CHAPTER TWO: BRIDE AND PREJUDICE
4 April 769
Ovetum, Asturia
King Aurelio sighed as another roll of parchment was laid out before him.
“Now these are the pedigrees of all of the Frankish lords with descent from Merovingian bloodlines,” said Avraham, the elderly Jew who served as Aurelio’s chancellor, “but we cannot base any potential match on mere descent alone.”
Avraham had no idea why in the world his master had suddenly decided to seek a bride at the age of fifty-four, but he was bound and determined to ensure the royal venture succeeded. His reputation was on the line, after all.
“I still fail to see why we should have anything to do with those middling Frankish whelps,” said Aurelio, “No Merovingian has amounted to anything since well before Martel drove the Moors out of Gaul!”
“Ah, but sire! The true value of a good match lies not in whence the family sprang, but rather in whither they are headed! Anticipating the victors in the game of lands and crowns is no small thing. Fortunately, you have my formidable expertise to assist you.”
“I can hardly believe my good fortune,” groaned Aurelio, as Avraham laid another parchment before him. “Why don’t we reach out to old Desiderius again, maybe offer to sweeten the deal?”
King Desiderius of Lombardy had at least four daughters of marriageable age. A few of them were even supposed to be halfway decent to look upon, despite the fact that they all had hideous names ending in “-perga” or somesuch.
“Need I remind your lordship of the slight regard with which the Lombard king received your last entreaty?” Avraham raised a craggy eyebrow. “Shall I quote from his Highness’ response? ‘Not on your life, you scabby, old--’”
“That’s quite enough,” said Aurelio, “If we just offered him a bit more silver… Which daughter was it whose hand we asked for again? Lustperga?”
“The Lady Liutperga,” Avraham corrected, “Whom I have since learned has already been betrothed to Tassilo of Bavaria. We must make sure to cross her off the list…” He rifled through a stack of papers until he found the correct document and began furiously scribbling with his quill pen.
“Tassilo of Bavaria,” spat Aurelio scornfully, “What can that oaf offer the Lombards that we cannot? Why, he’s little more than a fur-clad barbarian, fresh out of the forests!”
“He is cousin and friend to the Frankish kings,” sniffed Avraham, “Raised as a ward of Pepin the Short, no less! And must I remind your Grace how other Christian courts tend to react to a royal pedigree stemming from none other than Alaric, the infamous plunderer of the Eternal City? It does not exactly inspire confidence…”
“You leave my ancestry out of this,” growled Aurelio.
“Of course…” droned Avraham, adopting a longsuffering expression, “We must simply strive to do the best we can with what we’ve been given.”
Aurelio groaned and raised a tired hand to his forehead. Avraham of Toledo was said to be the most learned diplomat in all of Hispania, but the man was simply incorrigible. The king reached for his wine goblet. Curses, empty again.
“Hello brother! Master chancellor! Having fun, are we?” A rugged man in a stylish black tunic plopped himself down next to Aurelio at the table. It was his younger brother, Veremundo, the Comes of Cantabria. He was a man well-known for his dapper fashion sense, but not so much for his personal decorum. The younger man casually crossed his feet on the table, taking a large bite of an apple he pulled from the sleeve of his tunic.
“Ooh, what’s this?” Veremundo smiled as he plucked one particular parchment from the stack. “The Lives and Lineage of the Great Houses of East Anglia! Sounds like scintillating reading. Hmm… the Wulfings? I do hope that’s not meant to describe their grooming habits...”
“Put that down,” said Aurelio, “We ruled them out ages ago.”
Veremundo ignored him. “Ooh, Mildthryth of Dommoc! She sounds nice. Why, I bet she has at least half her own teeth!”
“Give it a rest,” said Aurelio, “The selection of your future queen is no laughing matter.”
“Ah, well,” said Veremundo, carelessly dropping the parchment back to the table, “‘Tis a pity to dismiss East Anglia so soon. I bet there are even a few days a year when it doesn’t rain there!”
“Christ’s wounds,” Aurelio groaned.
Chancellor Avraham pretended not to hear that remark. He had long since learned that Visigothic nobles were not generally renowned for their sensitivity. “Perhaps my lord Veremundo would like to offer a suggestion of his own?” he sniffed.
“Have you perhaps thought about wedding and bedding the old king’s widow?” Veremundo said nonchalantly.
The formidable Munia of Viscaya had been queen to Froila the Cruel, however she had yet to appear at court since her husband’s grisly murder.
“What?!” growled Aurelio, “I’ve no desire to wake up to a severed manhood, thank you very much!”
“Hear me out,” said Veremundo, “Munia would bring the friendship and loyalty of the Basques with her, which are by no means guaranteed right now. And there’s no debating she’s beautiful, and still of childbearing age.”
“Bah,” said Aurelio, “Froila had terrible taste in women. I don’t know what the man saw in her.”
“Heh, well, I can think of a couple of things,” smirked Veremundo, playfully cupping his hands in front of his chest.
“Er… perhaps we should move on to these eligible Burgundian maidens?” Avraham quickly interjected, pulling another parchment from the stack.
“Ah, you’re no fun!” clucked Veremundo.
At that moment, one of Aurelio’s servants quietly entered the room and cleared his throat.
“My lords,” he said politely, “The Lords Silo and Mauregato have arrived with their retainers.”
Rising to his feet, Aurelio shoved the small mountain of parchments away from him.
“Very well,” he said, clapping his hands, “Lay on the feast!”
***
Three Hours Later
Ovetum, Asturia
Aurelio skewered a slice of meat with his belt knife and raised it to his lips. He had intended for this banquet to promote unity and loyalty among his vassals. It was not proceeding as he had planned.
“I need more men!” Mauregato insisted, “Unless you would prefer my lands remain a warren of thieves and brigands!” The southernmost province of Asturica which he governed had remained largely unpopulated ever since King Froila’s father had reclaimed it from the Moors.
“There are no more men to be had,” said Aurelio, “Our garrisons are thinly stretched as it is. If you are truly struggling, the Crown will grant you a modest sum of silver to hire some mercenaries to mop up the brigands.”
“What use are mercenaries who fight for you one day and join with your enemy the next?” interjected Silo, from the other side of King Aurelio, “Better he had loyal Asturians by his side. Your kingdom will not build itself!”
“And what would you suggest, Lord Silo?” said the King.
“Make me Dux Bellorum. Then I’d have power and prestige enough to levy a warband and take care of this problem for you!”
“If you make him a Dux, you must make me a Dux also!” added Mauregato, “It is my right! I am the son of a king!”
Aurelio clenched his jaw and said nothing. Silo and Mauregato were two of the most influential lords of the realm, hence their places of honor on either side of him at the feast. They also seemed bound and determined to be thorns in his royal backside, despite the honors he'd lavished on them.
Comes Mauregato of Asturica was the younger brother of King Froila. Or rather, he was the late king’s half-brother, for he also happened to be a bastard, born to a Moorish slave girl. Ostensibly, he had served Froila as Royal Chamberlain. In truth, he had been his brother’s calculating spymaster.
Comes Silo of Gallaecia, on the other hand, was a gruff, dour Suebian, and prematurely bald. He also happened to be married to Froila’s and Mauregato’s sister, the stately Princess Adosinda. He had served as Marshal of Froila’s troops for nigh on a decade, and Aurelio had retained him in this position to avoid insulting such an influential man.
Neither one of them had been particularly pleased at Aurelio’s accession, as they both thought their close ties to King Froila made them preferred candidates for the throne.
“I notice Queen Munia is absent once again,” Mauregato said wryly, “Some say my dear sister-in-law is still afraid for her life! But some say…” The young spymaster smirked.
“Some say she defies your orders,” Silo finished the other man’s sentence, “To make you look a fool.” Unlike Mauregato, Silo’s face was a rictus of disdain. “A strong king would take decisive action,” he added.
“You know, I could… handle her for you,” suggested Mauregato, “In fact, it would be my pleasure!”
“Hmph, why bother speaking of daggers when you can speak of swords?” Silo said grimly.
“Unless your sword’s only the size of a dagger!” came Veremundo’s voice from the other side of Silo.
Silo scowled at Veremundo, but the younger man ignored his ill-humor. He put an arm around the brawny noble and passed him a fresh goblet of wine. “Drink up, my friend! I swear all you fellows talk about is politics. Come now, I’m sure you can think of much more boring things to discuss!”
Aurelio had never been more grateful to be interrupted by his little brother. He stabbed another piece of meat with his knife... as hard as he could.
***
7 April 769
Zubialdea, Viscaya
Munia of Viscaya glanced casually at the scrap of parchment in her hands before tossing it aside.
“So it would seem the old fool has some stones after all,” she laughed, her legs stretched out before her as she reclined on her chaise, “He’s decided to take a bride at long last. And I had thought he would just drink himself to death down in that silly little villa of his.” She ran a finger around the rim of her goblet, but did not drink.
“Are you not worried about him, my queen?” Elazar was not particularly handsome, even for a dwarf, but he was a fanatically loyal agent.
“Why worry about dear old cousin Aurelio? And I do mean old.”
Elazar cackled like an imp. “A weak king makes for a weak kingdom!” he said, “But the Basques have grown strong once more. Perhaps the day of their glory is nigh?”
“The day of my glory is always nigh,” said Munia, “But you know everything that transpires in these lands. Surely you know of the missive sent to my father by a certain Comes who shall remain unnamed?” Despite Munia's prestige as the former queen, her father still ruled as lord of the Basque country.
The dwarf grinned. “Then your ladyship takes his offer seriously?”
“Come now,” said Munia, “Just who exactly do you think is going to succeed to the throne when all is said and done?”
Elazar’s gleeful expression grew pensive. “Does it matter? That seat is currently occupied.”
“With the right leverage, you can move just about anyone,” said Munia.
“Sounds like you’ve got a cunning plan!”
Munia smiled. “Let’s just say, once a queen, always a queen…”
“And what of the king?” asked the dwarf.
“Fate may take one man as readily as another,” Munia drawled, her face a nonchalant mask.
“Fate?” said the dwarf, his eyes growing wide again, “I hear the fates may have taken a special interest in him! I hear he has visions and speaks to people who are not there. They say he cries out strange names in the night! Now what was it? Amala...something.”
“The poor, deranged fool,” said Munia, “He’s not even half the man Froila was, and Froila was scarcely half a man himself. I’m surprised it took my husband so long to get himself killed.”
“You do not think you will have to wait as long this time?”
Munia smirked. “Somehow, I doubt it.”
***
9 April 769
Sancto Martino, Asturia
“How was the great royal feast, my lord?” asked Wulfila. The tall, bearded man was the commander of Aurelio’s personal comitatus. He always managed to stay a step behind the king, struggling to keep a respectful pace with him despite his burly build and much larger stride.
The mud squelched under Aurelio’s feet as the king stormed through the door of his villa.
“They’re fools, all of them!” Aurelio growled, “They all want to be king!” The banquet had ended with Silo and Mauregato formally requesting greater authority for the lords of the realm, authority to vote on the king’s royal edicts.
“My lord?” Wulfila stood at attention beside his master.
“Don’t they understand what that means? Their foolish greed and ambition will see the kingdom in ruins. I will not allow them to dictate how I govern the realm!”
“The men stand ready, my lord.” Wulfila squeezed the hilt of his sword so tightly he thought it might bruise his fingers. He was intensely proud of his warriors’ prowess and loyalty, but did not much care for the thought of battling half the kingdom.
“Rotrude!” bellowed the King, “More wine!” Where was that girl? Moments later, the servant girl rushed over with a nice, full goblet on a silver platter.
Aurelio grabbed the cup and sipped the warm liquid. “Ahhh…” He turned to the servant girl.
“What? You are not Rotrude!” The servant girl did not answer, slowly backing away from the king.
What was that strange aftertaste in his mouth?
The goblet clattered to the floor with a resounding crash, spilling fresh wine everywhere and staining the flagstones crimson.