So I have bought a new laptop and had to totally reinstall Steam and its products -- somewhere along the line every update of the game or expansion pack has caused me grief and I can't tell you how frustrating its been having stories to write that just get started only to be killed off by a failed saved game not rebooting.
So here we are....I make a commitment NOW to say this AAR is here to stay and it will be getting played out for the first time to its fullest and until it reaches end game....the House of Rothwell will only end should the dynasty itself end and the game is over by its own rules.
Chapter One: The Founding of a Dynasty
King Theodan – The Burh of Tintagel, Cornwall, 11th of January 770AD
An ice wind blew in off the sea, the skies above a deep foreboding grey heavy with biting winter rains. Cadwarolli coughed, from deep in his chest, the old grim courtier pulling his fox fur collar tight about his neck. Down below on the beach, gloomy figures hauled their little boats out of the waters.
Smoke rose from the thatched rooves off the huts huddled within the wooden walls of Tintagel, as if seeking sanctuary from the lingering chill of winter. Theodan could sense his councillors tension without even turning to look at him, his eyes fixed on the fishermen below; “You can speak old friend, better to speak your mind now than when I have offended you!”
‘Sire’ he paused, another coughed stifled by his fist, ‘Do not think I am questioning you!’
That usually means you are old timer. He laughed inwardly, the same theme of conversation as had been given for the last month, no doubt on its way.
‘There is still time to reconsider’ Cadwarolli paused a moment, his resolve faltering, ‘this match will do you more harm than good I assure you’ again he stopped trying to gage his Kings mood. ‘The lady is no doubt of noble birth, but you can do better than a mere noble from the continent!’
Theodan’s head turned just ever so slightly, as the wind whipped at his face, ‘We have had this conversation before my friend and I have no wish to disappoint you again.’ Indeed it was the sixth time in as many days.
‘Think on it, that is all I am asking you to do’ the older man had not yet come to realise his time as the Kings council had passed with the death of Theodan’s father. ‘The Kings of Englaland have many fine daughters’ he thought a while longer, ‘Mercia? Wessex? East Anglia even? There are daughters a plenty and they bring not only prestige but security.’ It was a solid argument, Theodan did not dispute it but he had resolved to disagree.
They bring me chains, they bring me commitments to men with more power than I can challenge.
‘If I break the betrothal now, then it looks as if my word means nothing’ pride rose in him, he would not be known as a King who did not keep his word, ‘vows have been exchanged before a proxy and the documentation is ready to be signed.’
‘Documentation!’ the old man scoffed, ‘vows can be remade, the Bishop of Canterbury? Exeter? The Holy Father if need me can rescind them without much harm’ he sounded only mildly hysterical.
‘No!’ Theodan turned, his face cold from the wind and his expression colder from irritation, ‘I will not change my mind, Mari is a fine woman I am told, I will not go back on my word!’
Lady Drilego, Stewardess of Cornwall--- The Burh of Tintagel, 19th January 770AD
“You can not dream off calling that a fair price!” the pitch of her voice was sharp with shock, though in truth the Stewardess had expected it to be higher. She looked about the piles off wood, meant for the new stockade, tapping a thick oak pole, ‘It may as well be rotten for the quality of it.’
The poor merchant looked offended more than anything else, ‘It is not a cheap material my Lady, you asked for the best and I have brought it you’ he paused moving close, directing her to another pile of logs, ‘it costs a fortune to get this much wood across the country in one job lot.’ He pointed to the ox wagons loaded with timber, hoping to persuade her that he had done exactly as asked.
Drilego clucked her teeth in annoyance, turning from him, her boots squelching in the mud, ‘Take it to the store house and get your men to unload it, we can discuss reductions later’ she through over her shoulder as she strode away. The merchant left wincing at the thought of loosing to much off his profits.
Thieves, all of them. I told Theodan it would be cheaper to use birch or ash, oak is a luxury he can’t afford. Does he really think that gold is limitless? Her mind raced ahead of itself, Theodan had had her arrange a series of loans from the Jewish moneylenders in Winchester, but they were not amongst the wealthiest of men and given the Kings standing, they were not convinced that he could give them any security on their golds return. It had taken weeks for her to persuade them that they could make good on the loan.
The money was to be spent on extending the stockade around Tintagel, the sprawl of huts clambering around the outer wall had become something of a weak point that the King was keen to mend. If he would not be seen to be able to properly defend his own hold, how could Theodan rightly be expected to defend the rest of his realm. The other half of the loan was to be invested in Devon, where a new mustering ground was to be dug and housing for more troops raised.
Kicking out her foot, the Stewardess tried to shew away the swarm of chickens that were pecking in the mud around her feet, a huge red hen running underneath one of the market stalls to escape her boot.
Lady Mildrith – The Hunt-Masters House, The Royal Compound, Tintagel, February 770AD
“I would watch that one with the bad hand, slimly looking fellow if ever there was one” Oswalt sat by the fire, picking pieces of hot grease covered meat from the bone, he slipped a small slice to one of the hounds begging at his knee, its mouth swallowing the morsel in one greedy gulp.
Mildrith sat at her battered desk, penning down the name and sum paid to her newest spy for the information he had provided. ‘Slime covered men are cheaper than noblemen my love!’ it was a sad truth, but one she made sure never to forget. She pulled her sleeves down further over her hands, the cold chill of winter, still holding fast.
Her husband rose slightly from his seat, tossing another branch into the fire pit before huddling back into his seat. The dog rose for a second, expectantly waiting to be fed more. “How many names are scribbled down on that parchment I wonder? You have more spies than Theodan has guards!’
She laughed aloud, letting her business face slip away in the sanctuary of her home, ‘That is because our Lord has more friends than enemies and friends are the danger’ she rolled the piece of parchment up tightly, binding it with a leather chord, ‘Do you not have something better to be doing than sitting here feeding that beast’ she eyed the hound at her husbands feet, she was no fan of dogs and they were no fan of hers either.
‘Alas no my love’ he rose from his chair, his voice light as he came to put his arms upon her shoulders, lust on his lips, ‘the snows deep, bad weather for riding out’ is words thick with suggestion, ‘we could find a sport if you like, one not befitting of a spy but perhaps worthy of the Hunts-mans wife?’
She shrugged his hand off, ‘Be off with you, go drink with your Lord, or take your flea bag for a walk, I have work to do.’
He looked disappointed, almost wounded as he moved away from her, ‘Come on lad’ he clicked his tongue and the hound instantly stood, ‘let’s leave her ladyship to her work’ and with that he strode out the chamber into the next room, off on his rounds, ‘I will check the horses’ he yelled.
Bishop Treveur of Exeter – The Bishops House, Exeter, 28th February 770AD
The Bishop poured for himself another earthen cup of wine, though Exeter was the dominant See of Cornwall it was not overly wealthy, and the Bishop winced slightly at the tart taste. He raised his cup to the young man opposite, his former servant, Bastian, “Will you have another?’
An up raised palm said all it needed, ‘I am fine, thank you my Lord, it is no short ride to Tintagel and I have my things to pack!’
‘Quite yes, quite right’ the Bishop necked his cup and instantly was pouring another, ‘not seemly to meet a King drunk aye?’ he supped again, ‘Quite right!’ Placing the cup down for a moment, the Bishop sifted through the sheets of parchment on his desk, pulling out the document sent by the King confirming the young, Bastian as his Chaplain. He handed it over the table, ‘it was not easy you know, this is a great honour for one so young’ he eyed his former pupil, ‘do not let me down my son! I will have need to call on you in the future!’
‘I am ever your servant Lord’ he offered his hands in submission before taking the document of summons, ‘my eyes and ears are yours if you have need of them.’ To be made Chaplain was a great honour and the young man understood fully after considerable explanation, that this favour was done as much for the Bishops benefit as his own.
Again Treveur necked his wine, whipping the red stain from his lips with the back of his sleeve, ‘Very good, you will do marvellous work for our Lord and Saviour I am sure off it.’
King Theodan – The Chapel of Tintagel, Cornwall, 19th of March 770AD
‘By the power vested in me by Almighty God and in the name of the Holy Mother Church, I know pronounce you man and wife!’ Bastian declared to the two individuals stood before him, his voice carrying down the long wooden chapel to reach even the ears at the very back.
Theodan and his new wife, the Breton noble lady, Mari stood hand in hand smiling at one another. The King lowered his voice to near a whisper, standing close to his new bride, “My hearth and my hold are yours Lady-wife, I have not a great lot to offer you but what I have is yours to command” he sounded gentle as he spoke, she was in a new land, having travelled across the Channel to make the match and he wished her to know she had a friend in him. ‘I have plans, many plans and I hope in time you will share my dream with me!’
She bowed slightly, her bosom falling beneath his gaze and her chest heaving, Theodan’s hands trembled slightly with the thought of the wedding night to come, ‘I thank you Lord-husband with all my heart, I hope we shall be happy wed!’ It was not quiet the answer he had hoped, but it was enough for now.
He gestured down the aisle, through the line of watching courtiers, ‘Shall we go then?’ he nodded for her to taking his outstretched hand, ‘We have a table waiting’ his voice dropped lower still, ‘these dogs expect us to feed them!’ both laughed, the new Queens slightly guarded but honest enough and she nodded consent, taking his arm gently.
Applause rung out and cheers rose as the two stepped off the little wooden platform down from the altar. Pigeons watching in the rafters fluttered at the sudden burst of noise, fleeing for the opening doors.
Mayor Blethuit of Bodmin – The Kings Feast Hall, Tintagel, 19th of March 770AD
A servant stepped forward with a basin and clean rag in hand for the Marshal to clean his greased covered fingers, but he waved the poor boy away, belching loudly. His elbow stuck sharply into the side of the man beside him, the Physician, Primael who was shakily pouring himself another cup of wine from the near empty jug, “Don’t drink it all you bastard, share and share alike” the Marshal trying to wrestle the jug from the doctors hands.
“Get your own” the Physician yanking back the vessel, ‘there is plenty for everyone’ his hands shooing away the grasping, greasy paw of the soldier. The two men were not fond off one another and eyes watched them from across the room, the disapproving glare of Oswalt mab Cadwarolli, the Master of the Hunt and a rare noble born man fixing upon them.
“A TOAST TO THE KING AND QUEEN!” Blethuit rose with a roar, ‘A TOAST TO THE MAKER OF THE FEAST!’ Wine spilled down his arm and a plate of pastries tipped off the edge of the table for the dogs and slaves to fight over.
Think me any less than you, you swine! I will get a grip of that noble little neck and choke the life out of you!
His eyes locking with the proud, broad frame of Oswalt across the fire, the Master of Hunts wife, Mildrith turned her face from him in disgust, but raised her cup in a half-hearted acknowledgment of the toast. “DRINK, DRINK, TO THE KING, TO THE QUEEN AND TO CORNWALL!” his wine sloshed about further, spilling over the shoulder of the Lady Stewardess sat beside him on the opposite side.
Theodan and his new wife nodded cautiously, accepting with grace the Marshals toast.
So here we are....I make a commitment NOW to say this AAR is here to stay and it will be getting played out for the first time to its fullest and until it reaches end game....the House of Rothwell will only end should the dynasty itself end and the game is over by its own rules.
Chapter One: The Founding of a Dynasty
King Theodan – The Burh of Tintagel, Cornwall, 11th of January 770AD
An ice wind blew in off the sea, the skies above a deep foreboding grey heavy with biting winter rains. Cadwarolli coughed, from deep in his chest, the old grim courtier pulling his fox fur collar tight about his neck. Down below on the beach, gloomy figures hauled their little boats out of the waters.
Smoke rose from the thatched rooves off the huts huddled within the wooden walls of Tintagel, as if seeking sanctuary from the lingering chill of winter. Theodan could sense his councillors tension without even turning to look at him, his eyes fixed on the fishermen below; “You can speak old friend, better to speak your mind now than when I have offended you!”
‘Sire’ he paused, another coughed stifled by his fist, ‘Do not think I am questioning you!’
That usually means you are old timer. He laughed inwardly, the same theme of conversation as had been given for the last month, no doubt on its way.
‘There is still time to reconsider’ Cadwarolli paused a moment, his resolve faltering, ‘this match will do you more harm than good I assure you’ again he stopped trying to gage his Kings mood. ‘The lady is no doubt of noble birth, but you can do better than a mere noble from the continent!’
Theodan’s head turned just ever so slightly, as the wind whipped at his face, ‘We have had this conversation before my friend and I have no wish to disappoint you again.’ Indeed it was the sixth time in as many days.
‘Think on it, that is all I am asking you to do’ the older man had not yet come to realise his time as the Kings council had passed with the death of Theodan’s father. ‘The Kings of Englaland have many fine daughters’ he thought a while longer, ‘Mercia? Wessex? East Anglia even? There are daughters a plenty and they bring not only prestige but security.’ It was a solid argument, Theodan did not dispute it but he had resolved to disagree.
They bring me chains, they bring me commitments to men with more power than I can challenge.
‘If I break the betrothal now, then it looks as if my word means nothing’ pride rose in him, he would not be known as a King who did not keep his word, ‘vows have been exchanged before a proxy and the documentation is ready to be signed.’
‘Documentation!’ the old man scoffed, ‘vows can be remade, the Bishop of Canterbury? Exeter? The Holy Father if need me can rescind them without much harm’ he sounded only mildly hysterical.
‘No!’ Theodan turned, his face cold from the wind and his expression colder from irritation, ‘I will not change my mind, Mari is a fine woman I am told, I will not go back on my word!’
Lady Drilego, Stewardess of Cornwall--- The Burh of Tintagel, 19th January 770AD
“You can not dream off calling that a fair price!” the pitch of her voice was sharp with shock, though in truth the Stewardess had expected it to be higher. She looked about the piles off wood, meant for the new stockade, tapping a thick oak pole, ‘It may as well be rotten for the quality of it.’
The poor merchant looked offended more than anything else, ‘It is not a cheap material my Lady, you asked for the best and I have brought it you’ he paused moving close, directing her to another pile of logs, ‘it costs a fortune to get this much wood across the country in one job lot.’ He pointed to the ox wagons loaded with timber, hoping to persuade her that he had done exactly as asked.
Drilego clucked her teeth in annoyance, turning from him, her boots squelching in the mud, ‘Take it to the store house and get your men to unload it, we can discuss reductions later’ she through over her shoulder as she strode away. The merchant left wincing at the thought of loosing to much off his profits.
Thieves, all of them. I told Theodan it would be cheaper to use birch or ash, oak is a luxury he can’t afford. Does he really think that gold is limitless? Her mind raced ahead of itself, Theodan had had her arrange a series of loans from the Jewish moneylenders in Winchester, but they were not amongst the wealthiest of men and given the Kings standing, they were not convinced that he could give them any security on their golds return. It had taken weeks for her to persuade them that they could make good on the loan.
The money was to be spent on extending the stockade around Tintagel, the sprawl of huts clambering around the outer wall had become something of a weak point that the King was keen to mend. If he would not be seen to be able to properly defend his own hold, how could Theodan rightly be expected to defend the rest of his realm. The other half of the loan was to be invested in Devon, where a new mustering ground was to be dug and housing for more troops raised.
Kicking out her foot, the Stewardess tried to shew away the swarm of chickens that were pecking in the mud around her feet, a huge red hen running underneath one of the market stalls to escape her boot.
Lady Mildrith – The Hunt-Masters House, The Royal Compound, Tintagel, February 770AD
“I would watch that one with the bad hand, slimly looking fellow if ever there was one” Oswalt sat by the fire, picking pieces of hot grease covered meat from the bone, he slipped a small slice to one of the hounds begging at his knee, its mouth swallowing the morsel in one greedy gulp.
Mildrith sat at her battered desk, penning down the name and sum paid to her newest spy for the information he had provided. ‘Slime covered men are cheaper than noblemen my love!’ it was a sad truth, but one she made sure never to forget. She pulled her sleeves down further over her hands, the cold chill of winter, still holding fast.
Her husband rose slightly from his seat, tossing another branch into the fire pit before huddling back into his seat. The dog rose for a second, expectantly waiting to be fed more. “How many names are scribbled down on that parchment I wonder? You have more spies than Theodan has guards!’
She laughed aloud, letting her business face slip away in the sanctuary of her home, ‘That is because our Lord has more friends than enemies and friends are the danger’ she rolled the piece of parchment up tightly, binding it with a leather chord, ‘Do you not have something better to be doing than sitting here feeding that beast’ she eyed the hound at her husbands feet, she was no fan of dogs and they were no fan of hers either.
‘Alas no my love’ he rose from his chair, his voice light as he came to put his arms upon her shoulders, lust on his lips, ‘the snows deep, bad weather for riding out’ is words thick with suggestion, ‘we could find a sport if you like, one not befitting of a spy but perhaps worthy of the Hunts-mans wife?’
She shrugged his hand off, ‘Be off with you, go drink with your Lord, or take your flea bag for a walk, I have work to do.’
He looked disappointed, almost wounded as he moved away from her, ‘Come on lad’ he clicked his tongue and the hound instantly stood, ‘let’s leave her ladyship to her work’ and with that he strode out the chamber into the next room, off on his rounds, ‘I will check the horses’ he yelled.
Bishop Treveur of Exeter – The Bishops House, Exeter, 28th February 770AD
The Bishop poured for himself another earthen cup of wine, though Exeter was the dominant See of Cornwall it was not overly wealthy, and the Bishop winced slightly at the tart taste. He raised his cup to the young man opposite, his former servant, Bastian, “Will you have another?’
An up raised palm said all it needed, ‘I am fine, thank you my Lord, it is no short ride to Tintagel and I have my things to pack!’
‘Quite yes, quite right’ the Bishop necked his cup and instantly was pouring another, ‘not seemly to meet a King drunk aye?’ he supped again, ‘Quite right!’ Placing the cup down for a moment, the Bishop sifted through the sheets of parchment on his desk, pulling out the document sent by the King confirming the young, Bastian as his Chaplain. He handed it over the table, ‘it was not easy you know, this is a great honour for one so young’ he eyed his former pupil, ‘do not let me down my son! I will have need to call on you in the future!’
‘I am ever your servant Lord’ he offered his hands in submission before taking the document of summons, ‘my eyes and ears are yours if you have need of them.’ To be made Chaplain was a great honour and the young man understood fully after considerable explanation, that this favour was done as much for the Bishops benefit as his own.
Again Treveur necked his wine, whipping the red stain from his lips with the back of his sleeve, ‘Very good, you will do marvellous work for our Lord and Saviour I am sure off it.’
King Theodan – The Chapel of Tintagel, Cornwall, 19th of March 770AD
‘By the power vested in me by Almighty God and in the name of the Holy Mother Church, I know pronounce you man and wife!’ Bastian declared to the two individuals stood before him, his voice carrying down the long wooden chapel to reach even the ears at the very back.
Theodan and his new wife, the Breton noble lady, Mari stood hand in hand smiling at one another. The King lowered his voice to near a whisper, standing close to his new bride, “My hearth and my hold are yours Lady-wife, I have not a great lot to offer you but what I have is yours to command” he sounded gentle as he spoke, she was in a new land, having travelled across the Channel to make the match and he wished her to know she had a friend in him. ‘I have plans, many plans and I hope in time you will share my dream with me!’
She bowed slightly, her bosom falling beneath his gaze and her chest heaving, Theodan’s hands trembled slightly with the thought of the wedding night to come, ‘I thank you Lord-husband with all my heart, I hope we shall be happy wed!’ It was not quiet the answer he had hoped, but it was enough for now.
He gestured down the aisle, through the line of watching courtiers, ‘Shall we go then?’ he nodded for her to taking his outstretched hand, ‘We have a table waiting’ his voice dropped lower still, ‘these dogs expect us to feed them!’ both laughed, the new Queens slightly guarded but honest enough and she nodded consent, taking his arm gently.
Applause rung out and cheers rose as the two stepped off the little wooden platform down from the altar. Pigeons watching in the rafters fluttered at the sudden burst of noise, fleeing for the opening doors.
Mayor Blethuit of Bodmin – The Kings Feast Hall, Tintagel, 19th of March 770AD
A servant stepped forward with a basin and clean rag in hand for the Marshal to clean his greased covered fingers, but he waved the poor boy away, belching loudly. His elbow stuck sharply into the side of the man beside him, the Physician, Primael who was shakily pouring himself another cup of wine from the near empty jug, “Don’t drink it all you bastard, share and share alike” the Marshal trying to wrestle the jug from the doctors hands.
“Get your own” the Physician yanking back the vessel, ‘there is plenty for everyone’ his hands shooing away the grasping, greasy paw of the soldier. The two men were not fond off one another and eyes watched them from across the room, the disapproving glare of Oswalt mab Cadwarolli, the Master of the Hunt and a rare noble born man fixing upon them.
“A TOAST TO THE KING AND QUEEN!” Blethuit rose with a roar, ‘A TOAST TO THE MAKER OF THE FEAST!’ Wine spilled down his arm and a plate of pastries tipped off the edge of the table for the dogs and slaves to fight over.
Think me any less than you, you swine! I will get a grip of that noble little neck and choke the life out of you!
His eyes locking with the proud, broad frame of Oswalt across the fire, the Master of Hunts wife, Mildrith turned her face from him in disgust, but raised her cup in a half-hearted acknowledgment of the toast. “DRINK, DRINK, TO THE KING, TO THE QUEEN AND TO CORNWALL!” his wine sloshed about further, spilling over the shoulder of the Lady Stewardess sat beside him on the opposite side.
Theodan and his new wife nodded cautiously, accepting with grace the Marshals toast.
