France). After all, if there's something better than inheriting a Duchy, it's having it be part of your kingdom from day one. Luis will have it either way.
And not just that. I'd long prospected the south of France for a second holiday residence, and this looked like just the chance. Better one war than two, I thought, and two sets of claims are forged almost as fast as one. With the prestige I now have, thanks to the Borg's "personality cult" business and our recent victories, nobody's going to deny them...
This time, we're trying a new strategy that García calls "the surgical strike". We will try to occupy the core enemy provinces before the war can really heat up, thus drying up the enemy armies. By June, we're camped on all five home provinces of my dear father-in-law.
Also, before I noticed we've run up a hell of a bill, what with all the shipping, wagons, materials, tolls, insurance, attrition and general feeding of the largest army that ever was fielded in Europe. Or so the Borg tells it to the press, and so I want it to go down in posterity... therefore, make sure you take note accordingly. Thanks. Here, let me see. Yes, very nicely put.
So, on July we declared war on Duchy of Aquitaine and Duchy of Toulouse, greeting with what I like to call (ahem) the Jimenez Breakfast, hand-delivered by chain-mailed service-boys. As in Bordeaux, with fully twelve thousand well-bearded service-boys.
France plays by the book and declares war. Too bad for them, since the upper pincer of my army is already landing in their domain, in the county of Eu.
The dukes, caught completely off-guard, don't stand a chance. By the end of the month, we're beating their armies all over the south of France. In August, they break and run behind their walls, while our machines of war start lounging stones against their fortresses and the iron step of our troops makes the provinces shake, or some such.
And the war bill starts making my eyes water. But by that time I couldn't call the service-boys back.
By August 15th Toulouse had already fallen: the Borg had sent them an impressive message about the futility of resistance and the inevitability of assimilation, and it sapped their will like nothing. The sieges were going so well I started thinking of ending the war, so I sent García north with some troops to end the still-spirited resistance of the King of France (he had levied all the armies left in the realm and was trading blow for blow with our divisions).
Also, after accepting the homage of the Duke of Toulouse I ordered him to start building a nice place for my next summer holidays.
The end of August sees the start of the end of Aquitaine, while García presents the king of France with our respects, and some thousand armoured kicks in the royal ass. Nothing personal, but we kind of thought it better to be (ahem) preemptive, and get it softened for the peace negotiations.
On September 11th 1077, my brother Fernando died while fighting the French royal armies. He was never much to write home about, but he was my brother, and played Steward for a couple of years quite well, and suddenly this whimsical War for Aquitaine became too close and personal.
Not even the news that my two boys are behaving quite unexpectedly, and indeed seem to be the best of friends, improves my temper. The birth of my daughter Garcenda on September 30th brightens a bit the day. The news that almost all the provinces of my in-law are occupied is slightly better, since the resistance of the enemy (they keep stopping my attempts to reinforce the siege of Ile de France), and its devastating effect on my coffers, is really hurting me.
So, when on November 30th the Duke of Aquitaine grovels asking for peace and an opportunity to become my vassal, I welcome him warmly (OK, so it's true I forced him to make the way to our camp on his knees, but I embraced him on arrival, and he did say "call me dad"). But the war doesn't end: France is still standing, if rather shakily.
I just gather Aquitaine into the kingdom and push my armies north. I want to conquer Orleans, to throttle the domain of the opposition, and there are no longer French armies in the way.
After sending some advice to young Luis, I follow my armies north. Brooding darkly and all that, of course. You would, too, if you were realising that you've gone and plunged the kingdom in debt for a generation just in order to win a dukedom or two. I just don't seem to be able to plan for everything... And yes, of course, there is the Fernando thing. I must make a note to never forget it.
On December 8th, Ille de France, the seat of the French king, falls to García's kind words and siege weapons. That's the second province we've conquered of his three-piece domain, so his emissaries start putting on their best smiles and sending me those round golden chocolates again. On December the 21st, I force Philippe (the French king) to sign a peace treaty that gives me the province.
Also, we agree that they will send a yearly tribute of French people to be run over by the bulls during the Fiestas of San Fermín in Pamplona. We can't count on having some innocent invaders around any longer, since Navarra is now completely surrounded by vassals.
Did you hear that, Granny?
And that was 1077. We almost vastly enlarged the size of the kingdom, taught manners to my father-in-law, got myself a place in the French riviera plus an apartment on the Rive Gauche, and sunk the Treasury in debt. Not to mention fruitfully exercising the Royal Prerogative, which isn't easy with such a religious wife.
All in all, an eventful year. And you see that I really must make sure that the right version of it all gets written down and handed to future generations. So I'll be leaving you now. See you soon.
Who-ho. I'm having this last year written down by the best monks in Christendom. I'm having them compose an epic poem, a song, and a baby's nursery book.
Yes, you guessed the reason. I want to control exactly what gets told about it. I mean, if the Peninsular Wars were talked of as "lucky bloopers" before the Borg's scribes rewrote History, I don't know what the independent media would say of this. Or rather, I do. Which makes it worse.
But let's start at the beginning. Remember back in January 1077 I was feeling a bit bored and over-swamped by family, kingdom, and other home duties. I was starting to miss the battlefield, the rough and frank discussions of the command tent, the army wenches... And I was amazed at the manpower that Navarra was gathering (over 60.000 fighters, when I had always had to make do with less than a tenth of that).
In short, I was looking for an excuse to leave the Palace and generally throw about the weight of my new kingdom. Not being around during a pregnancy has always been a favourite of mine, too.
So when one January morning, hardly woken up, Agnes up and says:
"Sancho, honey, do you know what daddy wrote on his latest letter?"
"Hmm?". I'm usually not at my brightest until after noon, but it pays to sound as if one is listening.
"He says he disinherited Luis because of the thick-headed way you behaved when I told you I was thinking of becoming a martial nun".
"Oh, he does, does he?"
"He says you're so used to having your way with all those moorish push-overs that you've conquered, that you can't handle an Aquitanian girl, much less a whole duchy of them."
"Really."
"He says you're practically a degenerate moor now, all soft and woolly and probably wearing sandals. Says you couldn't beat a proper Christian army without getting them drunk first."
"Indeed". I smile tolerantly at the old bigot's words. "Well, he's got it wrong. I am wearing sandals these days... but I did beat cousin Sancho..."
"And he says you wear your hair all strange".
"That does it. Call García right..."
(boinnng) "Yes, Sire?"
"... away. Ahem. Marshall, we have a matter to discuss. And kindly refrain from hiding in my bedroom furniture in the future, will you?".
"Yes, Sire".
"Tell the Spymistress to get out from under the bed and join me in the War Room".
"Yes, Sire".
On January 23rd 1077, while the news of the pregnancy is still in the air, I ring the general mobilization bell, which gets a practically unanimous response (the vassals were evidently feeling the boredom too). And we ship almost every single man into France, south and north in a nice pincer movement. I also get the Borg's dark clerks to sharpen their pencil and unexpectedly find me a few nice new claims on counties.
Yes, we were going against the most powerful duchy on the map (and, very probably, against the kingdom of France). After all, if there's something better than inheriting a Duchy, it's having it be part of your kingdom from day one. Luis will have it either way.
And not just that. I'd long prospected the south of France for a second holiday residence, and this looked like just the chance. Better one war than two, I thought, and two sets of claims are forged almost as fast as one. With the prestige I now have, thanks to the Borg's "personality cult" business and our recent victories, nobody's going to deny them...
This time, we're trying a new strategy that García calls "the surgical strike". We will try to occupy the core enemy provinces before the war can really heat up, thus drying up the enemy armies. By June, we're camped on all five home provinces of my dear father-in-law.
Also, before I noticed we've run up a hell of a bill, what with all the shipping, wagons, materials, tolls, insurance, attrition and general feeding of the largest army that ever was fielded in Europe. Or so the Borg tells it to the press, and so I want it to go down in posterity... therefore, make sure you take note accordingly. Thanks. Here, let me see. Yes, very nicely put.
So, on July we declared war on Duchy of Aquitaine and Duchy of Toulouse, greeting with what I like to call (ahem) the Jimenez Breakfast, hand-delivered by chain-mailed service-boys. As in Bordeaux, with fully twelve thousand well-bearded service-boys.
France plays by the book and declares war. Too bad for them, since the upper pincer of my army is already landing in their domain, in the county of Eu.
The dukes, caught completely off-guard, don't stand a chance. By the end of the month, we're beating their armies all over the south of France. In August, they break and run behind their walls, while our machines of war start lounging stones against their fortresses and the iron step of our troops makes the provinces shake, or some such.
And the war bill starts making my eyes water. But by that time I couldn't call the service-boys back.
By August 15th Toulouse had already fallen: the Borg had sent them an impressive message about the futility of resistance and the inevitability of assimilation, and it sapped their will like nothing. The sieges were going so well I started thinking of ending the war, so I sent García north with some troops to end the still-spirited resistance of the King of France (he had levied all the armies left in the realm and was trading blow for blow with our divisions).
Also, after accepting the homage of the Duke of Toulouse I ordered him to start building a nice place for my next summer holidays.
The end of August sees the start of the end of Aquitaine, while García presents the king of France with our respects, and some thousand armoured kicks in the royal ass. Nothing personal, but we kind of thought it better to be (ahem) preemptive, and get it softened for the peace negotiations.
On September 11th 1077, my brother Fernando died while fighting the French royal armies. He was never much to write home about, but he was my brother, and played Steward for a couple of years quite well, and suddenly this whimsical War for Aquitaine became too close and personal.
Not even the news that my two boys are behaving quite unexpectedly, and indeed seem to be the best of friends, improves my temper. The birth of my daughter Garcenda on September 30th brightens a bit the day. The news that almost all the provinces of my in-law are occupied is slightly better, since the resistance of the enemy (they keep stopping my attempts to reinforce the siege of Ile de France), and its devastating effect on my coffers, is really hurting me.
So, when on November 30th the Duke of Aquitaine grovels asking for peace and an opportunity to become my vassal, I welcome him warmly (OK, so it's true I forced him to make the way to our camp on his knees, but I embraced him on arrival, and he did say "call me dad"). But the war doesn't end: France is still standing, if rather shakily.
I just gather Aquitaine into the kingdom and push my armies north. I want to conquer Orleans, to throttle the domain of the opposition, and there are no longer French armies in the way.
After sending some advice to young Luis, I follow my armies north. Brooding darkly and all that, of course. You would, too, if you were realising that you've gone and plunged the kingdom in debt for a generation just in order to win a dukedom or two. I just don't seem to be able to plan for everything... And yes, of course, there is the Fernando thing. I must make a note to never forget it.
On December 8th, Ille de France, the seat of the French king, falls to García's kind words and siege weapons. That's the second province we've conquered of his three-piece domain, so his emissaries start putting on their best smiles and sending me those round golden chocolates again. On December the 21st, I force Philippe (the French king) to sign a peace treaty that gives me the province.
Also, we agree that they will send a yearly tribute of French people to be run over by the bulls during the Fiestas of San Fermín in Pamplona. We can't count on having some innocent invaders around any longer, since Navarra is now completely surrounded by vassals.
Did you hear that, Granny?
And that was 1077. We almost vastly enlarged the size of the kingdom, taught manners to my father-in-law, got myself a place in the French riviera plus an apartment on the Rive Gauche, and sunk the Treasury in debt. Not to mention fruitfully exercising the Royal Prerogative, which isn't easy with such a religious wife.
All in all, an eventful year. And you see that I really must make sure that the right version of it all gets written down and handed to future generations. So I'll be leaving you now. See you soon.
Last edited:
Nice work! This was my favourite line:
Oh, King Phillippe, your ambassadors spoil us!
Oh, King Phillippe, your ambassadors spoil us!
Glad you like it .
Sadly, you may be right in your second prediction too. He has 78 provinces at the moment (yes, 78, I just counted them... it makes 76 new provinces in 12 years). He's also terminally broke.
Any bets on how many he'll have by the end of next update? Will he have realm duress? Will he even be alive? Will he be preemptively attacking Germany, or sailing for Ireland ? Or throttling León ?
.Sadly, you may be right in your second prediction too. He has 78 provinces at the moment (yes, 78, I just counted them... it makes 76 new provinces in 12 years). He's also terminally broke.
Any bets on how many he'll have by the end of next update
? Will he have realm duress? Will he even be alive? Will he be preemptively attacking Germany, or sailing for Ireland ? Or throttling León ?