There Will Be War - In The Balance
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July 24th, 1193
Falling off the walls of Great Novgorod
Morning
It takes a man slightly more than a second to fall seven meters: Enough to be afraid, a chilling spike of terror from the ancestral ape, not enough for warrior training to cut in and master the fear. But it is swiftly over. Sigurd hit the ground with a jangle of mail and a yielding crackle - no, he saw, that wasn't the ground he had hit; a double layer of Norwegians had broken his fall. He had little time. The wall was clear, and stones, thrown hard with the fury and triumph of men who have narrowly escaped death, were thudding into the pile of corpses and wounded. But he had time to register that not all the men he had landed on were dead; there was Ragnvald, stretching an arm towards Sigurd for help; the other was twisted in strange places, and his legs lay unnaturally limp. There was Lodin, clutching his stomach; Sigurd could not see the wound, but blood was coming out of his mouth. Over there was Yngve, staring at the sky with eyes already glazing and the flies coming out; and Knut, Johan, Norvald, all the young men who had thought they were immortal.
Inside him the old god was chuckling with glee at the thought of so many splendid warriors for Ragnarok; and for the first time in years, Sigurd's thoughts veered away from those of the god, and he rebelled. It was insanity to stay for even a second more than necessary; the stones were flying thick and fast. But, with a month to think it over, Sigurd would still have found it impossible to do otherwise: He bent over, took Ragnvald's outstretched arm, and heaved the younger man onto his back, ignoring the scream of outraged pain.
Nobody moves quickly with a hundred kilograms of muscle and armour slung over their back; staggering towards the Norwegian lines, Sigurd made an easy target. But no stone or arrow struck him; dimly, through the rush of exertion, he could hear some Russian giving orders to cease fire. Perhaps the boyars were saluting courage; perhaps they were merely conserving ammunition. Either way, Sigurd managed to stagger out of range, carrying his comrade. Behind him, the Raven Banner, which he had dropped in his fall, lay disregarded in the bloody dust. The raven's wings were obstinately still. (*)
July 25th, 1193
A dreamscape: Below Yggdrasil, the World Tree
Early morning
Sigurd glared hotly at the old god. "Was that your plan? Warriors for Ragnarok?"
"No, Sigurd. That was your own doing. I have offered you knowledge of how to defeat the walls. I have told you the price. If you choose not to pay" - a shrug - "that is your own affair. I force no man."
"Fine!" Anger and grief warred in Sigurd, making him reckless. "I'll pay your price, and be damned to you!"
"Yes, that's very likely. The Cross-God leaves little room for others. But I am not dead yet. Here; chew this, it will help."
Sigurd took the dried root; it tasted bitter, but brought a strange calm. Then he took from the old god's hand a knife, and stuck it into his left eye, and twisted, so the eyeball hung down onto the cheek; and chopped, to break the thread it dangled by. The pain was less than he had thought, but the world went curiously flat. He picked up the eyeball and offered it contemptuously to the god. "There! Now, what's your wisdom?"
Before answering, it took the eyeball from his hand and popped it into its mouth, chewing with relish. "It is very simple. Among your prisoners are three brothers; their names are Vasili, Aleksandr, and Vladimir. Let these three men go within the walls, carrying an offer to Novgorod: That you will give them free passage south, with all the goods they can carry, if they give you the city."
Sigurd stared incredulously. "For this I gave you an eye? You cannot believe they will take such an offer!"
"Of course not. Nonetheless, if you do as I have said, within a month the city will be in your hands."
August 20th, 1193
South of Great Novgorod
Noon
The long straggling column of refugees stretched a mile from the city gates, and were still coming. Some of them bore red cloth strips on improvised flagpoles; the other refugees gave them wide berth. Even as Sigurd watched, one such fell over in the dirt, and did not rise again, although one of his group - a father, perhaps, or a brother - bent down to plead with him, then kick him, and finally, hopelessly, to drag him out of the way, so nobody would step on the body. Dead in a week, Sigurd thought dispassionately; from the reports of deserters, the Norwegian army knew well how the plague worked, and that it was particularly virulent on the breath of those in the final stages. Only deep love would make a man go close to such a one. Idly, he wondered which of the three brothers had been the carrier; or perhaps they had all had it, healthy-seeming though they'd been. Not that it mattered; the result was plain, even to a one-eyed man.
There was a ragged, hopeless fear in the eyes of the refugees; they'd had courage enough on the walls, but this was something else, something no man could fight. Whenever one of them coughed, as they often did from the dust they were stirring up, everybody around him would start, and scatter away, until they jostled into each other and recoiled; none of them got very close to another if it could be avoided, except in the tight family groups.
It would be necessary to burn Novgorod to the ground, of course; the plague knew no flag, and would burn through his army as rapidly as it had the defenders, if he gave it half a chance. But the stone walls would stand, and the cisterns; and there would be no strongpoint in his rear, to harry him as he went deeper into the plains. They could even winter inside the walls, where there would be some shelter from the winds and the snow. It was a victory. Sigurd held tight to that thought. This was victory.
(*) The Raven banner was supposed to be prophetic: If the army carrying it was bound for victory, the raven would appear to be flying, wings flapping. If the raven was stiff and still, that prophesied defeat. Or so the Annals of Saint Neot claim.
Falling off the walls of Great Novgorod
Morning
It takes a man slightly more than a second to fall seven meters: Enough to be afraid, a chilling spike of terror from the ancestral ape, not enough for warrior training to cut in and master the fear. But it is swiftly over. Sigurd hit the ground with a jangle of mail and a yielding crackle - no, he saw, that wasn't the ground he had hit; a double layer of Norwegians had broken his fall. He had little time. The wall was clear, and stones, thrown hard with the fury and triumph of men who have narrowly escaped death, were thudding into the pile of corpses and wounded. But he had time to register that not all the men he had landed on were dead; there was Ragnvald, stretching an arm towards Sigurd for help; the other was twisted in strange places, and his legs lay unnaturally limp. There was Lodin, clutching his stomach; Sigurd could not see the wound, but blood was coming out of his mouth. Over there was Yngve, staring at the sky with eyes already glazing and the flies coming out; and Knut, Johan, Norvald, all the young men who had thought they were immortal.
Inside him the old god was chuckling with glee at the thought of so many splendid warriors for Ragnarok; and for the first time in years, Sigurd's thoughts veered away from those of the god, and he rebelled. It was insanity to stay for even a second more than necessary; the stones were flying thick and fast. But, with a month to think it over, Sigurd would still have found it impossible to do otherwise: He bent over, took Ragnvald's outstretched arm, and heaved the younger man onto his back, ignoring the scream of outraged pain.
Nobody moves quickly with a hundred kilograms of muscle and armour slung over their back; staggering towards the Norwegian lines, Sigurd made an easy target. But no stone or arrow struck him; dimly, through the rush of exertion, he could hear some Russian giving orders to cease fire. Perhaps the boyars were saluting courage; perhaps they were merely conserving ammunition. Either way, Sigurd managed to stagger out of range, carrying his comrade. Behind him, the Raven Banner, which he had dropped in his fall, lay disregarded in the bloody dust. The raven's wings were obstinately still. (*)
---------------------------------------
July 25th, 1193
A dreamscape: Below Yggdrasil, the World Tree
Early morning
Sigurd glared hotly at the old god. "Was that your plan? Warriors for Ragnarok?"
"No, Sigurd. That was your own doing. I have offered you knowledge of how to defeat the walls. I have told you the price. If you choose not to pay" - a shrug - "that is your own affair. I force no man."
"Fine!" Anger and grief warred in Sigurd, making him reckless. "I'll pay your price, and be damned to you!"
"Yes, that's very likely. The Cross-God leaves little room for others. But I am not dead yet. Here; chew this, it will help."
Sigurd took the dried root; it tasted bitter, but brought a strange calm. Then he took from the old god's hand a knife, and stuck it into his left eye, and twisted, so the eyeball hung down onto the cheek; and chopped, to break the thread it dangled by. The pain was less than he had thought, but the world went curiously flat. He picked up the eyeball and offered it contemptuously to the god. "There! Now, what's your wisdom?"
Before answering, it took the eyeball from his hand and popped it into its mouth, chewing with relish. "It is very simple. Among your prisoners are three brothers; their names are Vasili, Aleksandr, and Vladimir. Let these three men go within the walls, carrying an offer to Novgorod: That you will give them free passage south, with all the goods they can carry, if they give you the city."
Sigurd stared incredulously. "For this I gave you an eye? You cannot believe they will take such an offer!"
"Of course not. Nonetheless, if you do as I have said, within a month the city will be in your hands."
---------------------------------------
August 20th, 1193
South of Great Novgorod
Noon
The long straggling column of refugees stretched a mile from the city gates, and were still coming. Some of them bore red cloth strips on improvised flagpoles; the other refugees gave them wide berth. Even as Sigurd watched, one such fell over in the dirt, and did not rise again, although one of his group - a father, perhaps, or a brother - bent down to plead with him, then kick him, and finally, hopelessly, to drag him out of the way, so nobody would step on the body. Dead in a week, Sigurd thought dispassionately; from the reports of deserters, the Norwegian army knew well how the plague worked, and that it was particularly virulent on the breath of those in the final stages. Only deep love would make a man go close to such a one. Idly, he wondered which of the three brothers had been the carrier; or perhaps they had all had it, healthy-seeming though they'd been. Not that it mattered; the result was plain, even to a one-eyed man.
There was a ragged, hopeless fear in the eyes of the refugees; they'd had courage enough on the walls, but this was something else, something no man could fight. Whenever one of them coughed, as they often did from the dust they were stirring up, everybody around him would start, and scatter away, until they jostled into each other and recoiled; none of them got very close to another if it could be avoided, except in the tight family groups.
It would be necessary to burn Novgorod to the ground, of course; the plague knew no flag, and would burn through his army as rapidly as it had the defenders, if he gave it half a chance. But the stone walls would stand, and the cisterns; and there would be no strongpoint in his rear, to harry him as he went deeper into the plains. They could even winter inside the walls, where there would be some shelter from the winds and the snow. It was a victory. Sigurd held tight to that thought. This was victory.
---------------------------------------
(*) The Raven banner was supposed to be prophetic: If the army carrying it was bound for victory, the raven would appear to be flying, wings flapping. If the raven was stiff and still, that prophesied defeat. Or so the Annals of Saint Neot claim.
March 29th, 1194
Within Novgorod's walls
The city was a shell, although Sigurd's army had been building over the winter: Long houses in the Norwegian style, made of green wood already rotting, built without foundations on the frozen ground. But they had kept the cold off through the winter.
Karl frowned as he rode through the slushy snow/mud; Novgorod was an important trading center, even if it would have to be rebuilt, the jewel and capstone of their conquests. It galled him to have to give it up. Worse, to look the men who had taken it in the eye, and tell them that their struggles had been in vain, and that they must go home - it rankled. And then there was Sigurd; the man had the true Yngling fire, rare here in the downtime, and now Karl would have to douse it. For perhaps the twentieth time since entering Novgorod he reached for the little flask on his belt; and yet again he stopped the motion. His mind was made up. It would be much easier to down the yellow liquid and begin exuding dominance pheromones; with the dose in that flask, every male within a hundred meters would know, deep in their hindbrains, that he was the Pack Alpha, and to be obeyed. With the flask, he could sell sand to Bedouin, or snow to Eskimos, or for that matter peace and love for all men to Ynglings. But no. Sigurd was an Yngling and a true one; Karl would do him the respect of arguing only with words, not with uptime tricks. It was all he could do, and not enough.
The war could not be saved; the question now was, could he save Sigurd? Karl had no confidence in his ability to argue anyone out of a lifelong obsession; give him a raid, a skirmish, even a corps-level engagement with NBC weapons free, and he was your man. But to save a comrade's soul from being eaten away with vengeance - brain surgery, fumbling in the dark, with only a killing knife for tool - it was an impossible task. But it had to be tried.
Are we not Ynglings together?
March 29th, 1194
Sigurd's quarters, within the citadel
As soon as he saw Karl's face, Sigurd knew the news was bad.
They wasted no time on greetings; Karl dismounted, and said without preamble, "The Italians have made peace. King Adarnase marches north with forty thousand men; but he offers us peace for sake of the old friendship between our courts. We cannot fight so many; we must take his offer."
Sigurd rocked back on his heels, as though struck. All he had worked for these twenty years; all his travels about Europe, manipulating and bribing and killing, all his painful diplomacy - all that to be casually cast away? His conquest of Novgorod, bought with his left eye and the word that he was a necromancer?
"Why" - he stopped, cleared his throat, started again. "Why have the Italians made peace?"
Karl's mouth twitched in contempt. "Winter. The winter has done for the Russians what their soldiers couldn't. The Italians brought soldiers from Egypt and Sicily, who had never seen a snowflake in their life; they melted away at the first touch of snow. Then Adarnase swept them from the field, what was left of them. Ragged scarecrows, for the most part. Supperåd til generalstab." The last was in a language Sigurd couldn't quite catch, though it seemed similar to Norse; but it didn't matter. He was numb inside.
"So... peace, then? On what terms?" A ragged hope, that they might keep Novgorod at least, for which he had paid so much; but Karl shook his head, compassion in his eyes.
"Terms of life and limb, and no more. We sail home with what we can carry." They stood silent for a long moment. Then Karl reached out a hand, tentatively.
"Sigurd... I'm sorry. I know what it meant to you. But listen." He hesitated, then spoke slowly, feeling his way between words.
"You've given your life to this vengeance for your brother. It was good and right that you should do so; we are all Ynglings together, and the price of our lives is high. But now - now it is good and right that you should let go of vengeance, and turn to other tasks. You have killed, perhaps, thirty thousand Russians in this war; thousands more will die from famine and plague. Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his tens of thousands; you have matched those warrior kings of legend. Is it not - can it not be enough? Even for the life of an Yngling and a brother?"
"Thirty thousand..." The number wasn't quite real to Sigurd. He gazed into the distance, not really seeing the enclosing walls of Novgorod, or the clouded sky; his mind's eye was in the Georgian mountains, in a secluded grove where he made sacrifice to the old gods, and made love to his first woman. He sought within him for the presence he had first felt that night. "Is it enough?" But no answer came back, only the glistening of a fire on sweat-slick skin. "Is it enough? For my brother, whom I loved?"
He wasn't aware that he had spoken aloud, but Karl responded, thinking he had been addressed. "That is your question to answer; it is a matter of life and death, and in the narrow passage is no brother, and no friend. But I will tell you this. If you continue in your course, Russia will have killed two brothers. Come with me, Sigurd, back to Norway. There is healing in the mountains. Find a good woman, have children. Name one of them for your brother. Teach them to fight, and to live. Tell them how once you shook thrones and made crowns tremble, for sake of your brother's name; and make the race stronger by his blood."
Sigurd looked at him, and away; knowing that he was right, but not knowing whether he could turn away from twenty years of purpose. No surrender for me; the words trembled on his lips, and he could see what would follow; a wide hat, and a staff, and the long killing walk into Russia, fighting and burning until the boyars caught up with him. It would be so easy, to let the old god take over, to complete the sacrifice of his life; to become the third in the triad of horse, hound, and man, that he had left incomplete all those years ago. Within him he could feel it coming forward, eagerly; could feel its desire to have a body once again, and walk up and down in the world, and back and forth in it. He knew with sudden conviction that the Christians had been right; that the old gods gave nothing freely, not even vengeance, and that men bargained with them at their peril.
He strove to summon the will to resist; am I not an Yngling? He was no man's puppet, and no god's either. But the effort required seemed unbearable. Twenty years of his life; the weight of them was like a vast rock, chaining him to his fate. Desperately he summoned the images Karl held before him, of a woman, a farm, children, the peace of the high mountains. All seemed insubstantial, remote. Laughter, soft skin, warmth on the plough... ghostlike, weightless. He sought within himself for memories of women; surely there had been many, through the years? But they had been paid for, no more than a moment's relief; or peasant girls on the Russian borders he had raided, who wept and struggled. There was no strength to be found there. The one memory he could muster of true, sweet love-making to a willing equal was Cecilia, in the grove. And that brought him back full circle to the sacrifice, the firelight gleaming on skin, horse, hound, and man.
A face intruded into his memory: Ragnvald, who had lived, but would never walk again. Behind him came Vegard, and his brother Ketil, screaming as he fell off the wall; Lodin bleeding from the mouth, and Yngve's staring eyes with the flies coming in to feast. Knut, and Johan, and Norvald, all the young men who had thought they were immortal. How would they fight, if they were given the choice of life and death? What would they have said, if told that the weight of twenty years was unendurable? There was no strength in Sigurd for women and children; but for his dead comrades, who would never have the choice - for them he could fight.
He straightened, settling his shoulders to the weight of years. Within him the old god faded, slinking away to the dark corners of the soul. Perhaps it had never been quite real; perhaps he had merely been these twenty years mad, driven beyond sanity by grief.
"Take me home, then. There will be peace."
Within Novgorod's walls
The city was a shell, although Sigurd's army had been building over the winter: Long houses in the Norwegian style, made of green wood already rotting, built without foundations on the frozen ground. But they had kept the cold off through the winter.
Karl frowned as he rode through the slushy snow/mud; Novgorod was an important trading center, even if it would have to be rebuilt, the jewel and capstone of their conquests. It galled him to have to give it up. Worse, to look the men who had taken it in the eye, and tell them that their struggles had been in vain, and that they must go home - it rankled. And then there was Sigurd; the man had the true Yngling fire, rare here in the downtime, and now Karl would have to douse it. For perhaps the twentieth time since entering Novgorod he reached for the little flask on his belt; and yet again he stopped the motion. His mind was made up. It would be much easier to down the yellow liquid and begin exuding dominance pheromones; with the dose in that flask, every male within a hundred meters would know, deep in their hindbrains, that he was the Pack Alpha, and to be obeyed. With the flask, he could sell sand to Bedouin, or snow to Eskimos, or for that matter peace and love for all men to Ynglings. But no. Sigurd was an Yngling and a true one; Karl would do him the respect of arguing only with words, not with uptime tricks. It was all he could do, and not enough.
The war could not be saved; the question now was, could he save Sigurd? Karl had no confidence in his ability to argue anyone out of a lifelong obsession; give him a raid, a skirmish, even a corps-level engagement with NBC weapons free, and he was your man. But to save a comrade's soul from being eaten away with vengeance - brain surgery, fumbling in the dark, with only a killing knife for tool - it was an impossible task. But it had to be tried.
Are we not Ynglings together?
-----------------------------
March 29th, 1194
Sigurd's quarters, within the citadel
As soon as he saw Karl's face, Sigurd knew the news was bad.
They wasted no time on greetings; Karl dismounted, and said without preamble, "The Italians have made peace. King Adarnase marches north with forty thousand men; but he offers us peace for sake of the old friendship between our courts. We cannot fight so many; we must take his offer."
Sigurd rocked back on his heels, as though struck. All he had worked for these twenty years; all his travels about Europe, manipulating and bribing and killing, all his painful diplomacy - all that to be casually cast away? His conquest of Novgorod, bought with his left eye and the word that he was a necromancer?
"Why" - he stopped, cleared his throat, started again. "Why have the Italians made peace?"
Karl's mouth twitched in contempt. "Winter. The winter has done for the Russians what their soldiers couldn't. The Italians brought soldiers from Egypt and Sicily, who had never seen a snowflake in their life; they melted away at the first touch of snow. Then Adarnase swept them from the field, what was left of them. Ragged scarecrows, for the most part. Supperåd til generalstab." The last was in a language Sigurd couldn't quite catch, though it seemed similar to Norse; but it didn't matter. He was numb inside.
"So... peace, then? On what terms?" A ragged hope, that they might keep Novgorod at least, for which he had paid so much; but Karl shook his head, compassion in his eyes.
"Terms of life and limb, and no more. We sail home with what we can carry." They stood silent for a long moment. Then Karl reached out a hand, tentatively.
"Sigurd... I'm sorry. I know what it meant to you. But listen." He hesitated, then spoke slowly, feeling his way between words.
"You've given your life to this vengeance for your brother. It was good and right that you should do so; we are all Ynglings together, and the price of our lives is high. But now - now it is good and right that you should let go of vengeance, and turn to other tasks. You have killed, perhaps, thirty thousand Russians in this war; thousands more will die from famine and plague. Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his tens of thousands; you have matched those warrior kings of legend. Is it not - can it not be enough? Even for the life of an Yngling and a brother?"
"Thirty thousand..." The number wasn't quite real to Sigurd. He gazed into the distance, not really seeing the enclosing walls of Novgorod, or the clouded sky; his mind's eye was in the Georgian mountains, in a secluded grove where he made sacrifice to the old gods, and made love to his first woman. He sought within him for the presence he had first felt that night. "Is it enough?" But no answer came back, only the glistening of a fire on sweat-slick skin. "Is it enough? For my brother, whom I loved?"
He wasn't aware that he had spoken aloud, but Karl responded, thinking he had been addressed. "That is your question to answer; it is a matter of life and death, and in the narrow passage is no brother, and no friend. But I will tell you this. If you continue in your course, Russia will have killed two brothers. Come with me, Sigurd, back to Norway. There is healing in the mountains. Find a good woman, have children. Name one of them for your brother. Teach them to fight, and to live. Tell them how once you shook thrones and made crowns tremble, for sake of your brother's name; and make the race stronger by his blood."
Sigurd looked at him, and away; knowing that he was right, but not knowing whether he could turn away from twenty years of purpose. No surrender for me; the words trembled on his lips, and he could see what would follow; a wide hat, and a staff, and the long killing walk into Russia, fighting and burning until the boyars caught up with him. It would be so easy, to let the old god take over, to complete the sacrifice of his life; to become the third in the triad of horse, hound, and man, that he had left incomplete all those years ago. Within him he could feel it coming forward, eagerly; could feel its desire to have a body once again, and walk up and down in the world, and back and forth in it. He knew with sudden conviction that the Christians had been right; that the old gods gave nothing freely, not even vengeance, and that men bargained with them at their peril.
He strove to summon the will to resist; am I not an Yngling? He was no man's puppet, and no god's either. But the effort required seemed unbearable. Twenty years of his life; the weight of them was like a vast rock, chaining him to his fate. Desperately he summoned the images Karl held before him, of a woman, a farm, children, the peace of the high mountains. All seemed insubstantial, remote. Laughter, soft skin, warmth on the plough... ghostlike, weightless. He sought within himself for memories of women; surely there had been many, through the years? But they had been paid for, no more than a moment's relief; or peasant girls on the Russian borders he had raided, who wept and struggled. There was no strength to be found there. The one memory he could muster of true, sweet love-making to a willing equal was Cecilia, in the grove. And that brought him back full circle to the sacrifice, the firelight gleaming on skin, horse, hound, and man.
A face intruded into his memory: Ragnvald, who had lived, but would never walk again. Behind him came Vegard, and his brother Ketil, screaming as he fell off the wall; Lodin bleeding from the mouth, and Yngve's staring eyes with the flies coming in to feast. Knut, and Johan, and Norvald, all the young men who had thought they were immortal. How would they fight, if they were given the choice of life and death? What would they have said, if told that the weight of twenty years was unendurable? There was no strength in Sigurd for women and children; but for his dead comrades, who would never have the choice - for them he could fight.
He straightened, settling his shoulders to the weight of years. Within him the old god faded, slinking away to the dark corners of the soul. Perhaps it had never been quite real; perhaps he had merely been these twenty years mad, driven beyond sanity by grief.
"Take me home, then. There will be peace."
Brittany, 1197.
Valencia, Castle Brezhoneg.
King Frédéric de Cornouaille looked out at his three sons.
Louis, the oldest; full of energy (especially for war), alternately giving away his toys and beating up the other children to reclaim them, occasionally deceived by his lesser due to his trusting nature, but showing every sign of ultimate maturity into a King of Kings.
Hamelin, the second. A stolid child. Somewhat resentful of his older brother Louis, no doubt because of Louis’ vaunted status as a prodigy, Hamelin appeared to also be a solid candidate for an eventual ruler. Perhaps not as a King. Perhaps only as a Duke. But an important Duke.
Whatshisname, the third. Arnaud, that was it. While Arnaud, as the youngest, had already shown that he too resented Louis’ status (and perhaps Hamelin’s, as well), Arnaud had not otherwise distinguished himself as of yet. To his credit, King Frédéric felt vaguely guilty that he thought of Arnaud more as “insurance” than as a “son,” to ensure the de Cornoauille rule of the Breton Crown did not die out, but think it he did. After all, the world was a dangerous place, and many things could happen to a man ere his father died…
Nonetheless. King Frédéric opened his mouth and began to speak:
“My sons. I have called you here because I have need of you. The world is changing. The time was, we could ignore the East. Admittedly, we do own most of the West (at least as far as a man can go and find civilization; those fool Icelanders can fuck right off). And some of the North. And a chunk of the South. But the future, of necessity, must belong to the East. As we have seen, they have riches. They have buildings. Most of all, they have a hellish lot of desert and manpower enough to choke Brittany to death in Georgian blood, as we have seen up close and personal. I would bring in men to expound on this point to you, but most of them now litter the ground of the Levant.”
“What would you have of us then, father?” Louis asked. Louis also had a tendency to suck up to authority when he was not rebelling against it. This had no doubt helped foment his brothers’ resentment.
“I want to you to go to Georgia. While the political situation there is fluid, I have reason to believe you will be safe there, come what may. Interference with high-ranking Bretons would be an extremely bad idea, no matter the regime. Our recent setbacks notwithstanding, Brittany can still make life miserable for Georgia if need be. And rest assured, should the worst befall you, you shall be avenged.”
The boys nodded their heads seriously. Louis looked eager, as if he looked forwards to being avenged. Hamelin looked cagey, as if he were already weighing how to avoid the necessity of being avenged. Arnaud looked as if he were holding back tears by sheer force of will.
“I will send bodyguards with you. You will not be alone. Do not worry. Learn all you can, make all the connections you can, and report back. The future of Brittany depends on you. You may go. Say goodbye to your mother and friends, and pack your bags. You leave tomorrow at first light. May God watch over you all and keep you safe.”
“Yes father,” they chorused, then turned and left the room. King Frédéric could hear the steps morph into great running strides as the children rounded the corner.
“And may God prove me not to be the fool I think I may be,” he muttered.
Valencia, Castle Brezhoneg.
King Frédéric de Cornouaille looked out at his three sons.
Louis, the oldest; full of energy (especially for war), alternately giving away his toys and beating up the other children to reclaim them, occasionally deceived by his lesser due to his trusting nature, but showing every sign of ultimate maturity into a King of Kings.
Hamelin, the second. A stolid child. Somewhat resentful of his older brother Louis, no doubt because of Louis’ vaunted status as a prodigy, Hamelin appeared to also be a solid candidate for an eventual ruler. Perhaps not as a King. Perhaps only as a Duke. But an important Duke.
Whatshisname, the third. Arnaud, that was it. While Arnaud, as the youngest, had already shown that he too resented Louis’ status (and perhaps Hamelin’s, as well), Arnaud had not otherwise distinguished himself as of yet. To his credit, King Frédéric felt vaguely guilty that he thought of Arnaud more as “insurance” than as a “son,” to ensure the de Cornoauille rule of the Breton Crown did not die out, but think it he did. After all, the world was a dangerous place, and many things could happen to a man ere his father died…
Nonetheless. King Frédéric opened his mouth and began to speak:
“My sons. I have called you here because I have need of you. The world is changing. The time was, we could ignore the East. Admittedly, we do own most of the West (at least as far as a man can go and find civilization; those fool Icelanders can fuck right off). And some of the North. And a chunk of the South. But the future, of necessity, must belong to the East. As we have seen, they have riches. They have buildings. Most of all, they have a hellish lot of desert and manpower enough to choke Brittany to death in Georgian blood, as we have seen up close and personal. I would bring in men to expound on this point to you, but most of them now litter the ground of the Levant.”
“What would you have of us then, father?” Louis asked. Louis also had a tendency to suck up to authority when he was not rebelling against it. This had no doubt helped foment his brothers’ resentment.
“I want to you to go to Georgia. While the political situation there is fluid, I have reason to believe you will be safe there, come what may. Interference with high-ranking Bretons would be an extremely bad idea, no matter the regime. Our recent setbacks notwithstanding, Brittany can still make life miserable for Georgia if need be. And rest assured, should the worst befall you, you shall be avenged.”
The boys nodded their heads seriously. Louis looked eager, as if he looked forwards to being avenged. Hamelin looked cagey, as if he were already weighing how to avoid the necessity of being avenged. Arnaud looked as if he were holding back tears by sheer force of will.
“I will send bodyguards with you. You will not be alone. Do not worry. Learn all you can, make all the connections you can, and report back. The future of Brittany depends on you. You may go. Say goodbye to your mother and friends, and pack your bags. You leave tomorrow at first light. May God watch over you all and keep you safe.”
“Yes father,” they chorused, then turned and left the room. King Frédéric could hear the steps morph into great running strides as the children rounded the corner.
“And may God prove me not to be the fool I think I may be,” he muttered.
A letter to the Caesars of Rome, Russia, and Georgia.
Greetings, Most Majestic Christian Caesars.
My Master, King Frédéric de Cornouaille, King of Brittany and All the Spains, bids you welcome.
Having considered carefully the association between your most Puissant Selves, and additionally the Trade Implications, King Frédéric writes to persuade your Majesties to include the Caesar of Valencia among your ranks.
In return, King Frédéric de Cornouaille pledges to abide by your general agreement of peace between members during his lifetime.
Should the Caesar of Serbia still be counted among your ranks, and our diplomatic reports are murky on this point, please forward this request to him.
While my master has not explicitly authorized me to state the following, let me note on my own initiative that Rejection of this Overture of Catholic-Orthodox friendship might be taken...amiss, by Bretons and by Brittany.
Greetings, Most Majestic Christian Caesars.
My Master, King Frédéric de Cornouaille, King of Brittany and All the Spains, bids you welcome.
Having considered carefully the association between your most Puissant Selves, and additionally the Trade Implications, King Frédéric writes to persuade your Majesties to include the Caesar of Valencia among your ranks.
In return, King Frédéric de Cornouaille pledges to abide by your general agreement of peace between members during his lifetime.
Should the Caesar of Serbia still be counted among your ranks, and our diplomatic reports are murky on this point, please forward this request to him.
While my master has not explicitly authorized me to state the following, let me note on my own initiative that Rejection of this Overture of Catholic-Orthodox friendship might be taken...amiss, by Bretons and by Brittany.
The Red Letter
King Frédéric de Cornouaille looked over a final copy of a letter. He turned and paced the room, several times. He could be heard to mutter to himself..."but what if...but then...and, of course...Bah! Let it be done! Iacta Alea Est!" He stalked back to his desk, sealed the letter with an angry stab of his fist, and faced the messenger of the day.
"Send this to King Otto Billung of Prussia."
"Yes, My Lord."
Greetings, Lord of Prussia, Wales, and Finland. We hope this missive finds you well and in good humor, although we suspect your humor will have somewhat diminished by such time as you finish this letter.
While we have fought with you against Russia, and against England, and while we have honored various agreements with Italy as if Prussia was counted among Bohemia in the listing, we cannot help but notice that: Imprimis, Prussia controls a distressing amount of Britain. Secundus, all treaties with Italy, Bohemia, or the Holy Roman Empire generally have now expired.
Accordingly, we would like to offer you a bargain. Should Prussia withdraw their writ from Britain (namely, such lands as you possess in the Kingdoms of England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland), surrendering such territory to the Lord of Scotland; withdraw their writ from Finland (namely, such lands as you possess in the Kingdom of Finland), surrendering such territory to the King of Norway; and withdraw their writ from the counties of West Dvina, Polotsk, Jacwiez, and Beresty, surrendering such territory to the "Czar" of Russia, then Brittany promises for her turn to undertake to acquire for the Kings of Prussia all of those lands inside the Kingdom of Germany that are north of the Kingdom of Italy and west of the Kingdom of Bohemia, by whatever means are required to obtain them from the Kings of Bohemia and Italy. Alternately, you may of course resist. In this event, Brittany stands ready to meet the Prussians on the field of battle in Britain, in Saxony, and in Livonia.
Make no mistake; we do not intend to justify our actions to the former Dukes of Saxony, and we do not intend to negotiate.
Frédéric de Cornouaille, King of Brittany and of All the Spains.
/Breton Seal/
King Frédéric de Cornouaille looked over a final copy of a letter. He turned and paced the room, several times. He could be heard to mutter to himself..."but what if...but then...and, of course...Bah! Let it be done! Iacta Alea Est!" He stalked back to his desk, sealed the letter with an angry stab of his fist, and faced the messenger of the day.
"Send this to King Otto Billung of Prussia."
"Yes, My Lord."
Greetings, Lord of Prussia, Wales, and Finland. We hope this missive finds you well and in good humor, although we suspect your humor will have somewhat diminished by such time as you finish this letter.
While we have fought with you against Russia, and against England, and while we have honored various agreements with Italy as if Prussia was counted among Bohemia in the listing, we cannot help but notice that: Imprimis, Prussia controls a distressing amount of Britain. Secundus, all treaties with Italy, Bohemia, or the Holy Roman Empire generally have now expired.
Accordingly, we would like to offer you a bargain. Should Prussia withdraw their writ from Britain (namely, such lands as you possess in the Kingdoms of England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland), surrendering such territory to the Lord of Scotland; withdraw their writ from Finland (namely, such lands as you possess in the Kingdom of Finland), surrendering such territory to the King of Norway; and withdraw their writ from the counties of West Dvina, Polotsk, Jacwiez, and Beresty, surrendering such territory to the "Czar" of Russia, then Brittany promises for her turn to undertake to acquire for the Kings of Prussia all of those lands inside the Kingdom of Germany that are north of the Kingdom of Italy and west of the Kingdom of Bohemia, by whatever means are required to obtain them from the Kings of Bohemia and Italy. Alternately, you may of course resist. In this event, Brittany stands ready to meet the Prussians on the field of battle in Britain, in Saxony, and in Livonia.
Make no mistake; we do not intend to justify our actions to the former Dukes of Saxony, and we do not intend to negotiate.
Frédéric de Cornouaille, King of Brittany and of All the Spains.
/Breton Seal/
The Greater Norwegian Realm wishes to note that it entirely associates itself with the ultimatum issued by the King of All the Spains. Further, anyone found using the word 'jackal' or the phrases "share of the spoils" or "rushing to the aid of the victors" will soon thereafter know the joy of searching for assassins under their beds.
Making arrangements for inheritance
"This council is set up to clear some matters between the heirs of Scotland" Chancellor Wolsey said.
"Your beloved King Robert de Lusignan has decided that in order to ensure that de Lusignan dynasty will continue in their task of Ruling all of Scotland and Ireland" Wolsey continued. "Robert II de Lusignan, Count of Sligo is to give up his title to his younger brother Henry, Count of Dublin and Ireland" Wolsey stated.
People in the court room started to talk to each others.
"Order, order in the room!" Florenzo said and banged his ordering hammer.
"This is what your King has decided and this is how things will be settled" Florenzo explained.
Chapter 16
[URLx=http://forum.paradoxplaza.com/forum/showpost.php?p=8289995&postcount=369]Making arrangements for inheritance[/URL]
- Emperor Ike
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How did Breton Emperor get his Papal powers
Chancellor Wolsey was waiting in the corridor for Florenzo.
"Your grace!" Ike said.
"Your Grace!" Florenzo answered back.
"Leave us" Wolsey said to Florenzos servant. Servant looked Florenzo who didn't say anything just looked back to the servant. After the servant was gone Ike started speaking. "The council is coming" he said.
"Indeed your grace" Florenzo said and tried to walk away. Ike grapped Florenzos arm, then ear draged him back to his room.
Wolsey threw Florenzo in to a chair that was in the corner near a small table after that he closed the door.
"I want to make it plain to you again" Ike said.
"If you refuse to grant the Breton emperor the papal powers" Wolsey said. "You will provoke a marvelous oppinion against the Pope, against the papal courts and the Papacy itself in Scotland as well as in Ireland " he continued.
"I am oblighted to the holy father to seek truth and justice in this matter and that your grace i will attempt to do" Florenzo said. "God is my wittness" he said.
"You dont seem to understand so let me spell it out for you!" Wolsey said. "If you fail to favour the Emperor in the council vote you will lose Scotland, Ireland and the devotion of de Lusignan realm to Rome" Ike said. "And so utterly destroy me and that i cannot allow!" Ike continued.
"I totaly understand" Florenzo said. "You must have faith, Cardinal Wolsey" he continued.
"God help me" Ike said and walked out from the room.
Chapter 17
[URLx=http://forum.paradoxplaza.com/forum/showpost.php?p=8295098&postcount=371]How did the Breton Emperor get his Papal powers[/URL] - Emperor Ike
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A Long Journey to Home
One misty moisty morning in the year of 1194 Gollevainen woke up and felt hollow pain in his forehead.
After ten minutes of suffering the agonizing ache, he decided to rest bit longer....
At the noon of that day, or next, Gollevainen woke up again and felt deep thirst inside his body and soul. His body he could content with near by draw well, fifty fathoms deep.
Bur his soul was wary of its own irrationality and his thoughts were abrupt, memory served him no good consolation of what so ever. ....Hints of war and forced exiles, burning countrysides and master plans of their liege and alliances to do....something?
...In the mist of recollection of last days he shivered and felt that he needed more water to drink...plain water for now onwards...
Where they supposed to be heading for Persia?
...And for what reason?
And Where was Prince Vassily?
Gollevainen took a wide glance around him and found out the contours of large and alien city...the air was hot and humid, strange birds sung in the afternoon glare. Was this Persia?
But where was the prince?
On next day Gollevainen walked upon the streets of the strange city and asked them about Persian way of life and how the people felt about their new Novogrodian ruler.
And people threw vegetation and manure upon him and shouted with foul names.
And Gollevainen didn't know why. But anger and bile rose into his lips, anger marched his mind to reply with Princely honor. After all, was he not the behind-the-throne-canceler of this city's new master?
Then spoke Gollevainen The Chudian whit thunder gods roam:
“Behold the people of Persia in the city of.....örhm...Persegrad, Your new prince Vassily's household shall pour their hatred upon you, if you don't immediately recognize the power of the prince (as executed by me)!”
And then the people laughed as they would have laughed to a mad man, and they drew more manure upon him. And then the city guard came and took the poor and shamed Gollevainen into captivity.
After three years had passed, Gollevainen was brought upon the Mayor of the city of Constantinople.
“Ok, what does it take for you to end these demonic acts of witchcraft and idolatry?”
In the preceding years all sort of strange things from flying caterpillars to a siege by angry and speaking hedgehogs, had fallen upon the Second Rome. Many was now confident that the old crazy man captured few years back was indeed the feared necromancer of Novgorod.
Gollevainen rosed his glance and said: “ A freedom would be nice starter, a good meal and vivid 14-year old virgin could also....”
“So be it!” Answered the Mayor of Constantinople and Gollevainen was set free, under the condition that the cow that was elected as a bishop to the church of st. Basileos would be forced to resign by Gollevainen's help.
After finding the city of Constantinople a pleasant and tastefully heaten and open minded towards Chudian pagan, Gollevainen begun to miss the old Vassily and his charmfull companion. Therefore he sought himself into local post office, where he knew that the gossips of east would be most well known.
Evening was growing dim and the pale light of street latterns shined behind him as he walked into the office.
And great was the astonishment of the clerics as they though that st. Nikolai the Miraclemaker's re carnation blessed their small office by visit.
“Good evening!” Said Gollevainen, and for reply the old postal-officer screamed in excitement and his young apprentice fainted as he was zealot in his faith.
Thinking that it was just normal Byzantium way of expressing greetings, Gollevainen walked in and sat.
Then the old postal-officer fell into his knees and said: “Blessed shall be the good god by sending us so clear apparition! Hallowed shall be his name!”
Gollevainen blushed and said: “You're beeing to nice...”
“Forgive us sinners (and the officer kicked his apprentice who still murmured prayers in the floor-level) and tell us about the life of our savior Jesus and his virgin mother!”
Gollevainen pouted his forehead and glanced towards the clerks.
“Well....” He said. The eyes of the clerks grew into anxiety and Gollevainen could almost taste their rapture.
“Well Jesus eh?...hmm...” Wasen't that some carpenter's ward saint in cross-peoples seremonies?
Gollevainen wasen't sure, as a pagan those greek religions had always been bit distant to him...
but improvise he could, that craft he knew well.
“Behold! The story of st. Jesus the Carpenter.
In the year 651 after the birth of the cross shaped fish whose mother had been forgiven the sin of adultery, by his holy delivery of the first bishop of Rome. (Gollevainen wasn't sure if he recalled the details correct but keeping up confidence despite having no idea what he was talking about was one of his good traits)
In that year the Carpenter in the city of Damasks resigned and left the poor citizens without gifted carpenter to repair and renew their furnitures. Deep was their tribulations and they wept to the city council for hiring a new carpenter for the job. But the city council was filled with heathen Saracens who see now use of furnitures as their customes forbid the stools and kept tables as incarnation of their desert-demons.
Therefore the citizens ride into near by city of...hmm...(geography wasn't Gollevainen's prime either.) ...Leipzig and they asked wheter they could spare a carpenter. And behold! The city of Leipzig was well know of their 12 carpenters.
The Leipzigers took their neighbors words into thinking and when no conclusion was reached, the holy book of the cross-shaped fish was brought up...hmm....the fible? Yeas, the fible. And they opened the holy Fible and there it was written: 'The fith commandment: Thou shall not send your carpenter into a near by town, as its not good to keep similar shaped stools in every hall where the holy breakfast of fish and chips is held to praise the God...and his sacred pet, the cross-shaped fish.'
Therefore the Leipzig could not help the poor people of Damask. So they thought to themselves, where shall we go? Who shall help us? And then the wise man of forgotten name spoke: 'To the east, where sun is different and wild pigeons have gold hidden in their nest. There we shall ask council from the pagan overlords and to send us a carpenter who is not binded by the inscriptions of the holy fible!'
So then they went to the east and find the tent of pagan overlord who weighted their their request against his own need of skilled carpenters, and behold! The pagan overlord said: 'We shall held a competition of the most unskilled and poorest carpenter of my reign, and The winner I shall declare surplus and give to your service instead of feating him for the angry weasels that waits outside my tent....you can hear those whispering my name....'
And the competition was held and the winner was a man named Jesus. He was so shoddy artisan that he couldn't even held the plane straight in his hands. And thought the people of Damask felt dubious, they accepted him as their new carpenter.
In their way back home, huge storm of unnatural origin strike upon them. And in their shaking tent they feared that the death should come and the angry god would strike them down for hiring a pagan carpenter. So they decided to held the holy breakfast for the glory of the heavens and for that they eat fish and lamp.
But then they got into a theological quarrel as was it not written that the god was rather specific of using table in the holy fish-breakfast? And in the middle of desert sand, they had no tables of what so ever. Then all eyes turned into Jesus the carpenter. And Behold! He worked miracles as he took one bisque and seven carrots and turned them into a table so beautiful that even the desert lizards came to watch it and abandoned their worshiping of Satan and became good cross-believers.”
After another year spend in the jail waiting to be burned from blasphemy, The king of Georgia rode into the city of Constantinople to witness the pyre of Gollevainen. Strong wizards and witch-doctor of south had been hired by the church to keep Gollevainen's chudian magic tamed. And when they threw the poor old man into his feets in front of the Roman emperor who was also watching, the King of Georgia shouted:
“Stop it! Its Gollevainen!”
And great was the joy of both as was it not the good old Vassily in the throne of Georgia. And King Vassily gave Gollevainen a parole and took him at his protection and together they rode into Tbilisi.
And merry was the journey and long was the tale Of Vassily and how he came to Persia and ended up as the King in Georgian throne. And bottles of vodka were opened and the joy-nectar spilled.
On fifth day Gollevainen woke up and felt hollow pain in his forehead.
After ten minutes of suffering the agonizing ache, he decided to rest bit longer....
And after his fierce after-decease was gone, he walked into the hall of the king to seek share merry jests with his old friend. Instead he find fat faced lad sitting in the throne clanging with doubt upon Gollevainen.
“Where is the king Vassily and who are you to seat yourself upon the throne?” Shouted Gollevainen.
And so it was that Gollevainen heard about the assassination of Vassilys and foul plots behind the scenes, plots of knifes.
Gollevainen came furious....if it was knives they wanted...knives they shall get.
And Gold for reward...
One misty moisty morning in the year of 1194 Gollevainen woke up and felt hollow pain in his forehead.
After ten minutes of suffering the agonizing ache, he decided to rest bit longer....
At the noon of that day, or next, Gollevainen woke up again and felt deep thirst inside his body and soul. His body he could content with near by draw well, fifty fathoms deep.
Bur his soul was wary of its own irrationality and his thoughts were abrupt, memory served him no good consolation of what so ever. ....Hints of war and forced exiles, burning countrysides and master plans of their liege and alliances to do....something?
...In the mist of recollection of last days he shivered and felt that he needed more water to drink...plain water for now onwards...
Where they supposed to be heading for Persia?
...And for what reason?
And Where was Prince Vassily?
Gollevainen took a wide glance around him and found out the contours of large and alien city...the air was hot and humid, strange birds sung in the afternoon glare. Was this Persia?
But where was the prince?
On next day Gollevainen walked upon the streets of the strange city and asked them about Persian way of life and how the people felt about their new Novogrodian ruler.
And people threw vegetation and manure upon him and shouted with foul names.
And Gollevainen didn't know why. But anger and bile rose into his lips, anger marched his mind to reply with Princely honor. After all, was he not the behind-the-throne-canceler of this city's new master?
Then spoke Gollevainen The Chudian whit thunder gods roam:
“Behold the people of Persia in the city of.....örhm...Persegrad, Your new prince Vassily's household shall pour their hatred upon you, if you don't immediately recognize the power of the prince (as executed by me)!”
And then the people laughed as they would have laughed to a mad man, and they drew more manure upon him. And then the city guard came and took the poor and shamed Gollevainen into captivity.
After three years had passed, Gollevainen was brought upon the Mayor of the city of Constantinople.
“Ok, what does it take for you to end these demonic acts of witchcraft and idolatry?”
In the preceding years all sort of strange things from flying caterpillars to a siege by angry and speaking hedgehogs, had fallen upon the Second Rome. Many was now confident that the old crazy man captured few years back was indeed the feared necromancer of Novgorod.
Gollevainen rosed his glance and said: “ A freedom would be nice starter, a good meal and vivid 14-year old virgin could also....”
“So be it!” Answered the Mayor of Constantinople and Gollevainen was set free, under the condition that the cow that was elected as a bishop to the church of st. Basileos would be forced to resign by Gollevainen's help.
After finding the city of Constantinople a pleasant and tastefully heaten and open minded towards Chudian pagan, Gollevainen begun to miss the old Vassily and his charmfull companion. Therefore he sought himself into local post office, where he knew that the gossips of east would be most well known.
Evening was growing dim and the pale light of street latterns shined behind him as he walked into the office.
And great was the astonishment of the clerics as they though that st. Nikolai the Miraclemaker's re carnation blessed their small office by visit.
“Good evening!” Said Gollevainen, and for reply the old postal-officer screamed in excitement and his young apprentice fainted as he was zealot in his faith.
Thinking that it was just normal Byzantium way of expressing greetings, Gollevainen walked in and sat.
Then the old postal-officer fell into his knees and said: “Blessed shall be the good god by sending us so clear apparition! Hallowed shall be his name!”
Gollevainen blushed and said: “You're beeing to nice...”
“Forgive us sinners (and the officer kicked his apprentice who still murmured prayers in the floor-level) and tell us about the life of our savior Jesus and his virgin mother!”
Gollevainen pouted his forehead and glanced towards the clerks.
“Well....” He said. The eyes of the clerks grew into anxiety and Gollevainen could almost taste their rapture.
“Well Jesus eh?...hmm...” Wasen't that some carpenter's ward saint in cross-peoples seremonies?
Gollevainen wasen't sure, as a pagan those greek religions had always been bit distant to him...
but improvise he could, that craft he knew well.
“Behold! The story of st. Jesus the Carpenter.
In the year 651 after the birth of the cross shaped fish whose mother had been forgiven the sin of adultery, by his holy delivery of the first bishop of Rome. (Gollevainen wasn't sure if he recalled the details correct but keeping up confidence despite having no idea what he was talking about was one of his good traits)
In that year the Carpenter in the city of Damasks resigned and left the poor citizens without gifted carpenter to repair and renew their furnitures. Deep was their tribulations and they wept to the city council for hiring a new carpenter for the job. But the city council was filled with heathen Saracens who see now use of furnitures as their customes forbid the stools and kept tables as incarnation of their desert-demons.
Therefore the citizens ride into near by city of...hmm...(geography wasn't Gollevainen's prime either.) ...Leipzig and they asked wheter they could spare a carpenter. And behold! The city of Leipzig was well know of their 12 carpenters.
The Leipzigers took their neighbors words into thinking and when no conclusion was reached, the holy book of the cross-shaped fish was brought up...hmm....the fible? Yeas, the fible. And they opened the holy Fible and there it was written: 'The fith commandment: Thou shall not send your carpenter into a near by town, as its not good to keep similar shaped stools in every hall where the holy breakfast of fish and chips is held to praise the God...and his sacred pet, the cross-shaped fish.'
Therefore the Leipzig could not help the poor people of Damask. So they thought to themselves, where shall we go? Who shall help us? And then the wise man of forgotten name spoke: 'To the east, where sun is different and wild pigeons have gold hidden in their nest. There we shall ask council from the pagan overlords and to send us a carpenter who is not binded by the inscriptions of the holy fible!'
So then they went to the east and find the tent of pagan overlord who weighted their their request against his own need of skilled carpenters, and behold! The pagan overlord said: 'We shall held a competition of the most unskilled and poorest carpenter of my reign, and The winner I shall declare surplus and give to your service instead of feating him for the angry weasels that waits outside my tent....you can hear those whispering my name....'
And the competition was held and the winner was a man named Jesus. He was so shoddy artisan that he couldn't even held the plane straight in his hands. And thought the people of Damask felt dubious, they accepted him as their new carpenter.
In their way back home, huge storm of unnatural origin strike upon them. And in their shaking tent they feared that the death should come and the angry god would strike them down for hiring a pagan carpenter. So they decided to held the holy breakfast for the glory of the heavens and for that they eat fish and lamp.
But then they got into a theological quarrel as was it not written that the god was rather specific of using table in the holy fish-breakfast? And in the middle of desert sand, they had no tables of what so ever. Then all eyes turned into Jesus the carpenter. And Behold! He worked miracles as he took one bisque and seven carrots and turned them into a table so beautiful that even the desert lizards came to watch it and abandoned their worshiping of Satan and became good cross-believers.”
After another year spend in the jail waiting to be burned from blasphemy, The king of Georgia rode into the city of Constantinople to witness the pyre of Gollevainen. Strong wizards and witch-doctor of south had been hired by the church to keep Gollevainen's chudian magic tamed. And when they threw the poor old man into his feets in front of the Roman emperor who was also watching, the King of Georgia shouted:
“Stop it! Its Gollevainen!”
And great was the joy of both as was it not the good old Vassily in the throne of Georgia. And King Vassily gave Gollevainen a parole and took him at his protection and together they rode into Tbilisi.
And merry was the journey and long was the tale Of Vassily and how he came to Persia and ended up as the King in Georgian throne. And bottles of vodka were opened and the joy-nectar spilled.
******
On fifth day Gollevainen woke up and felt hollow pain in his forehead.
After ten minutes of suffering the agonizing ache, he decided to rest bit longer....
And after his fierce after-decease was gone, he walked into the hall of the king to seek share merry jests with his old friend. Instead he find fat faced lad sitting in the throne clanging with doubt upon Gollevainen.
“Where is the king Vassily and who are you to seat yourself upon the throne?” Shouted Gollevainen.
******
In jail suffering sentence of life from treason Gollevainen said to his pet ferret: “Go and listen, tell me what is going on”
And so it was that Gollevainen heard about the assassination of Vassilys and foul plots behind the scenes, plots of knifes.
Gollevainen came furious....if it was knives they wanted...knives they shall get.
And Gold for reward...
To: Frédéric de Cornouaille, King of Brittany and all the Spains
From: Afsin Seljuk, Propheteocrat
Many generations ago, before the coming of the Georgians, the East was ruled by the Great Seljuq Empire, the Empire of my fathers. As your majesty may know, times since have been less kind to my family, and our empire was usurped by a family of Tunisian pirates, whose depredations were ended only the action of your father, Saint Orson.
It also was your father who, by treaty with the King of the Georgians, secured a place for my family in the new East, the Georgian East, and by the favour of Christ and the Choir of Saints, my family has prospered thereby. Now fortune sees us Lords of the East once more, and my heart yearns to make it a Seljuq East once more.
Pursuant thereto, I seek the regalia of the Great Seljuq Empire, and the claim to that regalia and the Empire that your family earned by right of conquest, and have maintained lo these many years. In exchange I offer 10,000 gold talents, shipped to Valencia upon confirmation of your interest.
I await your reply,
Afsin Seljuk, Caesar of Georgia etc.
NB: 10,000 gold talents, in terms of real money, is an absolutely obscene amount, as the wikipedia article can tell you.
In OOC terms the proposal is: 10,000 gold to be transferred from Georgia to Brittany, King of the Seljuks title transferred from Brittany to Georgia, the Seljuk title to be made the primary title of Afsin Seljuk.
fasquardon
From: Afsin Seljuk, Propheteocrat
Many generations ago, before the coming of the Georgians, the East was ruled by the Great Seljuq Empire, the Empire of my fathers. As your majesty may know, times since have been less kind to my family, and our empire was usurped by a family of Tunisian pirates, whose depredations were ended only the action of your father, Saint Orson.
It also was your father who, by treaty with the King of the Georgians, secured a place for my family in the new East, the Georgian East, and by the favour of Christ and the Choir of Saints, my family has prospered thereby. Now fortune sees us Lords of the East once more, and my heart yearns to make it a Seljuq East once more.
Pursuant thereto, I seek the regalia of the Great Seljuq Empire, and the claim to that regalia and the Empire that your family earned by right of conquest, and have maintained lo these many years. In exchange I offer 10,000 gold talents, shipped to Valencia upon confirmation of your interest.
I await your reply,
Afsin Seljuk, Caesar of Georgia etc.
NB: 10,000 gold talents, in terms of real money, is an absolutely obscene amount, as the wikipedia article can tell you.
In OOC terms the proposal is: 10,000 gold to be transferred from Georgia to Brittany, King of the Seljuks title transferred from Brittany to Georgia, the Seljuk title to be made the primary title of Afsin Seljuk.
fasquardon
To: Afsin Seljuk, Propheteocrat
From: Frédéric de Cornouaille, King of Brittany and all the Spains
Your proposal for a Seljuq East is accepted, and Brittany hereby recognizes the Seljuk claim to the East. The regalia will also be forthcoming.
Frédéric de Cornouaille
King of Brittany and all the Spains
/Breton Seal/
From: Frédéric de Cornouaille, King of Brittany and all the Spains
Your proposal for a Seljuq East is accepted, and Brittany hereby recognizes the Seljuk claim to the East. The regalia will also be forthcoming.
Frédéric de Cornouaille
King of Brittany and all the Spains
/Breton Seal/
Only $8 billion or so in current dollars.fasquardon said:
So noted.fasquardon said:
ulmont said:
Honourable Masters, my Liege, Emperor Andronikos Diogenes, Augustus Caeser of Nova Roma, Extends his Greetings to your Kings, and his People, in the Realm of the Romanium.
Through Council of the Caesers and their trusted advisor's, The Leaders of the Commonwealth have found themselves to be unanimously delighted to instate the Caeser of Valencia among our Confederation. The Noble Lands of Brittany fit perfectly, as they too were once part of the Glorious Roman Empire, as the provinces of Gaul, Iberia and Mauretania.
Emperor Andronikos, would also like to note personally, that the differences between our national religious institutions are not a problematic situation concerning entry into the Roman Commonwealth. Unlike the Grand Orthodox Alliance, which the Caesers of Rus and Georgia, as well as Andronikos himself are also a part of, The Roman Commonwealth is not a religious institution, and it's goals are to promote Roman Justice and ways of life, not promote the Orthodox Church of Faith.
And so let it be known to the World of the Roman Commonwealth's newest Member, Frédéric de Cornouaille, Caeser of Valencia.
(Seal of Emperor Andronikos Diogenes, Caeser of Nova Roma.)
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Eird said:
Huzzah! God Save the Commonwealth! God Save the Caesars of the Commonwealth!
Chancellor Turhan, on behalf of Afsin Seljuk, Caesar of Georgia and Sultan of the Seljuk Turks
fasquardon
The Bagratuniad:
Evstati I 1122-1153:
Evstati I 1122-1153:
Generally called "The Conqueror" Evstati completed the long task begun by Bagrat IV, subduing the last heathen empires of the Middle East and successfully manoeuvring to block both Breton and Italian attempts to encroach on Persia.
Compared to his warlike reputation after his death, contemporary accounts paint a picture of a personable and generous man, who unlike the other 12th Century Propheteocrats, had an absolutely normal family life. No surprise then, that between the colourful Kvirike, and the awesome Adarnase, Evstati tends to fade into the background at first pass. But however slighted by history, Evstati was nonetheless an able and pragmatic man whose many quiet deeds did more to establish the foundation of the Propheteocracy than his predecessor's more flamboyant style.
Evstati's first action upon taking the Abghazian throne would be to honour the deal his father, Kvirike I, had made with Svyatoslav Rurikovich, and entering into a formal union with Russia. That Abghazia was the subordinate partner would be a source of great resentment for Evstati, and that resentment did much to define Abghazia's internal and external politics for the rest of the century. Most momentous of the changes so defined was the positive encouragement of Anja Sigridsdatter's "Norwegian" party.
When the Crisis of the Black Letter forced Abghazia from the Russian union, Evstati used the opportunity to reform Abghazia's sclerotic institutions, repairing Kvirike's sabotage of the secular organs of the state, streamlining the laws, and formally restoring the Abghazia to United Georgia, as it had been during the reign of Bagrat IV.
Either vassal or independent Empire, Evstati maintained an active diplomatic policy, among his achievements the Treaty of Jerusalem, which secured Abghazia from Italian intervention in the Crusade against the Seljuk Turks, and the Hungarian Crusade, which saw Abghazia and Russia jointly act to punish Hungary for their attack on Orthodox Serbia.
However, Evstati's greatest challenge would be the revolt of his powerful nephew, Adarnase, Prince of the Khazars, Grandson of Anja Sigridsdatter and heir apparent to United Georgia.
[To Be Continued]
fasquardon
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Barbarian Aggression
Duke Robert was sitting in his chair watching out from the balcony door. Wolsey arrived to the room ."My lord, i have bad news" Chancellor Wolsey said. "What kind of news?" Duke asked. "Our Emperor has gone to the war against Norway to aid Prussia" Ike told. "What?!" Robert yelled and stod up. "My lord, according to the 'Red letter'.. " Ike was about to explain but was interupted by a messenger boy. "Sire, Norwegian King has declared war on us and is marching from Lincoln to North Hampton" Messenger said. "This can't be happening" Ike said. "I have long known that this day would come that the Barbarians would return to pillage our lands" Robert said. "Send word to our commanders that we will march to war, that we will drive these barbarian hordes to the sea once and for all!" Duke said. "We wont repeat our fathers mistakes, this time Scotland prevails!" Robert yelled.
Chapter 18
[URLx=http://forum.paradoxplaza.com/forum/editpost.php?do=editpost&p=8308008]Barbarian Aggression[/URL] - Emperor Ike
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November 15th, 1206
Oppland, Norway
As soon as he saw Karl's face, Sigurd knew the news was bad.
"Not terms of life and limb, then?"
Karl sighed. "No. The terms are very bad."
"Finland?"
"We keep a third of it. But we lose Denmark."
Sigurd blinked; that was very bad, indeed. Far worse than he had thought.
"And in the west?"
"We hold York."
"And?"
"And nothing. The Scots have it all, the whole Norselaw."
"So - it is, as you say, very bad. Still, the Bretons never came here; so what, after all, is this to me? I am a farmer, now, and old. Cities and thrones and powers, what do I care? I have had my war, and I am done."
"We held a council, at Geirvirke. It was decided that a new direction is needed. Your name was mentioned, and proved popular."
Sigurd cocked his head, considering. He had not built the alliance that shook the thrones of Europe without learning something about how to read men, and the skills were still there. Karl, it was clear, did not really believe what he was saying. And the phrasing -
"'It was decided', you say? And who did this deciding?"
Karl looked away.
"Decisions at Geirvirke are made by consensus, as you well know. But Jorunn spoke very strongly in favour of change; as did Haldor."
Sigurd nodded. The leaders of the main splinter factions of the Ynglings, the ones who did not take their direction from the men of Dovre; but neither Karl nor Varg, who had come from Dovre and whose word would usually decide matters.
"And so you have agreed to change. But why choose an old man? Why not Jorunn, or young Haldor, who have fire in their bellies and strength in their arms?"
Karl looked up, and conviction came into his eyes; this part he did believe.
"There are younger men among the Ynglings, yes. But there are no better ones. We need you, Sigurd. We need the skill to gather all of the West under one man's driving will. We need the singlemindedness to devote thirty years to a single cause. And we need the wisdom to recognise when enough is enough, and to give over revenge and turn to other things. That is why I spoke for you as the choice."
"I see," Sigurd said, and he did. The Dovremen had been forced to accept that they were no longer in charge, but they still had enough influence to nominate their successor. And perhaps they had a point, at that. Neither Jorunn nor Haldor had much of a policy beyond choosing targets for aggression that the Dovremen wanted to use as allies, and vice versa. If the latest war had been so disastrous as all that, either of them would be a recipe for more disaster, just from a different direction.
But still, as Sigurd had said, what did he care? There was peace in the high mountains, and he had built a life here. Johanna would murder him if he - well, no. She would murder him if he went out to fight again, but Karl wasn't talking about that. To go down to the court at Viken and have power and wealth, why, Johanna might not mind that very much. And - he looked about the farm. It was, when you got right to it, fairly small beans. Peaceful, yes. He had needed that, after Novgorod. But this past year - two, perhaps - he had felt a vague discontent with the rhythm of the seasons. Deep inside he could feel the old god stir again, and suppressed it sternly. He would make his own choices. But still, this choice was not so clear as he had thought at first. He looked thoughtfully at Karl.
"Why don't you come in, and discuss this over a meal?"
They sat down to soup and bread, and did not speak for a while; the bread was tough enough that chewing it required attention and care from men with teeth starting to loosen. That gave Sigurd time to think. By the time they were done eating, he had his question ready.
"Nu, Karl, I can see you need me. The question is, do I need you? So - I have a price."
"Most men do."
"Quite so. And this is mine: You will tell me the truth about Dovre. Everything, holding nothing back. Or you can go back to Viken, and Jorunn will take over, and send the long ships to France, no doubt, or something equally foolish."
Karl looked stricken, and said nothing for a minute. At last he sighed, resigned. "Very well; if you're going to be in charge, you need to know. But it is a long story." He thought for a moment, settling back in his chair with the air of a man preparing to talk for a while. "I shall tell you of the Ynglinga Saga." His voice became formal, and he sat up straight, as uptime Ynglings do when telling the central epic of their nation.
"Olaf was king in Norway after the death of Harald Hardråde..."
It takes a while to recount the history of a thousand years, especially when one has to interrupt the smooth flow of saga to explain technological advances, alternative histories, geography, basic physics, and uptime ideologies. Karl spoke through the night and well into the morning of the next day. By the end his voice was hoarse and his eyes drooping, and Sigurd was not sure how well he was understanding what was being told. War and revenge and raid, this he understood, even with strange weapons and unimaginable ships that flew through the air. But the things Karl spoke of as the causes of wars, the thoughts that could move an uptimer to kill - incomprehensible, alien. Communism, fascism, the doctrine of absolute personal freedom for Ynglings. Capitalism, industry, free markets - words, just words, whirling past in a kaleidoscope of ideas. At last Karl came to the point where he explained the Secret Hird and the Quantum Device, and the appearance at Dovre of uptime agents, with their mission of making Norway strong: "So we came here, to change all that history, all that sacrifice. We have so little, between these mountains; only pride, and the strength of our warriors. We need an advantage, an edge. And so I came here, destroying all my nation and all our works; and so Geir Jonsson came in his time, and Anja Sigridsdottir, and Aslak before me, and now Varg to take the burden from my shoulders."
Sigurd nodded. "And so you have failed, and made Norway weak instead of strong; and so you turn to us at last, who live here."
Karl nodded, and it seemed to Sigurd that there might be a glimmer of moisture in his red-rimmed eyes. "And so we have failed. And so I turn to you. Help us, Sigurd. For sake of the Great Norway that was, that we have thrown away in our pride."
"No, Karl. I won't help you for that Norway." Sigurd rose, his bones stiff from hours of listening, alternately enthralled and sickened. "Not for a nation of slaves. Oh yes, half of you called yourselves masters, perhaps, and were proud of your strength to subjugate the other half. You call that freedom? To live in terror of the day when your subjects rise against you? To spend all your time at weapons practice, against the Final War that will kill all men? As though all the future were a dream of the old gods, and Norway no more than a training ground for expendable einherjar, to fight and die at Vigrid field? I think not."
"No. For that Norway, I will not lift a finger, except to consign it to the grave. Better you should have fought it out with the Chinese, and perished honourably in nuclear flames, than to bring that living death here. Who are you to bring your ancient cadaverous quarrels to this land, where my sons live?"
Karl rocked back in his chair, surprised and for a moment overawed by the older man's fury. "The course of history," he whispered, then cleared his throat and spoke more strongly, "has been changed. If not for us, your sons would not even exist."
Sigurd sat back down again. "As may be. Done is done, and eaten is eaten. Not for the Norway you want, but for the Norway my sons will live in, I will help you. And by all the gods, old and new, it will be a better land than yours."
Karl looked down, beaten. "Aye. Perhaps so. It is sure that we have not done well, we uptimers. From the civil war in Geir Jonsson's time, to this. At every step we travel in the footsteps of our ancestors, and we are less than they. Let it be as you say, then. Perhaps there is a better way. Shape Norway as you wish. I will stand behind you."
"Good. Then let us sleep; tomorrow we have much to discuss."
Oppland, Norway
As soon as he saw Karl's face, Sigurd knew the news was bad.
"Not terms of life and limb, then?"
Karl sighed. "No. The terms are very bad."
"Finland?"
"We keep a third of it. But we lose Denmark."
Sigurd blinked; that was very bad, indeed. Far worse than he had thought.
"And in the west?"
"We hold York."
"And?"
"And nothing. The Scots have it all, the whole Norselaw."
"So - it is, as you say, very bad. Still, the Bretons never came here; so what, after all, is this to me? I am a farmer, now, and old. Cities and thrones and powers, what do I care? I have had my war, and I am done."
"We held a council, at Geirvirke. It was decided that a new direction is needed. Your name was mentioned, and proved popular."
Sigurd cocked his head, considering. He had not built the alliance that shook the thrones of Europe without learning something about how to read men, and the skills were still there. Karl, it was clear, did not really believe what he was saying. And the phrasing -
"'It was decided', you say? And who did this deciding?"
Karl looked away.
"Decisions at Geirvirke are made by consensus, as you well know. But Jorunn spoke very strongly in favour of change; as did Haldor."
Sigurd nodded. The leaders of the main splinter factions of the Ynglings, the ones who did not take their direction from the men of Dovre; but neither Karl nor Varg, who had come from Dovre and whose word would usually decide matters.
"And so you have agreed to change. But why choose an old man? Why not Jorunn, or young Haldor, who have fire in their bellies and strength in their arms?"
Karl looked up, and conviction came into his eyes; this part he did believe.
"There are younger men among the Ynglings, yes. But there are no better ones. We need you, Sigurd. We need the skill to gather all of the West under one man's driving will. We need the singlemindedness to devote thirty years to a single cause. And we need the wisdom to recognise when enough is enough, and to give over revenge and turn to other things. That is why I spoke for you as the choice."
"I see," Sigurd said, and he did. The Dovremen had been forced to accept that they were no longer in charge, but they still had enough influence to nominate their successor. And perhaps they had a point, at that. Neither Jorunn nor Haldor had much of a policy beyond choosing targets for aggression that the Dovremen wanted to use as allies, and vice versa. If the latest war had been so disastrous as all that, either of them would be a recipe for more disaster, just from a different direction.
But still, as Sigurd had said, what did he care? There was peace in the high mountains, and he had built a life here. Johanna would murder him if he - well, no. She would murder him if he went out to fight again, but Karl wasn't talking about that. To go down to the court at Viken and have power and wealth, why, Johanna might not mind that very much. And - he looked about the farm. It was, when you got right to it, fairly small beans. Peaceful, yes. He had needed that, after Novgorod. But this past year - two, perhaps - he had felt a vague discontent with the rhythm of the seasons. Deep inside he could feel the old god stir again, and suppressed it sternly. He would make his own choices. But still, this choice was not so clear as he had thought at first. He looked thoughtfully at Karl.
"Why don't you come in, and discuss this over a meal?"
-----------------------------
They sat down to soup and bread, and did not speak for a while; the bread was tough enough that chewing it required attention and care from men with teeth starting to loosen. That gave Sigurd time to think. By the time they were done eating, he had his question ready.
"Nu, Karl, I can see you need me. The question is, do I need you? So - I have a price."
"Most men do."
"Quite so. And this is mine: You will tell me the truth about Dovre. Everything, holding nothing back. Or you can go back to Viken, and Jorunn will take over, and send the long ships to France, no doubt, or something equally foolish."
Karl looked stricken, and said nothing for a minute. At last he sighed, resigned. "Very well; if you're going to be in charge, you need to know. But it is a long story." He thought for a moment, settling back in his chair with the air of a man preparing to talk for a while. "I shall tell you of the Ynglinga Saga." His voice became formal, and he sat up straight, as uptime Ynglings do when telling the central epic of their nation.
"Olaf was king in Norway after the death of Harald Hardråde..."
-----------------------------
It takes a while to recount the history of a thousand years, especially when one has to interrupt the smooth flow of saga to explain technological advances, alternative histories, geography, basic physics, and uptime ideologies. Karl spoke through the night and well into the morning of the next day. By the end his voice was hoarse and his eyes drooping, and Sigurd was not sure how well he was understanding what was being told. War and revenge and raid, this he understood, even with strange weapons and unimaginable ships that flew through the air. But the things Karl spoke of as the causes of wars, the thoughts that could move an uptimer to kill - incomprehensible, alien. Communism, fascism, the doctrine of absolute personal freedom for Ynglings. Capitalism, industry, free markets - words, just words, whirling past in a kaleidoscope of ideas. At last Karl came to the point where he explained the Secret Hird and the Quantum Device, and the appearance at Dovre of uptime agents, with their mission of making Norway strong: "So we came here, to change all that history, all that sacrifice. We have so little, between these mountains; only pride, and the strength of our warriors. We need an advantage, an edge. And so I came here, destroying all my nation and all our works; and so Geir Jonsson came in his time, and Anja Sigridsdottir, and Aslak before me, and now Varg to take the burden from my shoulders."
Sigurd nodded. "And so you have failed, and made Norway weak instead of strong; and so you turn to us at last, who live here."
Karl nodded, and it seemed to Sigurd that there might be a glimmer of moisture in his red-rimmed eyes. "And so we have failed. And so I turn to you. Help us, Sigurd. For sake of the Great Norway that was, that we have thrown away in our pride."
"No, Karl. I won't help you for that Norway." Sigurd rose, his bones stiff from hours of listening, alternately enthralled and sickened. "Not for a nation of slaves. Oh yes, half of you called yourselves masters, perhaps, and were proud of your strength to subjugate the other half. You call that freedom? To live in terror of the day when your subjects rise against you? To spend all your time at weapons practice, against the Final War that will kill all men? As though all the future were a dream of the old gods, and Norway no more than a training ground for expendable einherjar, to fight and die at Vigrid field? I think not."
"No. For that Norway, I will not lift a finger, except to consign it to the grave. Better you should have fought it out with the Chinese, and perished honourably in nuclear flames, than to bring that living death here. Who are you to bring your ancient cadaverous quarrels to this land, where my sons live?"
Karl rocked back in his chair, surprised and for a moment overawed by the older man's fury. "The course of history," he whispered, then cleared his throat and spoke more strongly, "has been changed. If not for us, your sons would not even exist."
Sigurd sat back down again. "As may be. Done is done, and eaten is eaten. Not for the Norway you want, but for the Norway my sons will live in, I will help you. And by all the gods, old and new, it will be a better land than yours."
Karl looked down, beaten. "Aye. Perhaps so. It is sure that we have not done well, we uptimers. From the civil war in Geir Jonsson's time, to this. At every step we travel in the footsteps of our ancestors, and we are less than they. Let it be as you say, then. Perhaps there is a better way. Shape Norway as you wish. I will stand behind you."
"Good. Then let us sleep; tomorrow we have much to discuss."
Brittany, 1209
“So, Demna. Now that things are quiet again, what do you suggest we do?” King Frédéric asked, with a vaguely menacing undercurrent in his voice.
“My Lord? I don’t understand?” Demna Basset, Marshal of Brittany replied.
“Let us be blunt. Brittany’s winning strategy in the recent Baltic War was to die like flies until they choked the Norwegian troops to death on Breton blood.”
“In fact, we have reports of a battle in Telemark where Karloman Blå, the Butcher of Bergslagen, cut down some four thousand Breton troops while losing some four hundred of his own. And Breton troops outnumbered those damned Ynglings before that battle.”
“My Lord, we did do some chevauchée, with great success. And, after all, we did win.”
“Yes, we did. At great cost to us. Our idiot tactics – tactics, I might add, better suited to barbarians and Russians than to Breton – only handicapped us so far. That teaches us nothing more than that six to one odds will often carry the day. That will not work against a real enemy.”
“You note, for example, that no matter how many times we drowned Georgian soldiers in Breton blood in 1190, they still had more troops to kick us back to the sea.”
“If Italy attacks, the same. We must have a better way.”
“My Lord, we have concentrated on improving our sieges for several generations.”
“Yes, we have…but we aren’t barbarians in Brittany! If there is an advance in all of the World, we know about it in Valencia! Why do you think we have trade routes with Byzantium, Georgia, and Serbia? It’s not solely for the spices!”
“My Lord, that is true. Maybe the Ynglings have sold their souls to Satan. It is rumored that strange things go on in the mountains of Norway.”
“If the Ynglings have sold their souls to Satan, then obviously Satan got the better end of that bargain.”
“My Lord, that is also true. The Danelaw is reduced to York and York alone. And York can no doubt be traded for.”
“Doubtful. York will no doubt cost another twenty thousand men…after all, the castle can shelter two thousand and Ynglings kill ten-to-one.”
“My Lord…that’s not quite true. The regiments raised in Britain did quite well against Norwegians.”
“They did better. I wouldn’t say they did well. In any event, they’re at least half under the spell of that Mad Scotsman. Push comes to shove, who knows what they’ll do?”
“My Lord, you mean Rasul of the Western Isles?”
“No. I mean Robert de Lusignan.”
“My Lord, surely the de Lusignans realize what Brittany has done in taking Britain for them.”
“I would not be so sure.”
“My Lord, surely the de Lusignans realize that they cannot fight Brittany.”
“Why not? If British forces perform as well as Norwegians, and Norwegians kill Bretons ten to one, then all Robert needs to do is find that same demon that the Butcher of Bergslagen prays to, and he can stand Brittany off indefinitely.”
“Demna, since you’ve come up with nothing better…begin to study terrain better. Make a special note not to fight in Norway in the winter. And keep your eye out for wandering priests that do exorcisms. We may want to send them to Norway.”
“And send Louis to me. He may have some things to say about how the Seljuks make war.”
“So, Demna. Now that things are quiet again, what do you suggest we do?” King Frédéric asked, with a vaguely menacing undercurrent in his voice.
“My Lord? I don’t understand?” Demna Basset, Marshal of Brittany replied.
“Let us be blunt. Brittany’s winning strategy in the recent Baltic War was to die like flies until they choked the Norwegian troops to death on Breton blood.”
“In fact, we have reports of a battle in Telemark where Karloman Blå, the Butcher of Bergslagen, cut down some four thousand Breton troops while losing some four hundred of his own. And Breton troops outnumbered those damned Ynglings before that battle.”
“My Lord, we did do some chevauchée, with great success. And, after all, we did win.”
“Yes, we did. At great cost to us. Our idiot tactics – tactics, I might add, better suited to barbarians and Russians than to Breton – only handicapped us so far. That teaches us nothing more than that six to one odds will often carry the day. That will not work against a real enemy.”
“You note, for example, that no matter how many times we drowned Georgian soldiers in Breton blood in 1190, they still had more troops to kick us back to the sea.”
“If Italy attacks, the same. We must have a better way.”
“My Lord, we have concentrated on improving our sieges for several generations.”
“Yes, we have…but we aren’t barbarians in Brittany! If there is an advance in all of the World, we know about it in Valencia! Why do you think we have trade routes with Byzantium, Georgia, and Serbia? It’s not solely for the spices!”
“My Lord, that is true. Maybe the Ynglings have sold their souls to Satan. It is rumored that strange things go on in the mountains of Norway.”
“If the Ynglings have sold their souls to Satan, then obviously Satan got the better end of that bargain.”
“My Lord, that is also true. The Danelaw is reduced to York and York alone. And York can no doubt be traded for.”
“Doubtful. York will no doubt cost another twenty thousand men…after all, the castle can shelter two thousand and Ynglings kill ten-to-one.”
“My Lord…that’s not quite true. The regiments raised in Britain did quite well against Norwegians.”
“They did better. I wouldn’t say they did well. In any event, they’re at least half under the spell of that Mad Scotsman. Push comes to shove, who knows what they’ll do?”
“My Lord, you mean Rasul of the Western Isles?”
“No. I mean Robert de Lusignan.”
“My Lord, surely the de Lusignans realize what Brittany has done in taking Britain for them.”
“I would not be so sure.”
“My Lord, surely the de Lusignans realize that they cannot fight Brittany.”
“Why not? If British forces perform as well as Norwegians, and Norwegians kill Bretons ten to one, then all Robert needs to do is find that same demon that the Butcher of Bergslagen prays to, and he can stand Brittany off indefinitely.”
“Demna, since you’ve come up with nothing better…begin to study terrain better. Make a special note not to fight in Norway in the winter. And keep your eye out for wandering priests that do exorcisms. We may want to send them to Norway.”
“And send Louis to me. He may have some things to say about how the Seljuks make war.”