A Dream of Aquitaine (An Old Gods AAR)
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Good to see this AAR still going strong, Anasthene! I was convinced you were going to reach your original goal finally.
Damn Karling politics
Edit: By the way, the first person here is really well written!
Damn Karling politics
Edit: By the way, the first person here is really well written!
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Hey bkj thanks very much for your feedback and good to see you still tagging along. Yes very frustrating indeed but I have some ideas for changing my tactics somewhat. There are a few twists and turns before then mind!Good to see this AAR still going strong, Anasthene! I was convinced you were going to reach your original goal finally.
Damn Karling politics
Edit: By the way, the first person here is really well written!
When you say 'the first person here is really well written' do you mean the narrative as told by the Chronicler or the previous 1st person narrative told by the De Poitous?
Ahhh thanks man. Yeah I'm much preferring that writing style
Sorry Guys it's been so long since my last update: just really busy at mo and when I had a chance to play or write I'm afraid I was weak and chose the former haha. The good news is that there is plenty of exciting material to write about so I'm hoping your cup will runneth over when I start posting again.
Watch this space
Hi guys. I feel pretty guilty for not having updated in so long. It's just been all hands to the pump with work and also pre Xmas socials such that my weekends haven't really been my own
Sadly I'm not entirely sure when I'll get time to update but update I will. 1 question for you all though: my protagonists now possess 3 Dukedoms and I've been wondering for awhile: should I bequeath 1 or more to sons or keep them all within the one character's grasp? I'm finding Brittanny in particular is proving a magnet for dissent and plotting.
Pros and cons please? Give me some good ideas and I'll try write in your suggestions to the AAR itself so watch this space
Sadly I'm not entirely sure when I'll get time to update but update I will. 1 question for you all though: my protagonists now possess 3 Dukedoms and I've been wondering for awhile: should I bequeath 1 or more to sons or keep them all within the one character's grasp? I'm finding Brittanny in particular is proving a magnet for dissent and plotting.
Pros and cons please? Give me some good ideas and I'll try write in your suggestions to the AAR itself so watch this space
I think you should keep all your dukedoms but give Brittany to your worst son, at least it won't matter too much if he shuffles of this mortal coil...
But if I do that I won't be keeping all my Dukedoms? I'm just wondering what the penalties would be for bequeathing it...
Hi guys. I feel pretty guilty for not having updated in so long. It's just been all hands to the pump with work and also pre Xmas socials such that my weekends haven't really been my own
Sadly I'm not entirely sure when I'll get time to update but update I will. 1 question for you all though: my protagonists now possess 3 Dukedoms and I've been wondering for awhile: should I bequeath 1 or more to sons or keep them all within the one character's grasp? I'm finding Brittanny in particular is proving a magnet for dissent and plotting.
Pros and cons please? Give me some good ideas and I'll try write in your suggestions to the AAR itself so watch this space
Three dukedoms usually means your vassals will hold it against you. Which means they'll stab you in the back when you least need it.
I would suggest destroying one of the ducal titles. Not Brittany, of course
You can always create the title anew when you're king, then hand it to someone, making him your vassal. Until then, keep as many vassals as possible, but give them no reason to betray you.
I'm going to go along with what @fabiolundiense says. The counts in the affected duchy will probably hate you for it for a while, but bringing yourself back down to 2 duchy titles should help your relations with your other vassals immensely.
oh wow. Silly me. Didn't think of that. I might destroy the Poitou title since it's the junior Duchy vs Aquitaine...Three dukedoms usually means your vassals will hold it against you. Which means they'll stab you in the back when you least need it.
I would suggest destroying one of the ducal titles. Not Brittany, of course
yup I'm going with destroying the Duchy of Poitou methinks
Or should I destroy Bretagne and stop all these annoying plots to seize it?
Finally got started writing up all notes for next Chapter and now started actual writing-it will be up next week for sure people!
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Chapter 18
The Life and Times of Duke Gauzbert II of Aquitaine Part 3, 950-953 AD
The battle for Aquitaine
Our Lord’s seeming subservience lasted for as long as missives took to arrive from his namesake in Toulouse, which made very plain his intent. The Duke, now a handsome man of thirty one summers, let the scroll drop from a trembling hand. It never ceased to make me wonder in all the long years that I knew him how his devilish scheming could turn to milky fright and fear given the right circumstances. I picked up the letter:
To my most esteemed friend, the noble Duke of Aquitaine
There will be no surrender
Your treasury is still well stocked and we can between us still muster many thousands of fighting men. We will show this Onfroy the colour of our mettle.
Let us to it-where before our battle was with Charles of West Francia so let it now be with this usurper ‘king of Aquitaine’
To victory!
Gauzbertus Dux
A kingdom divided...
And so as autumn gave way to winter and the temperatures dropped in that year of 950 my Lord simultaneously stood down the Mercenaries in Count Ximeno’s army leaving their numbers standing at merely a whit over a thousand fighting men. At the same time we learned that Onfroy had two powers attacking us at Perigord and Bordeaux, with yet another third force moving in from Bourges. To add insult to that injury we also heard of yet another Norse invasion this time plunging deep inland and besieging Bordeaux. The answer to these multiple threats and the gravest peril to our lands since the time of Charles Martel and the great Muslim invasion of that era was for my lord to call a Council of War. All the Privy Councillors were in attendance-even our puissant Marshal, Ximeno, who must then have been fretting mightily at the fate of his own lands in Bordeaux.
It was a chill, damp January day in Saintes with the castle’s many open hearths and fires not quite dispelling the sense of gloom that had enveloped us all. My good wife, meanwhile, had become ever more strident, demanding that I spend more time with our little son-I demurred and the more shrewish she became the more excuses I conjured up to stay away from our home. The intricacies and machinations of the Ducal Council were, frankly, far more pleasurable than the constant carping and harpy-like rejoinders from that woman.
‘Ximeno open the proceedings if you will.’ My lord had entreated-I was furiously scribbling in short hand-my role to capture every word said.
The warlike Count of Bordeaux grunted his assent and then set out the military situation: ‘we are pressed about on all sides my lords and since the battle we fought and won at Gien last month our army has been idle...’
There was some banging on the table at that for despite being outnumbered Ximeno had attacked and roundly defeated a rapidly mustering force fifty miles to the north of Bourges. As well as shattering that army and drawing first blood, he had captured a medley of highborn nobles that included the Duke’s cousin, Count Jacques of Limousin. It was well done and a display of the initiative and aggressive spirit that made Bordeaux one of the foremost battle commanders in Europa.
‘That was well done my lord,’ the Duke purred, ‘and my cousin and his highborn friends, now detained at our pleasure will swell our coffers without doubt.’
The withering look cast in his direction by the Marshal wiped the smug smile from his face-always it was money that dominated Gauzbert’s thinking and whilst this pleased Bishop Sigismond, our Steward, greatly, the same could not be said of the rest of the Council.
As if reading their thoughts my lord opined that ‘it is nonetheless our plentiful treasury that keeps our armies in the field is it not?’
‘That is so mon duc.’ The Marshal grudgingly conceded before continuing, ‘your brother has been left in charge whilst I am here and wishes you well-he remains a stalwart and able lieutenant.’
‘I am right pleased to hear it for whilst my good wife continues to foist girls upon me he also remains my heir.’
‘Indeed my lord-indeed. So there is an enemy army of more than a thousand besieging Perigord and the accursed Norse are camped around Bordeaux. I suggest that we pull back from Bourges which is, after all, now in neutral West Francia. After taking on some reinforcements, I will take on our foes piecemeal-first another Aquitainian royal army to our north, then I will swing south to raise the siege at Perigord and finally harry the Norse at Bordeaux.’
The Duke, and indeed the great and the good of the council, seemed well pleased with this plan.
‘But what of our ally Toulouse?’ Mayor Godefroi enquired worriedly, ‘what means he to do?’
At that the Duke himself interjected: ‘I have had missives from our “friend and ally”-he has mustered a power of nearly four thousand and means to attack Limousin again. His intent: to keep Onfroy on his toes combining our attacks in the north of his new kingdom with his in the south. Pray God it works!’
Ximeno grunted his agreement-I imagined more seasoned strategists than I might well have wondered why we were not concentrating our forces-a basic rule of war-it seems that it was not a stratagem that the more warlike of the two Gauzberts favoured.
The emollient and urbane Bishop Sigismond added smoothly, ‘we have over six hundred pounds of gold in the treasury so can hire more routiers if need be.’
That the treasury had recovered so quickly from being almost run down to its dregs by the war against King Charles was testament to both Sigismond’s careful stewardship…or the Duke’s avarice, some might say.
Godefroi also appraised interested ears of our erstwhile King, fourteen year old Charles, being drawn into a war in support of his kinsman of Middle Francia, King Benoit. He would have his hands full for the moment it would seem.
‘And the accursed moor has once again launched a holy war for the jewel of the middle sea that they seem to covet above all others; the Baleares…’
‘That could spell trouble for it is Toulouse’s demesne.’ Adalbert of Chancelade, hitherto silent, had opined. ‘I will keep my spies active for any sign he may be about to abandon us…’
At this the Duke chuckled, though without much warmth, ‘methinks it is he who is more afeared of us doing the abandoning my lord Bishop but it does no harm to keep whoever you have down there active. Come let us close this meeting for we all have much work to do. Gentlemen I bid you good day.’
And with that the various lords and bishops went their separate ways whilst all around the febrile atmosphere surrounding our lands caused fathers to stray just a little less and mothers to clutch their offspring just a little closer to their bosoms.
So it was with some relief that we learned, in early February, that Ximeno had destroyed in detail the force coming down from Dijon in the northwest-that battle was fought at Châtellerault, just to the north of our principle city of Poitiers. It was an ambuscade with Ximeno losing only twenty one of his men and he killing all five hundred and twenty three of the foe.
Have at thee swine!
As the spring climes started turning the trees bright with blossom we had riders clatter into Saintes. It was just after the Feast of Sainte Francoise-Romaine, the 9th March, the year of our lord 951. I had been sequestered away with my lord for some days as his good lady was grievous ill-she had caught a chill some weeks before and it had grown ever worse. When it started to become clear that the good lady Petronilla was not about to make a miraculous recovery, he called for Bishop Hildebert, the Ducal Chaplain-she must be shriven for her immortal soul’s sake.
That afternoon, when the riders arrived, my lord had been informed that his consort would not make the close of the day. He was already in consultation with his Chancellor to see who would be a suitable match for him-as I have said there was no love lost between them!
‘What ho sirs! Where is the Duke!’ Shouted the foremost messenger-he wore the cognizance of the Counts of Bordeaux, of course. I had taken it upon myself to take some fresh air-a welcome change from the stifling living quarters of the dying Duchess. I thrust myself forward, ‘I am the Duke’s scribe sir-I can take you to him.’
And so I took the man in hand and led him to my lord’s solar, there, he, bright eyed and in no way dismayed by the imminent passing of his consort. As we approached I heard my master’s raised voice: ‘God’s wounds Godefroi do not tell me that there is none suitable for the esteemed Duke of Aquitaine-back to your embassages man and do not return until you have secured me a suitable bride!’
At that the door flung open and a chastened Chancellor stalked out, face like the summer storms that blew up in the south of our lands.
‘Your Grace-emissaries from our Lord Marshal.’
The Duke, his face still ruddy from the sudden onset of anger-in that at least he was, for certes, a De Poitou, called us in.
‘You come from Bordeaux sirs? What news?’
Bowing low the messengers delivered their news, namely another crushing of our foes at Niort-this time an army of just over a thousand-annihilated. As my lord sat there nodding sagely, however, the messenger’s demeanour changed.
I could get used to this winning lark!
‘My Lord the Count has sent urgent requests for reinforcements-we lost over four hundred men in that last battle and we, ourselves are now numbering a little over a thousand…’
The Duke was already shaking his head, however: ‘I cannot reinforce him quite yet-Toulouse has swelled his own army to just under four thousand in our south but I must needs await his instructions before I act. You understand?’
It was not the response the messengers had looked for and I can only imagine what the countenance of the warlike Bordeaux would have been some months later when, in the dog days of a broiling August he was instructed to stand down the levies altogether leaving him just 200 Ducal soldiers.
I have heard after, that the Duke was seen for a coward and that Toulouse, in particular, had sworn to make him eat his own ballocks-if he possessed any! The truth, however, was somewhat more prosaic: the Duke had been warned in no uncertain terms by his Council that, after years in the field the lords who had willingly sent their levies when hostilities first began were now on the verge of revolt against their Duke. I could not fault them really and though Gauzbert ranted and raved in the Council Chamber even he could not really deny the need to get the menfolk home to their farms and families.
In the event this act of so-called ‘treachery’ was greatly mitigated by the declaration of war against our new Sovereign by the heretic Cathar king of Navarra: it seemed he coveted Gascogne as well! This news was in no wise greeted with dismay by my master given that Onfroy must now, perforce, stretch his limited resources even further dealing with this new threat.
Cathar scum!
Summer turned to autumn and then autumn to winter: bleak, cold, grey and wet-punctuated by huddled and secretive meetings of various members of the council, the many hearths and open fires never quite enough to banish the chill. The one thing that brought some light to the gloom was the Duke’s plan to marry the fourteen year old Princess Agata of Panonnia and Bohemia-the betrothal readily agreed by her cunning father Ferenç, ‘the Usurper’: it was a good match for both sides bestowing prestige and legitimacy on the old King and bringing a reasonably powerful ally to the side of my Lord. The marriage was set for two years hence. As for my own family, the best I can say is that my son and my wife thrived…
Your nubile daughter will do nicely you old codger
Darker tidings were on the wind, however, brought with the freshening warmer climes: dread news reached us just one day after we had celebrated the feast of Saint Prudence, the 7th April 952, the enemy was at hand and even now was bringing fire and the sword to St Jean D’Angély, just twenty miles to our north!
It burns! It burns!
As the Council met in extraordinary session, less the Marshal, who was frantically gathering together troops from our demesne-the Duke had been warned in no uncertain terms, by his rebellious vassals that he would receive nothing if he sent out a general muster.
The exasperated Gauzbert pronounced his solution to his fractious Councillors: ‘I have made my decision Lords-we will call upon the financial aid of our Jewish friends...’
At that general hubbub amongst the assembled but in no way daunted the Duke pressed on, ‘what would you have me do my lords? Our treasury has been depleted to less than four hundred pounds of gold. We need more men and for that we need gold-and who has that gold? The Jews!’
‘Then seize it from the heretics my lord-why ask them for a loan?’ Growled an emboldened Bishop Sigismond of Charroux-it was not often the Chancellor openly disagreed with his Duke but, in this, he knew that he had the full support of the other two bishops on the council, our chaplain, Hildebert and Adalbert, the master of our spy network.
Gauzbert was shaking his head-there were some things and certain circumstances where he was as steadfast as a rock and this was just one of them. ‘You say that these people eat Christian babies for their supper and indulge in all sorts of hideous practices. I have seen no evidence in all my years of this.’ He paused to cast his piercing gaze over all of his most trusted advisors, temporal and spiritual. ‘What is more you say that the interest that they charge for their loans is extortionate…’
‘And isn’t it?’ Interjected the Chancellor boldly.
‘It is but is it any wonder given how many goodly Christian souls renege on their debts and then appeal over the heads of those to whom they owe money directly to the church who absolve them of their debts? If I was a Jew I would so charge!’ My master let his words sink in and then in more measured tones to his Steward, ‘My Lord Bishop you will arrange a meet with the principle moneylender-you will tell them that the word of the Dukes of Aquitaine is good and you will secure me a loan at excellent rates of interest as a result.’
Another surveil of the members present then: ‘I think we are finished here my lords-time is of the essence. Think you on the fact that even now Onfroy’s men are despoiling our town of St Jean D’Angely. I bid you good morrow.’
Three hundred and fifty pounds of gold were procured to swell our coffers and recruit a mainly Routier army, from Milan, of three thousand five hundred, augmented by some two hundred and fifty Ducal troops. Ximeno and the Mercenary leader, Condottiere Urbano, with the Duke’s brother Nicolas as the third commander, were given their head and utterly destroyed that army that had brought such misery to our close neighbours.
As summer hove into view we learned of the landing of a sizeable Moorish army in Brittanny-a somewhat inconvenient reminder that we were also at war with the heathen for the Baleares. At the time we paid that news scant attention, fixated as we all were with news from closer to home. Whilst Ximeno ranged further to the north and east of our demesnes, flanking and protecting us, the Duke of Toulouse had now moved to besiege Agen, having subdued and overcome Limousin. Ximeno had now been ordered by that peremptory Duke to join him in the south-to harry and oppress Gascogne lands-let us flush the royal Aquitainians out. The plan seemed to be working and the war going our way.
With my last breath I spit at thee!
We have all been schooled, however, that pride cometh before a fall and so it was with a sense of true helplessness that I witnessed my lord buffeted by the news, in the winter of 952 and early 953, that first the accursed Muslim had increased their power in Brittany to well over six thousand and that the ancient Breton capital at Vannes would fall within weeks. Then even worse: my lord’s stalwart brother and heir, Nicolas, had passed away, overcome by too many months in the field-carried away on the gossamer wings of death by a camp infection we were told…
‘He was ever loyal and steadfast to me,’ the crestfallen Duke had opined sadly to me as he stared into the distance. Tears had started to his eyes, quickly cuffed away: he had loved this older brother of his and more pressingly was now without an heir…
In February Vannes fell to the Moor and worse was to come as Bishop Adalbert brought dark tidings that, once again, Ximeno was plotting.
‘God rot him to hell!’ The Duke had exploded on hearing of this latest ill ‘why can he not be as steadfast in his loyalty as my dear departed brother?’
‘I think it is precisely because your brother is gone that he has returned to plotting your grace-Nicolas was surely a restraining presence whilst he was in the army.’ Adalbert was at his most soothing ‘I can use some leverage that I have to bring him back into the fold and I will leave some spies amongst his personal bodyguard for I am not sure that we can trust him.’
‘See to it.’ The Duke intoned flatly, his shoulders slumped-it seemed that his dreams of being the De Poitou that elevated his family name to greater things was turning to ash in his hands.
Again? Why I oughta!
We had gone hawking-some of the Duke’s adherents and myself, his bodyguard some way behind-it was a pastime that he preferred to the hunt, which was somewhat too bestial for my lord’s sensibilities. At least the riding kept us cool and fanned us in the heat of high a Poitevin high summer. It was with trepidation, then, that we were intercepted by hard galloping riders from the castle.
Bowing in the saddle we recognised the lead as one of the Ducal pages, ‘My lord you are respectfully requested to return forthwith to the castle-messengers have arrived from our Lord Marshal.’
‘Oh aye!’ The Duke cried eyes flashing with mischief, ‘the last messengers we received brought great tidings of battles won!’
That was in June when word reached us of another victory-this time in the mountain passes of Bearn at Morlaàs far to the south in Basque lands where Ximeno had travelled to flush out the remaining royal armies. He had met the largest such in those passes and destroyed them in detail. It was another fine victory for our cause and for our puissant Marshal, plotting or no plotting.
Still standing?
But there was something in the mien of the heralds that presaged no good and sure enough, on our return, we were accosted by the Castellan, Roger de Saintes, his craggy features downcast.
‘Tell me all’ Gauzbert demanded.
‘My Lord’ Roger began beckoning forward some dust begrimed figures ‘these men bring dread tidings from Bazas. Come forward sirs-tell the Duke what you told me.’
The men were soldiers, they were clearly not emissaries, judging by their garb. The leader started forward cautiously and told us his sorry tale-he spoke the Langue D’Oc in a strong Bordeaux accent, ‘my lord we were part of the Lord Marshal’s levy and in good spirits after our victory in the mountains earlier in the summer. Yet some few weeks ago, my lord, we were ambushed by a much larger power-I think it was around the feast of Saint Bernard. Yes that was the day.’ He looked to his companions who confirmed this rather trivial detail suggesting that it was on the 20th August.
‘What happened lad-this was some weeks ago now?’ This from the Duke, encouraging the man, who had clearly been shaken by what had transpired.
‘My lord-the enemy must have been three or four times our numbers-we were destroyed almost to a man…’
We all recoiled and I remember clearly the Duke himself blanching. ‘To a man you say? This cannot be-why are we only hearing of this now-weeks after the event?’ Suddenly all was swift motion, my master summonsing his personal aides and ordering the swift recall of our spymaster and chancellor. It was the lack of news that had so discomfited him-clearly a huge failure of intelligence had transpired.
Such news that arrived was no less troubling. Both our laggardly spy network and the Chancellor confirmed that from out of nowhere Onfroy had mustered an army of well over eight thousand-had cornered Ximeno in his own demesne of Bordeaux and destroyed most of his army not more than 40 forty miles from his own seat of power-the humiliation! The Marshal did manage to save roughly two thirds of his troops, however, and this ragtag band started to limp back into Saintonge the very next week.
COUNT XIMENO GIVE ME BACK MY ARMY!!!
There was no time for recrimination however for even as we digested the unpalatable truth that we were effectively finished as a fighting force emissaries arrived from our own Liege Lord, Gauzbert of Toulouse. A look at my master’s dejected face told me all. He wordlessly held the letter out to me-me, not his Chancellor or Spymaster who were, at the time, present. It said much for the state of his mind…I read the epistle aloud for the benefit of my betters there assembled:
My dearest Gauzbert
Ally and most steadfast friend
Our war is over.
I have learned that King Onfroy has called upon the services of his relatives in Burgundy thus swelling his power mightily. Word has reached me of the disaster at Bazas. We can no longer stand against him-not when he can now command almost ten thousand to his banners.
Our war is over my friend-we must yield to the reality of time and circumstance. My own vassals grow restless as I hear yours have-we must look to our own.
I have sent emissaries offering a white peace to our new liege. We must bend the knee
Yours ever in amity
Gauzbertus Dux
27th September the year of our lord 953
I looked around me-all eyes were downcast-faces as grim as the gathering night sky: it was finished-our thirteen year war was finally at an end…
<sob, weep>
The Life and Times of Duke Gauzbert II of Aquitaine Part 3, 950-953 AD
The battle for Aquitaine
Our Lord’s seeming subservience lasted for as long as missives took to arrive from his namesake in Toulouse, which made very plain his intent. The Duke, now a handsome man of thirty one summers, let the scroll drop from a trembling hand. It never ceased to make me wonder in all the long years that I knew him how his devilish scheming could turn to milky fright and fear given the right circumstances. I picked up the letter:
To my most esteemed friend, the noble Duke of Aquitaine
There will be no surrender
Your treasury is still well stocked and we can between us still muster many thousands of fighting men. We will show this Onfroy the colour of our mettle.
Let us to it-where before our battle was with Charles of West Francia so let it now be with this usurper ‘king of Aquitaine’
To victory!
Gauzbertus Dux
A kingdom divided...
And so as autumn gave way to winter and the temperatures dropped in that year of 950 my Lord simultaneously stood down the Mercenaries in Count Ximeno’s army leaving their numbers standing at merely a whit over a thousand fighting men. At the same time we learned that Onfroy had two powers attacking us at Perigord and Bordeaux, with yet another third force moving in from Bourges. To add insult to that injury we also heard of yet another Norse invasion this time plunging deep inland and besieging Bordeaux. The answer to these multiple threats and the gravest peril to our lands since the time of Charles Martel and the great Muslim invasion of that era was for my lord to call a Council of War. All the Privy Councillors were in attendance-even our puissant Marshal, Ximeno, who must then have been fretting mightily at the fate of his own lands in Bordeaux.
It was a chill, damp January day in Saintes with the castle’s many open hearths and fires not quite dispelling the sense of gloom that had enveloped us all. My good wife, meanwhile, had become ever more strident, demanding that I spend more time with our little son-I demurred and the more shrewish she became the more excuses I conjured up to stay away from our home. The intricacies and machinations of the Ducal Council were, frankly, far more pleasurable than the constant carping and harpy-like rejoinders from that woman.
‘Ximeno open the proceedings if you will.’ My lord had entreated-I was furiously scribbling in short hand-my role to capture every word said.
The warlike Count of Bordeaux grunted his assent and then set out the military situation: ‘we are pressed about on all sides my lords and since the battle we fought and won at Gien last month our army has been idle...’
There was some banging on the table at that for despite being outnumbered Ximeno had attacked and roundly defeated a rapidly mustering force fifty miles to the north of Bourges. As well as shattering that army and drawing first blood, he had captured a medley of highborn nobles that included the Duke’s cousin, Count Jacques of Limousin. It was well done and a display of the initiative and aggressive spirit that made Bordeaux one of the foremost battle commanders in Europa.
‘That was well done my lord,’ the Duke purred, ‘and my cousin and his highborn friends, now detained at our pleasure will swell our coffers without doubt.’
The withering look cast in his direction by the Marshal wiped the smug smile from his face-always it was money that dominated Gauzbert’s thinking and whilst this pleased Bishop Sigismond, our Steward, greatly, the same could not be said of the rest of the Council.
As if reading their thoughts my lord opined that ‘it is nonetheless our plentiful treasury that keeps our armies in the field is it not?’
‘That is so mon duc.’ The Marshal grudgingly conceded before continuing, ‘your brother has been left in charge whilst I am here and wishes you well-he remains a stalwart and able lieutenant.’
‘I am right pleased to hear it for whilst my good wife continues to foist girls upon me he also remains my heir.’
‘Indeed my lord-indeed. So there is an enemy army of more than a thousand besieging Perigord and the accursed Norse are camped around Bordeaux. I suggest that we pull back from Bourges which is, after all, now in neutral West Francia. After taking on some reinforcements, I will take on our foes piecemeal-first another Aquitainian royal army to our north, then I will swing south to raise the siege at Perigord and finally harry the Norse at Bordeaux.’
The Duke, and indeed the great and the good of the council, seemed well pleased with this plan.
‘But what of our ally Toulouse?’ Mayor Godefroi enquired worriedly, ‘what means he to do?’
At that the Duke himself interjected: ‘I have had missives from our “friend and ally”-he has mustered a power of nearly four thousand and means to attack Limousin again. His intent: to keep Onfroy on his toes combining our attacks in the north of his new kingdom with his in the south. Pray God it works!’
Ximeno grunted his agreement-I imagined more seasoned strategists than I might well have wondered why we were not concentrating our forces-a basic rule of war-it seems that it was not a stratagem that the more warlike of the two Gauzberts favoured.
The emollient and urbane Bishop Sigismond added smoothly, ‘we have over six hundred pounds of gold in the treasury so can hire more routiers if need be.’
That the treasury had recovered so quickly from being almost run down to its dregs by the war against King Charles was testament to both Sigismond’s careful stewardship…or the Duke’s avarice, some might say.
Godefroi also appraised interested ears of our erstwhile King, fourteen year old Charles, being drawn into a war in support of his kinsman of Middle Francia, King Benoit. He would have his hands full for the moment it would seem.
‘And the accursed moor has once again launched a holy war for the jewel of the middle sea that they seem to covet above all others; the Baleares…’
‘That could spell trouble for it is Toulouse’s demesne.’ Adalbert of Chancelade, hitherto silent, had opined. ‘I will keep my spies active for any sign he may be about to abandon us…’
At this the Duke chuckled, though without much warmth, ‘methinks it is he who is more afeared of us doing the abandoning my lord Bishop but it does no harm to keep whoever you have down there active. Come let us close this meeting for we all have much work to do. Gentlemen I bid you good day.’
And with that the various lords and bishops went their separate ways whilst all around the febrile atmosphere surrounding our lands caused fathers to stray just a little less and mothers to clutch their offspring just a little closer to their bosoms.
So it was with some relief that we learned, in early February, that Ximeno had destroyed in detail the force coming down from Dijon in the northwest-that battle was fought at Châtellerault, just to the north of our principle city of Poitiers. It was an ambuscade with Ximeno losing only twenty one of his men and he killing all five hundred and twenty three of the foe.
Have at thee swine!
As the spring climes started turning the trees bright with blossom we had riders clatter into Saintes. It was just after the Feast of Sainte Francoise-Romaine, the 9th March, the year of our lord 951. I had been sequestered away with my lord for some days as his good lady was grievous ill-she had caught a chill some weeks before and it had grown ever worse. When it started to become clear that the good lady Petronilla was not about to make a miraculous recovery, he called for Bishop Hildebert, the Ducal Chaplain-she must be shriven for her immortal soul’s sake.
That afternoon, when the riders arrived, my lord had been informed that his consort would not make the close of the day. He was already in consultation with his Chancellor to see who would be a suitable match for him-as I have said there was no love lost between them!
‘What ho sirs! Where is the Duke!’ Shouted the foremost messenger-he wore the cognizance of the Counts of Bordeaux, of course. I had taken it upon myself to take some fresh air-a welcome change from the stifling living quarters of the dying Duchess. I thrust myself forward, ‘I am the Duke’s scribe sir-I can take you to him.’
And so I took the man in hand and led him to my lord’s solar, there, he, bright eyed and in no way dismayed by the imminent passing of his consort. As we approached I heard my master’s raised voice: ‘God’s wounds Godefroi do not tell me that there is none suitable for the esteemed Duke of Aquitaine-back to your embassages man and do not return until you have secured me a suitable bride!’
At that the door flung open and a chastened Chancellor stalked out, face like the summer storms that blew up in the south of our lands.
‘Your Grace-emissaries from our Lord Marshal.’
The Duke, his face still ruddy from the sudden onset of anger-in that at least he was, for certes, a De Poitou, called us in.
‘You come from Bordeaux sirs? What news?’
Bowing low the messengers delivered their news, namely another crushing of our foes at Niort-this time an army of just over a thousand-annihilated. As my lord sat there nodding sagely, however, the messenger’s demeanour changed.
I could get used to this winning lark!
‘My Lord the Count has sent urgent requests for reinforcements-we lost over four hundred men in that last battle and we, ourselves are now numbering a little over a thousand…’
The Duke was already shaking his head, however: ‘I cannot reinforce him quite yet-Toulouse has swelled his own army to just under four thousand in our south but I must needs await his instructions before I act. You understand?’
It was not the response the messengers had looked for and I can only imagine what the countenance of the warlike Bordeaux would have been some months later when, in the dog days of a broiling August he was instructed to stand down the levies altogether leaving him just 200 Ducal soldiers.
I have heard after, that the Duke was seen for a coward and that Toulouse, in particular, had sworn to make him eat his own ballocks-if he possessed any! The truth, however, was somewhat more prosaic: the Duke had been warned in no uncertain terms by his Council that, after years in the field the lords who had willingly sent their levies when hostilities first began were now on the verge of revolt against their Duke. I could not fault them really and though Gauzbert ranted and raved in the Council Chamber even he could not really deny the need to get the menfolk home to their farms and families.
In the event this act of so-called ‘treachery’ was greatly mitigated by the declaration of war against our new Sovereign by the heretic Cathar king of Navarra: it seemed he coveted Gascogne as well! This news was in no wise greeted with dismay by my master given that Onfroy must now, perforce, stretch his limited resources even further dealing with this new threat.
Cathar scum!
Summer turned to autumn and then autumn to winter: bleak, cold, grey and wet-punctuated by huddled and secretive meetings of various members of the council, the many hearths and open fires never quite enough to banish the chill. The one thing that brought some light to the gloom was the Duke’s plan to marry the fourteen year old Princess Agata of Panonnia and Bohemia-the betrothal readily agreed by her cunning father Ferenç, ‘the Usurper’: it was a good match for both sides bestowing prestige and legitimacy on the old King and bringing a reasonably powerful ally to the side of my Lord. The marriage was set for two years hence. As for my own family, the best I can say is that my son and my wife thrived…
Your nubile daughter will do nicely you old codger
Darker tidings were on the wind, however, brought with the freshening warmer climes: dread news reached us just one day after we had celebrated the feast of Saint Prudence, the 7th April 952, the enemy was at hand and even now was bringing fire and the sword to St Jean D’Angély, just twenty miles to our north!
It burns! It burns!
As the Council met in extraordinary session, less the Marshal, who was frantically gathering together troops from our demesne-the Duke had been warned in no uncertain terms, by his rebellious vassals that he would receive nothing if he sent out a general muster.
The exasperated Gauzbert pronounced his solution to his fractious Councillors: ‘I have made my decision Lords-we will call upon the financial aid of our Jewish friends...’
At that general hubbub amongst the assembled but in no way daunted the Duke pressed on, ‘what would you have me do my lords? Our treasury has been depleted to less than four hundred pounds of gold. We need more men and for that we need gold-and who has that gold? The Jews!’
‘Then seize it from the heretics my lord-why ask them for a loan?’ Growled an emboldened Bishop Sigismond of Charroux-it was not often the Chancellor openly disagreed with his Duke but, in this, he knew that he had the full support of the other two bishops on the council, our chaplain, Hildebert and Adalbert, the master of our spy network.
Gauzbert was shaking his head-there were some things and certain circumstances where he was as steadfast as a rock and this was just one of them. ‘You say that these people eat Christian babies for their supper and indulge in all sorts of hideous practices. I have seen no evidence in all my years of this.’ He paused to cast his piercing gaze over all of his most trusted advisors, temporal and spiritual. ‘What is more you say that the interest that they charge for their loans is extortionate…’
‘And isn’t it?’ Interjected the Chancellor boldly.
‘It is but is it any wonder given how many goodly Christian souls renege on their debts and then appeal over the heads of those to whom they owe money directly to the church who absolve them of their debts? If I was a Jew I would so charge!’ My master let his words sink in and then in more measured tones to his Steward, ‘My Lord Bishop you will arrange a meet with the principle moneylender-you will tell them that the word of the Dukes of Aquitaine is good and you will secure me a loan at excellent rates of interest as a result.’
Another surveil of the members present then: ‘I think we are finished here my lords-time is of the essence. Think you on the fact that even now Onfroy’s men are despoiling our town of St Jean D’Angely. I bid you good morrow.’
Three hundred and fifty pounds of gold were procured to swell our coffers and recruit a mainly Routier army, from Milan, of three thousand five hundred, augmented by some two hundred and fifty Ducal troops. Ximeno and the Mercenary leader, Condottiere Urbano, with the Duke’s brother Nicolas as the third commander, were given their head and utterly destroyed that army that had brought such misery to our close neighbours.
As summer hove into view we learned of the landing of a sizeable Moorish army in Brittanny-a somewhat inconvenient reminder that we were also at war with the heathen for the Baleares. At the time we paid that news scant attention, fixated as we all were with news from closer to home. Whilst Ximeno ranged further to the north and east of our demesnes, flanking and protecting us, the Duke of Toulouse had now moved to besiege Agen, having subdued and overcome Limousin. Ximeno had now been ordered by that peremptory Duke to join him in the south-to harry and oppress Gascogne lands-let us flush the royal Aquitainians out. The plan seemed to be working and the war going our way.
With my last breath I spit at thee!
We have all been schooled, however, that pride cometh before a fall and so it was with a sense of true helplessness that I witnessed my lord buffeted by the news, in the winter of 952 and early 953, that first the accursed Muslim had increased their power in Brittany to well over six thousand and that the ancient Breton capital at Vannes would fall within weeks. Then even worse: my lord’s stalwart brother and heir, Nicolas, had passed away, overcome by too many months in the field-carried away on the gossamer wings of death by a camp infection we were told…
‘He was ever loyal and steadfast to me,’ the crestfallen Duke had opined sadly to me as he stared into the distance. Tears had started to his eyes, quickly cuffed away: he had loved this older brother of his and more pressingly was now without an heir…
In February Vannes fell to the Moor and worse was to come as Bishop Adalbert brought dark tidings that, once again, Ximeno was plotting.
‘God rot him to hell!’ The Duke had exploded on hearing of this latest ill ‘why can he not be as steadfast in his loyalty as my dear departed brother?’
‘I think it is precisely because your brother is gone that he has returned to plotting your grace-Nicolas was surely a restraining presence whilst he was in the army.’ Adalbert was at his most soothing ‘I can use some leverage that I have to bring him back into the fold and I will leave some spies amongst his personal bodyguard for I am not sure that we can trust him.’
‘See to it.’ The Duke intoned flatly, his shoulders slumped-it seemed that his dreams of being the De Poitou that elevated his family name to greater things was turning to ash in his hands.
Again? Why I oughta!
We had gone hawking-some of the Duke’s adherents and myself, his bodyguard some way behind-it was a pastime that he preferred to the hunt, which was somewhat too bestial for my lord’s sensibilities. At least the riding kept us cool and fanned us in the heat of high a Poitevin high summer. It was with trepidation, then, that we were intercepted by hard galloping riders from the castle.
Bowing in the saddle we recognised the lead as one of the Ducal pages, ‘My lord you are respectfully requested to return forthwith to the castle-messengers have arrived from our Lord Marshal.’
‘Oh aye!’ The Duke cried eyes flashing with mischief, ‘the last messengers we received brought great tidings of battles won!’
That was in June when word reached us of another victory-this time in the mountain passes of Bearn at Morlaàs far to the south in Basque lands where Ximeno had travelled to flush out the remaining royal armies. He had met the largest such in those passes and destroyed them in detail. It was another fine victory for our cause and for our puissant Marshal, plotting or no plotting.
Still standing?
But there was something in the mien of the heralds that presaged no good and sure enough, on our return, we were accosted by the Castellan, Roger de Saintes, his craggy features downcast.
‘Tell me all’ Gauzbert demanded.
‘My Lord’ Roger began beckoning forward some dust begrimed figures ‘these men bring dread tidings from Bazas. Come forward sirs-tell the Duke what you told me.’
The men were soldiers, they were clearly not emissaries, judging by their garb. The leader started forward cautiously and told us his sorry tale-he spoke the Langue D’Oc in a strong Bordeaux accent, ‘my lord we were part of the Lord Marshal’s levy and in good spirits after our victory in the mountains earlier in the summer. Yet some few weeks ago, my lord, we were ambushed by a much larger power-I think it was around the feast of Saint Bernard. Yes that was the day.’ He looked to his companions who confirmed this rather trivial detail suggesting that it was on the 20th August.
‘What happened lad-this was some weeks ago now?’ This from the Duke, encouraging the man, who had clearly been shaken by what had transpired.
‘My lord-the enemy must have been three or four times our numbers-we were destroyed almost to a man…’
We all recoiled and I remember clearly the Duke himself blanching. ‘To a man you say? This cannot be-why are we only hearing of this now-weeks after the event?’ Suddenly all was swift motion, my master summonsing his personal aides and ordering the swift recall of our spymaster and chancellor. It was the lack of news that had so discomfited him-clearly a huge failure of intelligence had transpired.
Such news that arrived was no less troubling. Both our laggardly spy network and the Chancellor confirmed that from out of nowhere Onfroy had mustered an army of well over eight thousand-had cornered Ximeno in his own demesne of Bordeaux and destroyed most of his army not more than 40 forty miles from his own seat of power-the humiliation! The Marshal did manage to save roughly two thirds of his troops, however, and this ragtag band started to limp back into Saintonge the very next week.
COUNT XIMENO GIVE ME BACK MY ARMY!!!
There was no time for recrimination however for even as we digested the unpalatable truth that we were effectively finished as a fighting force emissaries arrived from our own Liege Lord, Gauzbert of Toulouse. A look at my master’s dejected face told me all. He wordlessly held the letter out to me-me, not his Chancellor or Spymaster who were, at the time, present. It said much for the state of his mind…I read the epistle aloud for the benefit of my betters there assembled:
My dearest Gauzbert
Ally and most steadfast friend
Our war is over.
I have learned that King Onfroy has called upon the services of his relatives in Burgundy thus swelling his power mightily. Word has reached me of the disaster at Bazas. We can no longer stand against him-not when he can now command almost ten thousand to his banners.
Our war is over my friend-we must yield to the reality of time and circumstance. My own vassals grow restless as I hear yours have-we must look to our own.
I have sent emissaries offering a white peace to our new liege. We must bend the knee
Yours ever in amity
Gauzbertus Dux
27th September the year of our lord 953
I looked around me-all eyes were downcast-faces as grim as the gathering night sky: it was finished-our thirteen year war was finally at an end…
<sob, weep>
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With massive apologies for it taking so long guys-a new year resolution is to try and post at least one or 2 a month
And thus the War of the Two Gauzberts comes to its ignominious conclusion. A shame that things ended up turning up pear-shaped, but I suppose things could be worse--at least Gauzbert still has his head attached, for one. Let's hope King Onfroy isn't feeling particularly vengeful...
Also, glad to see you back at the reins, Asantahene
Also, glad to see you back at the reins, Asantahene