Thus the war ends badly for you. But hey you can always come back with a vengeance later....
A Dream of Aquitaine (An Old Gods AAR)
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Yay ! The Dream of Aquitaine liveth !
Happy New Year, Asantahene. Exciting update ! I note that the heretics grow powerful. Perhaps your new ally Bohemia-Pomerania will lend a hand in a future Holy War....
Happy New Year, Asantahene. Exciting update ! I note that the heretics grow powerful. Perhaps your new ally Bohemia-Pomerania will lend a hand in a future Holy War....
Hey Specialist it's good to be back in the saddle-sorry for the long delay! And yes it was not one of my finer moments in CKII I have to say-I should have realised that firstly I was but a bit part player in someone else's ambitions and secondly we would only have an elective monarch to show for it in any case-I won't be making that mistake again...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
Well here's hoping...
Hey Fabio happy new year to you too my friend and thanks for the continuing support-can always rely on you and the 2 above to feedback-it is so welcome! Yes re Navarre definitely interesting times there and, as you say maybe there are some possibilities in future expansionist conflictsYay ! The Dream of Aquitaine liveth !
Happy New Year, Asantahene. Exciting update ! I note that the heretics grow powerful. Perhaps your new ally Bohemia-Pomerania will lend a hand in a future Holy War....
The good news, guys, is that I am already working on the next update so it won't be a 3 month wait for it haha
Chapter 19
The Life and Times of Duke Gauzbert II of Aquitaine Part 4, 953-957 AD
A time for introspection
The Duke retired for a while to his books and to his personal scheming, face drawn and wan. He looked tired above all-bearing the cares of a man much older than someone who had, yet, passed only thirty-four summers. What he inwardly thought of this humiliation none could divine but it escaped no one’s attention that the most puissant lord in all of Francia had been humbled by an overweening Duke and an upstart King.
But what of Onfroy-First of the name? No sanctions were threatened and nor did any summons arrive from his court in Dijon. It seemed that our new royal master was all too cognizant of Gauzbert of Aquitaine’s latent power and rapidly recovering treasury, which by the end of year had swelled to over five hundred pounds of gold-in that, at least, my lord was content.
You've schemed your way to a throne you git!
Contentment, however, was not an epithet that could be ascribed to his erstwhile friend and master Gauzbert of Toulouse, who we learned, that November of 953, was toppled from his Lordship by his disgruntled vassals. The new master of Toulouse’s rich dominions was a sixty three year old greybeard, now Duke André. My lord received the news wordlessly and silently from his Chancellor-no sign, outwardly, of whatever turmoil may have been roiling inside. His response was to free his family’s enemy, Duke Sigismond of Gascogne, captured by Ximeno, earlier in the year, and imprisoned in Saintes.
Oh dear...
‘Mayhap I put the evil hex on him,’ the duke declared grimly, not two months later, on hearing that Gascogne had died precipitously of the sweating sickness, leaving a small babe in arms as the Overlord of that Basque region. Where Gauzbert was introspective, however, others saw opportunity for undoubtedly our ancient rivals were now extremely weak.
‘At least I extracted a ransom for his freedom ‘ere he passed on’ my lord had said wistfully and proved just how fixated he had become on monetary matters by debasing the Ducal Mint.
Money! Glorious money!
My son was almost four now and hale and hearty though his mother was yet a carping presence whenever I stole back into our abode-those few occasions the Duke had no need of me.
‘Be silent woman!’ I snapped as she beset me with yet more entreaties-I was not at home often enough, did not see my son as he grew-it was never ending. That Yuletide I had the excuse I needed to escape her unwanted attentions for a more permanent reason namely that of the arrival at the Ducal manor of none other than Princess Agata of Panonnia-my lord’s new bride to be. She had passed but sixteen summers, was small and somewhat gluttonous-many of us wondering just how long she would retain her svelte features if she continued to trough on every sweetmeat and cut of capon that passed within her purview. She also had a temper on her that was every bit the match of the ancient Dukes of Aquitaine and was all the more terrifying for its ability to erupt from such a small frame.
What a beauty-leave that pie alone!
There was a small ceremony on the 11th of January 955-‘no fuss’ the Duke had declared possibly as much an attempt to not insult the memory of his first bride who was, after all, the mother of his three young daughters, who he doted on.
'Wisdom and mercy'? I like the sounds of that
Whatever her temper there was no doubt a connection between the two and for the early part of that year they were nigh on inseparable, the Duke stealing up to her quarters on most nights. It would seem that there was no lack of ardour here.
Then in March the storm that many had long feared finally broke upon us as a breathless Mayor Godefroi brought dread news from Dijon.
Run away!!
‘My lord the Council must be convened at once! There has been a declaration of war by Charles of West Francia on our king!’
The Duke who had been taking some spring air with his Duchess in the gardens nodded his assent and ordered it done-the Council would meet two days hence to debate this latest turn of events. That would give our spymaster and Marshal time to return from the south and the Court Chaplain, Hildebert from Bretagne where he was tasked to spread French culture amongst the godless Bretons.
We gathered on the Feast of the Annunciation, the 25th March the year of our lord 955-faces expectant all around. Unusually the Duke had ordered the Great Council to meet, essentially the whole Ducal Court. The meeting, therefore, was in the Castle’s Great Hall, and was full to the rafters of the great and the good of the three Duchies.
After the Castellan signalled for silence my lord entered the room-he was dressed regally in a scarlet velvet tunic with silken stockings and the finest leather boots. His Ducal Coronet, not something he usually wore, shimmered gold upon his brow. His beard was neatly trimmed-he looked every inch the Lord of the West March.
Surveilling the room he invited the Chancellor, Godefroi of Carhaix, to apprise all assembled of the latest news.
‘My lords and ladies, as many of you will know Charles of West Francia has declared war on our own liege lord, Onfroy for Aquitaine, the Duchy of Burgundy, the County of Dijon and Charolais…’
There was a rumbling of discontent at this and then a shout: ‘he’s no lord of ours!’ This in the Langue D’Oc from the back of the chamber. This was accompanied by scattered cries of ‘aye!’
The Chancellor pressed on, ‘ranged against us are the Kings of Middle Francia, East Francia, puissant Italia and some Irish Chieftain whose name is too difficult to pronounce…’
This produced the first moment of levity to what were, otherwise, serious proceedings. The powers assembled to assist their Karling kin were, however, no jesting matter for they could bring many spears to the fray-far more than Onfroy for certes.
All eyes turned to the Duke
‘What mean you to do your grace?’ The Marshal growled, ‘shall we call the levies?’
Gauzbert now rose from his seat, ‘no my Lord Marshal we shall not…’
Ximeno looked confused-he was, after all a soldier, more suited to the hurly-burly of the field of battle than the intricacies of the Council.
Raising his voice so all could hear the Duke repeated himself ‘we will do precisely nothing my lord of Bordeaux, our levies will not be called and nor shall a single spear or sword in any of our three Duchies be raised to assist this upstart King who has so affronted my honour!’
All now clearly understood-this was the revenge best served as a cold dish for what could Onfroy do? He was hardly about to go to war with our master when the wolves of West Francia and its allies were at his door. What is more undoubtedly Charles IV would have spies present here who would report this to their King with all haste-it was a marker for the future-a future that would lie very much with the interests of Charles of west Francia, not Onfroy of Aquitaine.
Indeed, whilst the new war for the soul of West Francia raged far to our north and east in Burgundy and Dijon, Gauzbert of Aquitaine settled down to some empire building of his own, securing, through Godefroi, excellent betrothals, for his twin daughters, to the eleven year olds, Basileus Lourkas of the Byzantine Empire and King Vencel II of Bohemia. These were presented as opportune yuletide gifts for my lord and in February of 956 an even greater one beckoned in the form of his young wife missing her monthly courses-surely this time it would be a son?
Impassioned missives arrived almost weekly from the embattled King of Aquitaine but the only thing that was despatched from the Ducal Lands was the Chancellor on a mission to Mélun and an audience with King Charles IV-his secret letters professing the deepest love for his erstwhile Monarch and explaining how he had been ill led by bad counsel and his own naiveté. If he could only be accepted back into the King’s good graces he would be his most sure and ardent vassal forever more. Not even the arrival of a West Frankish army in Poitiers and the despoiling and harrying of that rich County bestirred my Lord one whit-all soldiery in our demesnes remained quiescent.
Leave my Poitiers alone you big bully!
A fawning and obsequious message it might have been but the Chancellor was greeted with respect by the King even if roughly handled by some of his closest adherents-there were many in Mélun who had long memories indeed and they were not about to let the Duke forget it, scornfully passing it around the court that Gauzbert should henceforth be known as the ‘careless’, so poorly had he managed his estate and the wars-all poppycock of course but wagging court tongues gain quick purchase and the nickname stuck.
As winter gave way to spring and news reached us of the fall of the House of Gascon, little Duke Evrard toppled by one of his own Counts, now Barral ‘the Usurper’ not even the birth of yet another baby girl and the occupation of Poitiers by the West Frankish invaders, could dampen my master’s spirits and with the onset of summer he finally seemed to shake off the deep slough of despond that had dogged his every step for so many years. One thing that must be said about him was that he was the most doting of fathers and little Eve, his fourth girl, was given no lack of love by both his parents.
Oh what a lovely war!
‘Let us call a great feast!’ He announced one fine evening deep into autumn. ‘Call my Lord Steward forth-I want no expense spared-all my vassals are invited.’
All those guests had better turn up...
‘And when do you conceive of this illustrious event occurring my lord?’ Bishop Sigismond had enquired worriedly but he need not have done for the date of the feast had been set to start on the Feast of Saint Valentin in February and to last a glorious, gut bursting, six weeks. Not even potential storm clouds such as immediate repairs being required for the part of the chateau that would house the guests, could dampen his spirits.
‘Just get it done my lord Bishop!’ The Duke had declared impatiently, ‘I care not what the cost!’
Spare no expense!
One of my lord’s vassals, Count Bérard of Nantes, declined-a rival De Poitou and someone who laid claim to the ancient lordships my master was the owner of.
I have a very long memory Bérard...
‘Nothing more than a cadet branch of our great dynasty!’ The Duke had exclaimed indignantly ‘but have him watched carefully nevertheless Adalbert’’ he had ordered his Spymaster as the preparations were at their height.
Those six weeks passed in a welter of great joy-the great and the good of the Ducal demesnes all present to pass their time in merriment, feasting and drinking with their lord and master. Despite having his ear bent on several nights by the ever gruff Lord Marshal, keen on trying out some new military divinations and there being some sort of contretemps with one of his Burghers, the whole event was a great success with all who attended returning to their own lands holding their Duke in much greater esteem.
All in all a great success wouldn't you say?
Less than three weeks later finally came the news that we all awaited. Royal couriers from Paris, proudly flying the Fleur-de-lys from their pennants and tabards. Present at that time in Saintes were Bishops Adalbert and Sigismond who flanked the Duke as he sat atop his Ducal throne. The lead emissary, a haughty looking fellow, approached, bowed perfunctorily and announced in stentorian tones that Aquitaine had been returned to its rightful demesne and rightful King.
As if there was ever going to be any other conclusion to this sorry affair..
‘I see good sirs…and what of myself-am I also so returned? To the bosom and embrace of King Charles?’
With a disdainful look the herald responded, ‘that remains to be seen my Lord of Aquitaine-your rebellion has effected much injury on my master.’
Gauzbert looked downcast at that-was there to be more enmity? More war? ‘You have seen the temper of my loyalty-not a spear or sword was raised to the king even whilst my County of Poitiers was being despoiled by your armies…’
‘You need not fear sir the King is minded to give you every opportunity to make amends for your past misdeeds-there will be no reckoning…yet.’
Relief all round but even before the import of that had sunk in the Legate added, ‘but as surety for your continued loyalty you will cede your County of Perigord to Onfroy, once called King. There will be no discussion of this-these are my King’s wishes-be thankful that he is a forgiving man! I give you good day your Grace.’
I am not about to take this lying down!
And with that they were gone leaving my lord chewing on the unpalatable and chastening lesson and admonishment of the surrender of one of his most ancient lordships to the very man in Christendom he probably most reason to hate: Onfroy the cruel. But as I observed him I could already see the wheels of his mind turning and working to see how he could turn this setback to his advantage.
West Francia was finally at peace.
Maybe going to war with Charles wasn't such a good idea after all...hmmm
The Life and Times of Duke Gauzbert II of Aquitaine Part 4, 953-957 AD
A time for introspection
The Duke retired for a while to his books and to his personal scheming, face drawn and wan. He looked tired above all-bearing the cares of a man much older than someone who had, yet, passed only thirty-four summers. What he inwardly thought of this humiliation none could divine but it escaped no one’s attention that the most puissant lord in all of Francia had been humbled by an overweening Duke and an upstart King.
But what of Onfroy-First of the name? No sanctions were threatened and nor did any summons arrive from his court in Dijon. It seemed that our new royal master was all too cognizant of Gauzbert of Aquitaine’s latent power and rapidly recovering treasury, which by the end of year had swelled to over five hundred pounds of gold-in that, at least, my lord was content.
You've schemed your way to a throne you git!
Contentment, however, was not an epithet that could be ascribed to his erstwhile friend and master Gauzbert of Toulouse, who we learned, that November of 953, was toppled from his Lordship by his disgruntled vassals. The new master of Toulouse’s rich dominions was a sixty three year old greybeard, now Duke André. My lord received the news wordlessly and silently from his Chancellor-no sign, outwardly, of whatever turmoil may have been roiling inside. His response was to free his family’s enemy, Duke Sigismond of Gascogne, captured by Ximeno, earlier in the year, and imprisoned in Saintes.
Oh dear...
‘Mayhap I put the evil hex on him,’ the duke declared grimly, not two months later, on hearing that Gascogne had died precipitously of the sweating sickness, leaving a small babe in arms as the Overlord of that Basque region. Where Gauzbert was introspective, however, others saw opportunity for undoubtedly our ancient rivals were now extremely weak.
‘At least I extracted a ransom for his freedom ‘ere he passed on’ my lord had said wistfully and proved just how fixated he had become on monetary matters by debasing the Ducal Mint.
Money! Glorious money!
My son was almost four now and hale and hearty though his mother was yet a carping presence whenever I stole back into our abode-those few occasions the Duke had no need of me.
‘Be silent woman!’ I snapped as she beset me with yet more entreaties-I was not at home often enough, did not see my son as he grew-it was never ending. That Yuletide I had the excuse I needed to escape her unwanted attentions for a more permanent reason namely that of the arrival at the Ducal manor of none other than Princess Agata of Panonnia-my lord’s new bride to be. She had passed but sixteen summers, was small and somewhat gluttonous-many of us wondering just how long she would retain her svelte features if she continued to trough on every sweetmeat and cut of capon that passed within her purview. She also had a temper on her that was every bit the match of the ancient Dukes of Aquitaine and was all the more terrifying for its ability to erupt from such a small frame.
What a beauty-leave that pie alone!
There was a small ceremony on the 11th of January 955-‘no fuss’ the Duke had declared possibly as much an attempt to not insult the memory of his first bride who was, after all, the mother of his three young daughters, who he doted on.
'Wisdom and mercy'? I like the sounds of that
Whatever her temper there was no doubt a connection between the two and for the early part of that year they were nigh on inseparable, the Duke stealing up to her quarters on most nights. It would seem that there was no lack of ardour here.
Then in March the storm that many had long feared finally broke upon us as a breathless Mayor Godefroi brought dread news from Dijon.
Run away!!
‘My lord the Council must be convened at once! There has been a declaration of war by Charles of West Francia on our king!’
The Duke who had been taking some spring air with his Duchess in the gardens nodded his assent and ordered it done-the Council would meet two days hence to debate this latest turn of events. That would give our spymaster and Marshal time to return from the south and the Court Chaplain, Hildebert from Bretagne where he was tasked to spread French culture amongst the godless Bretons.
We gathered on the Feast of the Annunciation, the 25th March the year of our lord 955-faces expectant all around. Unusually the Duke had ordered the Great Council to meet, essentially the whole Ducal Court. The meeting, therefore, was in the Castle’s Great Hall, and was full to the rafters of the great and the good of the three Duchies.
After the Castellan signalled for silence my lord entered the room-he was dressed regally in a scarlet velvet tunic with silken stockings and the finest leather boots. His Ducal Coronet, not something he usually wore, shimmered gold upon his brow. His beard was neatly trimmed-he looked every inch the Lord of the West March.
Surveilling the room he invited the Chancellor, Godefroi of Carhaix, to apprise all assembled of the latest news.
‘My lords and ladies, as many of you will know Charles of West Francia has declared war on our own liege lord, Onfroy for Aquitaine, the Duchy of Burgundy, the County of Dijon and Charolais…’
There was a rumbling of discontent at this and then a shout: ‘he’s no lord of ours!’ This in the Langue D’Oc from the back of the chamber. This was accompanied by scattered cries of ‘aye!’
The Chancellor pressed on, ‘ranged against us are the Kings of Middle Francia, East Francia, puissant Italia and some Irish Chieftain whose name is too difficult to pronounce…’
This produced the first moment of levity to what were, otherwise, serious proceedings. The powers assembled to assist their Karling kin were, however, no jesting matter for they could bring many spears to the fray-far more than Onfroy for certes.
All eyes turned to the Duke
‘What mean you to do your grace?’ The Marshal growled, ‘shall we call the levies?’
Gauzbert now rose from his seat, ‘no my Lord Marshal we shall not…’
Ximeno looked confused-he was, after all a soldier, more suited to the hurly-burly of the field of battle than the intricacies of the Council.
Raising his voice so all could hear the Duke repeated himself ‘we will do precisely nothing my lord of Bordeaux, our levies will not be called and nor shall a single spear or sword in any of our three Duchies be raised to assist this upstart King who has so affronted my honour!’
All now clearly understood-this was the revenge best served as a cold dish for what could Onfroy do? He was hardly about to go to war with our master when the wolves of West Francia and its allies were at his door. What is more undoubtedly Charles IV would have spies present here who would report this to their King with all haste-it was a marker for the future-a future that would lie very much with the interests of Charles of west Francia, not Onfroy of Aquitaine.
Indeed, whilst the new war for the soul of West Francia raged far to our north and east in Burgundy and Dijon, Gauzbert of Aquitaine settled down to some empire building of his own, securing, through Godefroi, excellent betrothals, for his twin daughters, to the eleven year olds, Basileus Lourkas of the Byzantine Empire and King Vencel II of Bohemia. These were presented as opportune yuletide gifts for my lord and in February of 956 an even greater one beckoned in the form of his young wife missing her monthly courses-surely this time it would be a son?
Impassioned missives arrived almost weekly from the embattled King of Aquitaine but the only thing that was despatched from the Ducal Lands was the Chancellor on a mission to Mélun and an audience with King Charles IV-his secret letters professing the deepest love for his erstwhile Monarch and explaining how he had been ill led by bad counsel and his own naiveté. If he could only be accepted back into the King’s good graces he would be his most sure and ardent vassal forever more. Not even the arrival of a West Frankish army in Poitiers and the despoiling and harrying of that rich County bestirred my Lord one whit-all soldiery in our demesnes remained quiescent.
Leave my Poitiers alone you big bully!
A fawning and obsequious message it might have been but the Chancellor was greeted with respect by the King even if roughly handled by some of his closest adherents-there were many in Mélun who had long memories indeed and they were not about to let the Duke forget it, scornfully passing it around the court that Gauzbert should henceforth be known as the ‘careless’, so poorly had he managed his estate and the wars-all poppycock of course but wagging court tongues gain quick purchase and the nickname stuck.
As winter gave way to spring and news reached us of the fall of the House of Gascon, little Duke Evrard toppled by one of his own Counts, now Barral ‘the Usurper’ not even the birth of yet another baby girl and the occupation of Poitiers by the West Frankish invaders, could dampen my master’s spirits and with the onset of summer he finally seemed to shake off the deep slough of despond that had dogged his every step for so many years. One thing that must be said about him was that he was the most doting of fathers and little Eve, his fourth girl, was given no lack of love by both his parents.
Oh what a lovely war!
‘Let us call a great feast!’ He announced one fine evening deep into autumn. ‘Call my Lord Steward forth-I want no expense spared-all my vassals are invited.’
All those guests had better turn up...
‘And when do you conceive of this illustrious event occurring my lord?’ Bishop Sigismond had enquired worriedly but he need not have done for the date of the feast had been set to start on the Feast of Saint Valentin in February and to last a glorious, gut bursting, six weeks. Not even potential storm clouds such as immediate repairs being required for the part of the chateau that would house the guests, could dampen his spirits.
‘Just get it done my lord Bishop!’ The Duke had declared impatiently, ‘I care not what the cost!’
Spare no expense!
One of my lord’s vassals, Count Bérard of Nantes, declined-a rival De Poitou and someone who laid claim to the ancient lordships my master was the owner of.
I have a very long memory Bérard...
‘Nothing more than a cadet branch of our great dynasty!’ The Duke had exclaimed indignantly ‘but have him watched carefully nevertheless Adalbert’’ he had ordered his Spymaster as the preparations were at their height.
Those six weeks passed in a welter of great joy-the great and the good of the Ducal demesnes all present to pass their time in merriment, feasting and drinking with their lord and master. Despite having his ear bent on several nights by the ever gruff Lord Marshal, keen on trying out some new military divinations and there being some sort of contretemps with one of his Burghers, the whole event was a great success with all who attended returning to their own lands holding their Duke in much greater esteem.
All in all a great success wouldn't you say?
Less than three weeks later finally came the news that we all awaited. Royal couriers from Paris, proudly flying the Fleur-de-lys from their pennants and tabards. Present at that time in Saintes were Bishops Adalbert and Sigismond who flanked the Duke as he sat atop his Ducal throne. The lead emissary, a haughty looking fellow, approached, bowed perfunctorily and announced in stentorian tones that Aquitaine had been returned to its rightful demesne and rightful King.
As if there was ever going to be any other conclusion to this sorry affair..
‘I see good sirs…and what of myself-am I also so returned? To the bosom and embrace of King Charles?’
With a disdainful look the herald responded, ‘that remains to be seen my Lord of Aquitaine-your rebellion has effected much injury on my master.’
Gauzbert looked downcast at that-was there to be more enmity? More war? ‘You have seen the temper of my loyalty-not a spear or sword was raised to the king even whilst my County of Poitiers was being despoiled by your armies…’
‘You need not fear sir the King is minded to give you every opportunity to make amends for your past misdeeds-there will be no reckoning…yet.’
Relief all round but even before the import of that had sunk in the Legate added, ‘but as surety for your continued loyalty you will cede your County of Perigord to Onfroy, once called King. There will be no discussion of this-these are my King’s wishes-be thankful that he is a forgiving man! I give you good day your Grace.’
I am not about to take this lying down!
And with that they were gone leaving my lord chewing on the unpalatable and chastening lesson and admonishment of the surrender of one of his most ancient lordships to the very man in Christendom he probably most reason to hate: Onfroy the cruel. But as I observed him I could already see the wheels of his mind turning and working to see how he could turn this setback to his advantage.
West Francia was finally at peace.
Maybe going to war with Charles wasn't such a good idea after all...hmmm
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Parbleu, your liege lord is quite the War Lord. I pray he won't begin to prey on more of your fiefs
Indeed! He is not afraid to get stuck in! Watch this space but methinks that after these (mis)adventures that Gauzbert's boldness is at an endParbleu, your liege lord is quite the War Lord. I pray he won't begin to prey on more of your fiefs
Watch this space my friend
Right all much as I have enjoyed writing this I am going to call time on this AAR at the next update (the last part of our current Duke's reign). Reasons are I am not feeling as much love for this story from the readership as for my last AAR and I think there are good reasons for that-I don't think my 1st person narrative particularly helped and it is moving at a snail's pace. My Scotland AAR I could effectively do a couple of posts per ruler so it was much more fast-paced.
It's been enjoyable but I think I will concentrate on the game for awhile and maybe post an epilogue if the Duke's achieve their long stated aim at reaching the crown itself
Watch this space for the last update which I hope to post in the next couple of weeks and thanks for sticking by those regular readers amongst you
It's been enjoyable but I think I will concentrate on the game for awhile and maybe post an epilogue if the Duke's achieve their long stated aim at reaching the crown itself
Watch this space for the last update which I hope to post in the next couple of weeks and thanks for sticking by those regular readers amongst you
You have a suspenseful AAR going, Asantahene, in the sense that we never know what fiendish scheming your liege lords will resort to next ! And it doesn't matter if you resume the rest of the Duke's life in an epilogue. Long life to Duke Gauzbert's ambitions !
Sorry to hear that you're wrapping this one up, Asantahene Glad to hear we'll get to see one last update before the big sendoff, though. I've enjoyed your work immensely, and I'll be looking forward to anything else you write in the future.
Glad to hear we'll get to see one last update before the big sendoff, though. I've enjoyed your work immensely, and I'll be looking forward to anything else you write in the future.
. Thanks Fabio-your support is much appreciated. There are still one or two twists and turns that I will reveal so watch this space
Hey thanks Specialist-your support has been much appreciated I have to say. I will try and make the last chapter extra good and will let you know what my next venture is likely to be (I kinda fancy England/Wessex pre Charlemagne...)Sorry to hear that you're wrapping this one up, Asantahene
Glad you enjoyed it. SaxonAnd thus a great AAR ends.
I have an exciting final couple of posts which will include an epilogue to show where I have got to with the Dukedom-it gets very exciting actually.
Finding time to do the writing rather than the playing-that's the tricky part...
Chapter 20
The Life and Times of Duke Gauzbert II of Aquitaine Part 5, 957-970 AD
The Autumn Duke
It was a sultry July day when word reached our hawking party that our new Duchess was, once more, with child.
‘Tis well done think you not my lords?’ The duke declared with a certain longing, ‘this time the Lord must surely grant me a son…’
Well might he covet a son and heir for thus far his loins had only seen fit to bear four girls-mayhap this new paramour might finally produce a different outcome. He should count himself fortunate, I had reckoned at the time-my paltry efforts at progeny had thus far only yielded up my son-now a lusty boy of eight summers.
The long hot days yielded to the cooler ones of autumn and then to winter, the Duke, meanwhile, rising in his Liege’s reckoning as his Chancellor continued to make clear the ‘much found love and esteem with which he bore him’.
A proper love fest soon I hope
As the hearth fires were stacked high within the Chateau walls to keep out the bitter cold we were brought news of a schism amongst our enemies, the Moors-some trifling matter of a son of a son being the true scion of their ‘Prophet’ Mohamed.
‘Arrant nonsense!’ The Duke had declared to his Chancellor one frosty morning, ‘I am more concerned with the news of the Holy Father’s passing in truth-at least this new Pope, Caelestinus-I think he's called-holds me in high regard and has sent his good wishes for the deliverance of my wife for a healthy boy.’
At least this new one is below 50 and might last more than a few years!
It sounded rather too much like soothsaying to me but who would gainsay the Holy Father? It came to pass that on the 31st January in the Year of our Lord 958, a mewling and shrunken looking boy was born to my lord and his Duchess. He was immediately baptised, for by his sickly pallor it did not look as though he would pass but one week let alone grow up to be our master’s heir, and named Ramnulf.
The rest of the year was notable only for the manoeuvrings of the erstwhile King of Aquitaine, Onfroy, now my Lord’s vassal.
Onfroy is a man who is up to no good...
‘Watch him close my Lord of Chancelade-watch him close.’ Gauzbert had entreated his Master of Secrets as the silky Spymaster had ridden out to intercept us on yet another interminable hawking party. I felt the restlessness permeating through the assembled Lords-the Duke’s boredom was our own.
Yawn-let's do something more interesting shall we? Like start a war!
The ennui was not to last: peremptory orders issued forth from Saintes to Onfroy of Perigord to yield up that title for my Lord would have it back. The answer was no and we were once more at war. At once I who was closest to the man noted the crackle of excitement that swept through us all. This was a paltry territorial dispute to rein in a recalcitrant vassal but, by God, it was enlivening to once more anticipate the heralds and messengers from the various fields of battle.
What my lord could not have anticipated was that this ‘petty alarum’ would last for well over a year and tie up two Counts, Bouchard of Leon and Berenger of Rennes as well as a sizeable number of routiers hired by our Steward from the shores of Hibernia.
When finally in July 959, after two major battles and countless sieges the rebel Count was brought to brook, he slipped the coop and promptly raised the banners of revolt again, this time aided and abetted by Duke Jourdain of Flanders. Gauzbert had raged, the infamous De Poitou temper finally unfurled. He need not have bestirred himself. This second revolt was over by Yuletide with Onfroy cast in chains into the Oubliette at Saintes-there to join the ravening and quite insane Count Wulgrin, still grimly hanging on to the last threads of life at 61.
Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold...and it's very cold in my Oubliette Onfroy!
The next year saw the proud Duke become father of not one but three Queens as his patient diplomacy and dynastic planning bore fruit when first his daughter Solène was crowned Queen of Italy, then the twins Agnes and Belleassez were married to Basileus Loukhas, the Byzantine overlord and King Vencel of Bohemia respectively.
My lovely girls!
‘All will bring us useful alliances should we need them my Lord Duke,’ the Chancellor had crowed to a Privy Council meeting-the last before the celebrations of the Christ Mass in the year of our lord 960. The Duke had passed forty one summers at this time and was at the peak of his powers. All that remained was for his young son to continue to thrive and take forward his legacy.
‘But, as things stand, presently my vassals will cast their votes for my distant cousin Count Loup of Penthievre in any election should I pass, untimely from the world,’ the Duke had said wistfully.
‘Aye my lord-they will not cast their votes for a babe-much as I have tried to persuade them otherwise,’ Mayor Godefroi ventured quietly, ‘I will, of course keep essaying them.’
The Duke fixed him with a steely eye-much depended on this as he knew. It was a legacy matter and he was tasked by his forebears and that chronicle to pass the title to the closest relative possible. He had also instructed his Chancellor to look into what conditions would need to be met to change the laws of succession altogether and institute primogeniture.
In an unguarded moment in huddle with Bishop Hildebert, the Chancellor had revealed his innermost thoughts on the matter; ‘it will not happen in our Duke’s lifetime or his successor methinks. There are too many…’ and then he cut himself off noticing my presence near their embrasure. I was annoyed at myself for being caught-not for nothing was I known as the fantôme! It would be news that I would funnel to my frustrated Lord nonetheless for it was his right to know.
The year of 961 passed uneventful though wily Gauzbert kept closely apprised of the various factions extant in the Kingdom of West Francia, particularly the one to make Aquitaine an Elective monarchy once again led by a Duke of Toulouse, this time Godafres. I sighed into my cups-would that my lord had learned that particular lesson! There was quite the cabal involved, the plot encompassing another Duke, Barral ‘the Usurper’ of Gascogne and my lord’s kinsman, Count Jacques of Limousin no less. Adding his soldiery and money would have tipped the plot in Godafres’ favour but for whatever the reason he kept his counsel-mayhap it was truly a case of once bitten twice shy…early in the year Duchess Agate was delivered of a healthy baby boy-this was named Guillhaume. Truly providence was shining its countenance on the Duke for he had now been delivered of two boys in the space of as many years.
Ahhh the fruit of my loins!
Of the year after, 962, I have not much to say for not much happened. My lord was apt to summarily dismiss me so I was able to spend much more time with my own wife and child. I was not certain whether this was a blessing or a curse in truth-the joy of being with my hale and lusty son being tempered by the shrill and constant admonishments of my shrew of a wife.
In May 963, as the days were getting hot once more, I was making my lonely way back to the Chateau for my occasional congress with my Lord-I had persuaded him that to be an effective chronicler I must retain some access to him so he had agreed that we could meet once a month. It was not a pleasant feeling to effectively be exiled from my own Lord. Nonetheless I still anticipated these meetings like some lovelorn schoolboy and this hot morning in May was no exception. Being a regular to the chateau at Saintes I was more sensitive than most to the little political eddies and currents that would often times swirl around causing the nobles to quicken their step and the scullions to dart hither and yon. Today was just such a day I noted, What was afoot?
On entering the Duke’s Solar I soon had my answer as he was deep in conversation with the Marshal, Count Ximeno of Bordeaux. On seeing me enter the Duke beamed and beckoned me over, ‘Ah my good Chronicler! You are most welcome Gervase!’
‘Good morrow your Grace-what news?’
‘The drumbeat of war my good fellow-Ximeno and I have decided that the time has come for the Usurper, Barral of Gascogne-our lifelong enemy mark you-to cede our de jure territory of Agen and to that end our ducal levies have been summonsed once more.’
He looks like a shifty character...
‘Aye your grace and this time your kinsman Jacques of Limousin will join us’ growled the imposing Marshal-not a man to be trifled with by any measure. ‘We will finish this fight by the year’s end my lord.’
Let's be having ya!
But as always the predicted course of the war was wildly optimistic and the ferocity with which the Gascons fought to retain Agen a surprise to all. October 963 brought the battle of Lasauve which was won but at great cost and a sizeable portion of the enemy army escaped northwards into our own demesne. They had to be tracked into the New Year by Ximeno finally being brought to heel close to Saint Jean D’Angely. The ducal army then departed south again to besiege the town of Agen itself-an action that was won only in June 964.
That same year, whilst Gauzbert fretted at the prolonged war and sent one missive after another in the direction of hard pressed Ximeno and the Ducal Army tragedy struck in the form of death’s gossamer wings alighting on my lord’s youngest son Guillhaume-now three. He had turned into the sickly child whilst his older brother Ramnulf, now having passed six summers, had turned into a healthy and boisterous boy, tutored by the Steward Bishop Sigismond. My lord meanwhile became ever more highly strung though he did seem to have lost some of his avariciousness-a relief to all of us who knew him well.
i am not a happy bunny...
The war raged on into winter of that year of 964 and Saintes itself came under attack from sundry Gascon forces-they were nothing if not impertinent! In the end it was not until the winter of 965 when Ximeno’s much larger force finally cornered the enemy battle commander, Count Jakue and his beleaguered Gascons, in the environs of Saintes and utterly annihilated them for good. We were finally at peace again and this time the ancient province of Agen had been returned to its rightful masters though it’s lord, the Prince Bishop Ubald, was rather more implacable in his dislike of his new Liege Lord.
At last Agen is mine!
You would think that after all his efforts winning the young King back round to my masters affections and keeping any recalcitrant lords placated that our Chancellor, Mayor Godefroi, would have been amply rewarded by the Duke. Instead in June 966 Gauzbert took the fateful step of appointing in his stead Count Loup of Penthievre…the very same Count who was very high in the esteem of the Electors and as things stood, the heir to all three Duchies.
There's nothing like being rewarded for all your hard work eh Godefroi!
It was his honeyed words that persuaded my lord to take part in a Grand Tourney, called by the King, that summer of 966 and not one in which Gauzbert of Aquitaine covered himself in any glory whatsoever. As the final melee ended and the Duke limped from the arena battered and bruised, the laughter of the Lords and Ladies of West Francia ringing in his ears, it was as much as I could do not to enquire pointedly why he might think that martial valour would be his after so many years of eschewing it-besides he had almost passed 50 summers-veritably in his dotage!
Oh the shame!
At this time my lord was the paramount peer in the realm and not only that he was loved by all of his fellow Dukes and above all the King. Even Duke Barral of Gascogne, who Gauzbert had gone to war with some two years previously held my Duke in high regard. It was a shame, then, that despite all of his efforts, over the next two years, he could not move the Electors votes one iota towards that of his sole remaining son, the nine year old Ramnulf. This should have been no surprise of course since his Chancellor was the very same Count Loup who all the Electors were determined would be Gauzbert’s heir. And despite his young wife announcing triumphantly that she was, once more, with child in September 969 it was not enough to stop my Lord from falling into a deeply downcast humour. This, in its turn, laid the puissant lord low and he fell gravely ill towards the end of the year. Those of us who loved him watched him almost visibly shrink before our very eyes.
By March of 970 it had become clear to all that our lord and master was dying. Agate was inconsolable of course-she had much to lose not least because of the probable succession. For me I was just sad-how had it come to this? He was past 50 summers now, it was true, but he had always been so hale and hearty…
Urghhh-it's not looking good
On the 29th March 970 I was summonsed to the Duke’s private chambers. The heat inside was intense-no doubt on the instructions of the selfsame physicians that had bled him dry-I swear it only made him progressively weaker. On my arrival he gestured weakly that he wanted the room-just him and me. I nodded to his wife, the Duchess who was in attendance with the young Lord Ramnulf, the boy’s face crumpled in sorrow. I wondered where his quiet older sister, Eve, might be but now was not the time to make enquiry-the exchanged mournful glances were testament to our mutual impending loss. Once the Duke and I were alone I crept up to his bedside my vellum and quill still to hand as it always had been. But tears started to my eyes-I was, after all, only three years younger than he.
‘No Gervase-do not weep for me,’ he whispered quietly. ‘I have been shriven and am being summonsed to a far far better place. Do not stop writing.’ He turned to face me-the glassy look on his face replaced by one of quiet intensity. ‘My forebear, the first Ramnulf, prophesied all those years ago the pre-eminence of Aquitaine Gervase-the early part of the Chronicle foretold the lions of Aquitaine devouring the lilies of France.’
‘I remember my lord-all do know the tale.’
His hand now gripped mine with a strength that belied his perilous hold on the thread of his life. ‘It will not end here with the fracturing of our line. I have spoken with my cousin Loup-he will do the right thing and be the custodian of the Ducal coronets for my son, Ramnulf. I know it! I must believe it!’
Whether I imagined him delirious and rambling or whether to calm his fevered mind I agreed, whispering soothing words such that he eventually fell back into repose for awhile. I know not how long we were there; master and servant but eventually he sat up, looking straight ahead and declared in stentorian tones, ‘not my son but the sons of the sons of my son will inherit the royal crown of Aquitaine-god be praised!’
The lion shall rise against the lily, its master!
He sank back into blissful repose then so I took my cue to summons the Duchess and Bishop Hildebert back to his side and with eyes blurry with grief I took my leave of the Duke for a final time, wondering all the while at his fateful words.
THE END?
Ed: I will be adding at least 1 epilogue to this (maybe an epilogue and an Afterword) so watch this space guys
The Life and Times of Duke Gauzbert II of Aquitaine Part 5, 957-970 AD
The Autumn Duke
It was a sultry July day when word reached our hawking party that our new Duchess was, once more, with child.
‘Tis well done think you not my lords?’ The duke declared with a certain longing, ‘this time the Lord must surely grant me a son…’
Well might he covet a son and heir for thus far his loins had only seen fit to bear four girls-mayhap this new paramour might finally produce a different outcome. He should count himself fortunate, I had reckoned at the time-my paltry efforts at progeny had thus far only yielded up my son-now a lusty boy of eight summers.
The long hot days yielded to the cooler ones of autumn and then to winter, the Duke, meanwhile, rising in his Liege’s reckoning as his Chancellor continued to make clear the ‘much found love and esteem with which he bore him’.
A proper love fest soon I hope
As the hearth fires were stacked high within the Chateau walls to keep out the bitter cold we were brought news of a schism amongst our enemies, the Moors-some trifling matter of a son of a son being the true scion of their ‘Prophet’ Mohamed.
‘Arrant nonsense!’ The Duke had declared to his Chancellor one frosty morning, ‘I am more concerned with the news of the Holy Father’s passing in truth-at least this new Pope, Caelestinus-I think he's called-holds me in high regard and has sent his good wishes for the deliverance of my wife for a healthy boy.’
At least this new one is below 50 and might last more than a few years!
It sounded rather too much like soothsaying to me but who would gainsay the Holy Father? It came to pass that on the 31st January in the Year of our Lord 958, a mewling and shrunken looking boy was born to my lord and his Duchess. He was immediately baptised, for by his sickly pallor it did not look as though he would pass but one week let alone grow up to be our master’s heir, and named Ramnulf.
The rest of the year was notable only for the manoeuvrings of the erstwhile King of Aquitaine, Onfroy, now my Lord’s vassal.
Onfroy is a man who is up to no good...
‘Watch him close my Lord of Chancelade-watch him close.’ Gauzbert had entreated his Master of Secrets as the silky Spymaster had ridden out to intercept us on yet another interminable hawking party. I felt the restlessness permeating through the assembled Lords-the Duke’s boredom was our own.
Yawn-let's do something more interesting shall we? Like start a war!
The ennui was not to last: peremptory orders issued forth from Saintes to Onfroy of Perigord to yield up that title for my Lord would have it back. The answer was no and we were once more at war. At once I who was closest to the man noted the crackle of excitement that swept through us all. This was a paltry territorial dispute to rein in a recalcitrant vassal but, by God, it was enlivening to once more anticipate the heralds and messengers from the various fields of battle.
What my lord could not have anticipated was that this ‘petty alarum’ would last for well over a year and tie up two Counts, Bouchard of Leon and Berenger of Rennes as well as a sizeable number of routiers hired by our Steward from the shores of Hibernia.
When finally in July 959, after two major battles and countless sieges the rebel Count was brought to brook, he slipped the coop and promptly raised the banners of revolt again, this time aided and abetted by Duke Jourdain of Flanders. Gauzbert had raged, the infamous De Poitou temper finally unfurled. He need not have bestirred himself. This second revolt was over by Yuletide with Onfroy cast in chains into the Oubliette at Saintes-there to join the ravening and quite insane Count Wulgrin, still grimly hanging on to the last threads of life at 61.
Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold...and it's very cold in my Oubliette Onfroy!
The next year saw the proud Duke become father of not one but three Queens as his patient diplomacy and dynastic planning bore fruit when first his daughter Solène was crowned Queen of Italy, then the twins Agnes and Belleassez were married to Basileus Loukhas, the Byzantine overlord and King Vencel of Bohemia respectively.
My lovely girls!
‘All will bring us useful alliances should we need them my Lord Duke,’ the Chancellor had crowed to a Privy Council meeting-the last before the celebrations of the Christ Mass in the year of our lord 960. The Duke had passed forty one summers at this time and was at the peak of his powers. All that remained was for his young son to continue to thrive and take forward his legacy.
‘But, as things stand, presently my vassals will cast their votes for my distant cousin Count Loup of Penthievre in any election should I pass, untimely from the world,’ the Duke had said wistfully.
‘Aye my lord-they will not cast their votes for a babe-much as I have tried to persuade them otherwise,’ Mayor Godefroi ventured quietly, ‘I will, of course keep essaying them.’
The Duke fixed him with a steely eye-much depended on this as he knew. It was a legacy matter and he was tasked by his forebears and that chronicle to pass the title to the closest relative possible. He had also instructed his Chancellor to look into what conditions would need to be met to change the laws of succession altogether and institute primogeniture.
In an unguarded moment in huddle with Bishop Hildebert, the Chancellor had revealed his innermost thoughts on the matter; ‘it will not happen in our Duke’s lifetime or his successor methinks. There are too many…’ and then he cut himself off noticing my presence near their embrasure. I was annoyed at myself for being caught-not for nothing was I known as the fantôme! It would be news that I would funnel to my frustrated Lord nonetheless for it was his right to know.
The year of 961 passed uneventful though wily Gauzbert kept closely apprised of the various factions extant in the Kingdom of West Francia, particularly the one to make Aquitaine an Elective monarchy once again led by a Duke of Toulouse, this time Godafres. I sighed into my cups-would that my lord had learned that particular lesson! There was quite the cabal involved, the plot encompassing another Duke, Barral ‘the Usurper’ of Gascogne and my lord’s kinsman, Count Jacques of Limousin no less. Adding his soldiery and money would have tipped the plot in Godafres’ favour but for whatever the reason he kept his counsel-mayhap it was truly a case of once bitten twice shy…early in the year Duchess Agate was delivered of a healthy baby boy-this was named Guillhaume. Truly providence was shining its countenance on the Duke for he had now been delivered of two boys in the space of as many years.
Ahhh the fruit of my loins!
Of the year after, 962, I have not much to say for not much happened. My lord was apt to summarily dismiss me so I was able to spend much more time with my own wife and child. I was not certain whether this was a blessing or a curse in truth-the joy of being with my hale and lusty son being tempered by the shrill and constant admonishments of my shrew of a wife.
In May 963, as the days were getting hot once more, I was making my lonely way back to the Chateau for my occasional congress with my Lord-I had persuaded him that to be an effective chronicler I must retain some access to him so he had agreed that we could meet once a month. It was not a pleasant feeling to effectively be exiled from my own Lord. Nonetheless I still anticipated these meetings like some lovelorn schoolboy and this hot morning in May was no exception. Being a regular to the chateau at Saintes I was more sensitive than most to the little political eddies and currents that would often times swirl around causing the nobles to quicken their step and the scullions to dart hither and yon. Today was just such a day I noted, What was afoot?
On entering the Duke’s Solar I soon had my answer as he was deep in conversation with the Marshal, Count Ximeno of Bordeaux. On seeing me enter the Duke beamed and beckoned me over, ‘Ah my good Chronicler! You are most welcome Gervase!’
‘Good morrow your Grace-what news?’
‘The drumbeat of war my good fellow-Ximeno and I have decided that the time has come for the Usurper, Barral of Gascogne-our lifelong enemy mark you-to cede our de jure territory of Agen and to that end our ducal levies have been summonsed once more.’
He looks like a shifty character...
‘Aye your grace and this time your kinsman Jacques of Limousin will join us’ growled the imposing Marshal-not a man to be trifled with by any measure. ‘We will finish this fight by the year’s end my lord.’
Let's be having ya!
But as always the predicted course of the war was wildly optimistic and the ferocity with which the Gascons fought to retain Agen a surprise to all. October 963 brought the battle of Lasauve which was won but at great cost and a sizeable portion of the enemy army escaped northwards into our own demesne. They had to be tracked into the New Year by Ximeno finally being brought to heel close to Saint Jean D’Angely. The ducal army then departed south again to besiege the town of Agen itself-an action that was won only in June 964.
That same year, whilst Gauzbert fretted at the prolonged war and sent one missive after another in the direction of hard pressed Ximeno and the Ducal Army tragedy struck in the form of death’s gossamer wings alighting on my lord’s youngest son Guillhaume-now three. He had turned into the sickly child whilst his older brother Ramnulf, now having passed six summers, had turned into a healthy and boisterous boy, tutored by the Steward Bishop Sigismond. My lord meanwhile became ever more highly strung though he did seem to have lost some of his avariciousness-a relief to all of us who knew him well.
i am not a happy bunny...
The war raged on into winter of that year of 964 and Saintes itself came under attack from sundry Gascon forces-they were nothing if not impertinent! In the end it was not until the winter of 965 when Ximeno’s much larger force finally cornered the enemy battle commander, Count Jakue and his beleaguered Gascons, in the environs of Saintes and utterly annihilated them for good. We were finally at peace again and this time the ancient province of Agen had been returned to its rightful masters though it’s lord, the Prince Bishop Ubald, was rather more implacable in his dislike of his new Liege Lord.
At last Agen is mine!
You would think that after all his efforts winning the young King back round to my masters affections and keeping any recalcitrant lords placated that our Chancellor, Mayor Godefroi, would have been amply rewarded by the Duke. Instead in June 966 Gauzbert took the fateful step of appointing in his stead Count Loup of Penthievre…the very same Count who was very high in the esteem of the Electors and as things stood, the heir to all three Duchies.
There's nothing like being rewarded for all your hard work eh Godefroi!
It was his honeyed words that persuaded my lord to take part in a Grand Tourney, called by the King, that summer of 966 and not one in which Gauzbert of Aquitaine covered himself in any glory whatsoever. As the final melee ended and the Duke limped from the arena battered and bruised, the laughter of the Lords and Ladies of West Francia ringing in his ears, it was as much as I could do not to enquire pointedly why he might think that martial valour would be his after so many years of eschewing it-besides he had almost passed 50 summers-veritably in his dotage!
Oh the shame!
At this time my lord was the paramount peer in the realm and not only that he was loved by all of his fellow Dukes and above all the King. Even Duke Barral of Gascogne, who Gauzbert had gone to war with some two years previously held my Duke in high regard. It was a shame, then, that despite all of his efforts, over the next two years, he could not move the Electors votes one iota towards that of his sole remaining son, the nine year old Ramnulf. This should have been no surprise of course since his Chancellor was the very same Count Loup who all the Electors were determined would be Gauzbert’s heir. And despite his young wife announcing triumphantly that she was, once more, with child in September 969 it was not enough to stop my Lord from falling into a deeply downcast humour. This, in its turn, laid the puissant lord low and he fell gravely ill towards the end of the year. Those of us who loved him watched him almost visibly shrink before our very eyes.
By March of 970 it had become clear to all that our lord and master was dying. Agate was inconsolable of course-she had much to lose not least because of the probable succession. For me I was just sad-how had it come to this? He was past 50 summers now, it was true, but he had always been so hale and hearty…
Urghhh-it's not looking good
On the 29th March 970 I was summonsed to the Duke’s private chambers. The heat inside was intense-no doubt on the instructions of the selfsame physicians that had bled him dry-I swear it only made him progressively weaker. On my arrival he gestured weakly that he wanted the room-just him and me. I nodded to his wife, the Duchess who was in attendance with the young Lord Ramnulf, the boy’s face crumpled in sorrow. I wondered where his quiet older sister, Eve, might be but now was not the time to make enquiry-the exchanged mournful glances were testament to our mutual impending loss. Once the Duke and I were alone I crept up to his bedside my vellum and quill still to hand as it always had been. But tears started to my eyes-I was, after all, only three years younger than he.
‘No Gervase-do not weep for me,’ he whispered quietly. ‘I have been shriven and am being summonsed to a far far better place. Do not stop writing.’ He turned to face me-the glassy look on his face replaced by one of quiet intensity. ‘My forebear, the first Ramnulf, prophesied all those years ago the pre-eminence of Aquitaine Gervase-the early part of the Chronicle foretold the lions of Aquitaine devouring the lilies of France.’
‘I remember my lord-all do know the tale.’
His hand now gripped mine with a strength that belied his perilous hold on the thread of his life. ‘It will not end here with the fracturing of our line. I have spoken with my cousin Loup-he will do the right thing and be the custodian of the Ducal coronets for my son, Ramnulf. I know it! I must believe it!’
Whether I imagined him delirious and rambling or whether to calm his fevered mind I agreed, whispering soothing words such that he eventually fell back into repose for awhile. I know not how long we were there; master and servant but eventually he sat up, looking straight ahead and declared in stentorian tones, ‘not my son but the sons of the sons of my son will inherit the royal crown of Aquitaine-god be praised!’
The lion shall rise against the lily, its master!
He sank back into blissful repose then so I took my cue to summons the Duchess and Bishop Hildebert back to his side and with eyes blurry with grief I took my leave of the Duke for a final time, wondering all the while at his fateful words.
THE END?
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Sic transit gloria Aquitaniae.
I don't know if it was intentional at all, but I found the parallelism between Gauzbert's succession woes and his namesake's travails over his brother's sons. It's a nice call back to the earlier part of the story.
Again, it's a shame that you're cutting this one short, but I'll certainly be looking forward to your future endeavors if you do start anything else
I don't know if it was intentional at all, but I found the parallelism between Gauzbert's succession woes and his namesake's travails over his brother's sons. It's a nice call back to the earlier part of the story.
Again, it's a shame that you're cutting this one short, but I'll certainly be looking forward to your future endeavors if you do start anything else
Thanks so much Specialist290-I've really appreciated all your feedback and support. Yes much fun as it has been to write it also became a bit of a chore. I am actually into the late stage in the game itself so will post an Afterword and an epilogue so that you can all see what became of the De PoitousSic transit gloria Aquitaniae.
I don't know if it was intentional at all, but I found the parallelism between Gauzbert's succession woes and his namesake's travails over his brother's sons. It's a nice call back to the earlier part of the story.
Again, it's a shame that you're cutting this one short, but I'll certainly be looking forward to your future endeavors if you do start anything else
Next AAR project will be in a few months time and will be for Stellaris
Looking forward to your next post on the De Poitous, Asantahene.
I have missed your writing ! Please let us know when you beam into the future for your next AAR
I have missed your writing ! Please let us know when you beam into the future for your next AAR
Hey Fabio-thanks so much for all your support. Yes I will write an epilogue and then an Afterword and that will be that. I note most of the regular CK2 writers have stopped-maybe something to do with a certain Space game huh? I will be probably buying the game in the summer or even the Autumn as I hear there are more than a few gameplay bugs and UI issues that need ironing out-also not sure my iMac Video card is up to spec though it seems there might be some workaroundsLooking forward to your next post on the De Poitous, Asantahene.
I have missed your writing ! Please let us know when you beam into the future for your next AAR
At some point I will try and catch up with your TOSSGA AAR-I have just been busy with other stuff matey
Chapter 21-Epilogue
(From the New York Times Bestseller ‘Res Aquitani’ adapted from the Chronicles of the Lords of Aquitaine 970-1460 AD, by Doctor Benjamin Nelson)
Thy Kingdom come
It is the year 1060 and the kingdom of Aquitaine has been locked in a vicious on-off war with its overlord, the kingdom of West Francia for thirty-three years. It started initially as an internal revolt launched by a Karling of one of its many Cadet branches against the rightful King Foulques and supported by the West Frank king, Louis V, against his own brother-he wanted the larger, more prosperous and more fertile part of what he considered his kingdom back. Duke Geraud of Aquitaine, ever loyal, had not hesitated to commit his plentiful levies to battle in support of his liege.
Geraud had died in August 1040 and was succeeded by his cunning and warlike son, Gaucelin. His liege, Foulques had died not more than 10 years later in November 1050 but if the new French King Charles V reckoned on his most powerful vassal meekly bending the knee he was to be grievously disabused of that notion by Heralds adorned with the couchant lion of Aquitaine. Their message was thus:
‘To my greedy cousin Charles Karling, proud Aquitaine will in no wise submit to your yoke. If you want our fertile lands then you will have to best us on the field of battle-something which, as yet, has been utterly beyond you!’
The war dragged on…
The Castle Town of Saintes, Saintonge, Aquitaine
2nd March 1060 AD
Gaucelin was taking in the air in the castle gardens since the first milder winds of spring were in the air-it suited him to be outside for, come rain or shine, it allowed his mind to truly exercise itself. He was a thinker this Duke, many would say a schemer and it was true that in the ninety years that had passed since his great grandfather, Gauzbert II had worn the coronet, he and his forebears had strengthened their twin Duchies of Aquitaine and Poitou immeasurably, added a number of demesnes, including rich Bordeaux and built the treasury up to a stunning two thousand pounds of gold. Notwithstanding the treasury had been severely depleted by the war with West Francia that was now stretching into its thirty-fourth year-a war that he had inherited from his father, Duke Geraud.
But he was also a man of action and such was evidenced by his powerful frame, tight fitting velvet hose and the expensive brocade that adorned his silk tunic. Lost in thought he mused that if his plans were true and his spies correct that war would very soon be at an end. Just to wait for his heralds…
‘Your grace there you are!’ Came a shout from the other end of the gardens, as approaching there was a lithe, almost skeletal man-a minor lord, judging by his raiment, wispy grey hair clinging to his unlovely thin face but eyes that missed nothing. Despite his severe appearance Simon, Baron of La Rochefoucauld, smiled warmly as he gave the most perfunctory of bows to his liege.
‘My Lord Chancellor, I might have divined that you would find me here! Nothing escapes your purview by the mass! You are well acquainted with Pierre Hilaire, my new Chronicler, are you not?’ the Duke asked solicitously gesturing to a slight, blonde youth, following on behind encumbered with parchments and quills.
‘A son of your previous man is he not?’ The Baron opined, fixing the youth with a steely glare, ‘if you are half the scribe your father was then you may well encompass some of the momentous deeds of this age of Aquitaine lad!’
The boy nodded shyly then returned to his furious shorthand. The duke, for his part, took his councillor by the hand and steered him through the hedgerows, the surrounding acacia and beech trees just beginning to blossom even now with winter’s icy grip but recently departed.
‘Ah I do love Saintes at this time of year Simon-now tell me where I stand with my other vassals-think you that they will support me in this bold venture?’
‘Your lords stand four square behind you your grace save for Toulouse whose enmity is not for softening nowise.’
Gaucelin’s affable mien disappeared at once, a stormy look appearing on his countenance-a harbinger of the infamous De Poitou anger that so characterised this dynasty. ‘Ahhhh, Duke Geoffrey, after myself, the realm’s most powerful magnate-how typical that he should be the one to continue to bear the family grudge! I have tried bribes, threats and your good offices but it seems the whoreson will not turn to amity?’
‘He will not my lord. Not without Narbonne…’
‘Narbonne be damned! He will not lay a hand on one of my own domains the ingrate!’ The Duke’s colour was up imagining this slight to his name but then, as if realising where he was he sucked in a deep breath and continued more calmly, ‘think you that he will threaten our plans?’
‘That remains to be seen your Grace-he was not able to use his influence amongst your vassals to stop you changing the inheritance laws was he? I think that on these matters when it comes down to it he is practical and sensible enough not to oppose you.’
Gaucelin was placated-it had been his life’s work to get his barons to agree to a change in the centuries-old inheritance laws such that his titles would now pass to his eldest male issue. His magnates were at a stroke disinherited and there was much opposition from all sides but using impeccable legal arguments and the threat of force he had faced down each and every one of the dissenting vassals and they had finally, not one year past, agreed to pass the new law.
‘They might still bellyache Simon but they will soon see the use of such….
At which point their attention was drawn to another figure approaching from the eastern transept of the castle. The Ducal guards at once parted-this was not a character to be gainsaid.
‘Ah well here's a man who can fill us in methinks. You are well met Valeran!’
The man approaching was suave, well dressed but simply. He had the look of a professional, someone who dealt in the more underhand goings on, someone who was most at ease in the shadows. Ostensibly he was a burgher, the mayor of Royan, one of Aquitaine’s most prosperous towns. In his other life, however, he had built a secretive and powerful spy network and had been honoured to turn it over to his Duke’s service when he got the call these twelve years past.
‘Your Grace-well met indeed.’ The mayor bowed low. He was a lithe man of thirty eight summers-a man utterly in charge of his own destiny. ‘I have come from the same place that my esteemed Lord of Rochefoucauld has; Melgeuil-a nest of vipers where your good grace is concerned if ever I visited one.’
Gaucelin’s mood was in no way leavening with these new tidings such that he snapped ‘I pray you bring me some tidings that I can be joyful about sir!’
For his part the crafty Burgher was none abashed and sought to soothe his lord with the news that he had set in train some events that should Toulouse break cover and move against his rival it would play out very ill for him as far as his hitherto good repute was concerned.
This lightened the mood and as they completed a circuit of the great grounds moving back to the environs of the castle itself they heard the church bells sounding Sext. The Duke was, of a sudden, agitated and purposeful. ‘My friends the game is afoot and I have set in train events that will transform our fortunes. I command you meet me back here in two days hence and much more will be revealed’ He turned to leave and as he did looked back and added ‘oh and bring your harness’ and was gone, determined stride taking him towards the brooding presence of the great Chateau.
The Baron and the Burgher looked askance each upon the other little comprehending what their puissant lord was saying-what game? Why were they not in the know? They were uneasy but had, for too long, been in the service of the Duke to gainsay him and so set off as bidden.
When they returned to Saintes on the day after celebrating the Feast of Saint Eusebius, the fourth of March, it was with some surprise to find the castle and its surrounds full of soldiery. The Mayor’s keen eye reckoned there must be some several thousands-routiers and those wearing the livery of the Duchy of Aquitaine. There must have been near enough ten thousand armed men preparing to march.
As they fought their way past the men they came upon the Duke’s fifteen-year-old son, the Count of Lusignan, himself in battle dress, his handsome young features wreathed in a broad smile. He came to greet them arms outstretched. ‘My lords-is this not a marvellous adventure we are setting forth upon?’ He could hardly contain himself in his youthful enthusiasm.
‘My lord we would fain understand what venture this is that we are embarking upon…your lord father has rather kept us in the dark’ Baron Simon snapped his patience wearing thin. He was a member of the Small Council-it was insufferable that whatever had been decided upon by the Duke it seemed that he was amongst the last to know. He looked at his colleague and was shocked to see that he too was in the know. ‘How did you…?’ He started but was interrupted by the entrance into the courtyard of the Duke himself, riding his favourite charger, a high spirited black stallion. He was an expert horseman and brought the horse to a clattering standstill, sparks flying from the cobbles themselves as the Duke leapt down in full chain armour, a great broadsword hanging by his side, his tabard decorated with the golden lion couchant of Aquitaine against a bright scarlet background. He looked every inch a warrior.
As all knelt low in obeisance he cried out in ringing tones, ‘my friends, my soldiery, we are embarking upon the greatest adventure of our lives-we go to fulfil a destiny that was foretold many hundreds of years ago that it would be the De Poitous who would hold dominion over Aquitaine but not as its Dukes but as its Kings!’ At this a great cheer rose up from all and in the hubbub the Chancellor found himself raised up by his liege and whispered words ‘forgive me my friend-I meant to tell you all but…’ before once again being swept up in the press as all strained to touch the mighty Duke.
That afternoon a host left the environs of Saintes of some ten thousand men at arms and mounted knights. It was an impressive sight and was intended to be so for though the war with West Francia had drained that realm of monies and men it was the other conflicts recently commenced with mighty Italy and also a resurgent England that ensured that the Duke’s kinsman, Charles V had few levies and no monies with which to oppose him.
No battles were fought, no sieges started and prosecuted and so it was that not more than one month later two embassages met in the fields before Paris to parley and broker a final agreement between the two belligerents.
The space before the King’s pavilion was set up such that the entourages could stand off and view their charges deep in conversation in the little valley below them. There had been rain earlier and the ground was damp underfoot but it was a day that was warming quickly and had the promise of a pleasant spring day.
They walked hand in hand for what seemed like an interminable time, the mighty Duke, a man approaching fifty summers, a warrior, powerful, brooding and the young king-his second cousin, for the Duke’s mother had been a Karling princess. What were they finding to talk about all this time the Chancellor fretted? His friend, the Mayor had departed-again for Melgeuil-he had important business to attend to there it seemed and so Simon was left babysitting the Duke’s son who was no less impatient to divine the outcome of their congress. Whatever their discussions behind them stood a powerful reminder to the king that what the Duke may not be granted could be taken by force if necessary. By contrast the King has mustered a pitiful force of a mere two thousand-a sad reflection on their changing fortunes mayhap.
Call yourself kin?
Finally it seemed that they were done. A perfunctory nod from both, an embrace and a kiss and with that the Duke was returning a jaunty spring in his step. At his approach all present hemmed him all around desirous of the outcome-his personal guards rudely barged the nearest out of the way shouting ‘make way! Make way for your king!’
The King? Simon thought as he strained to hear and see-his own retinue making space for him to approach the grinning Gaucelin. Never had he seen him so triumphant. On seeing his Chancellor the new king held out his arms to embrace him and then, as if realising the occasion, held out his hand for Simon to take his hand and kiss his ring in the age old sign of fealty to ones king. He had done it! The good Duke had bested his rival and become a king. The King of Aquitaine, the master of Bretagne and Poitiers-it was the final realisation of a dream…a dream of Aquitaine.
The realisation of my dream
Afterword
Gaucelin was only to survive for four years after he so brazenly inveigled the crown of Aquitaine from his Karling kin but he had set the de Poitou dynasty on very firm ground indeed and by securing Primogeniture inheritance he ensured stability and that the bloodline would be preserved.
You'll miss me...
By 1212 AD his descendant, King Charles VII ‘The Just’ had captured the ancient kingdom of Navarra and parts of Zaragoza from the hitherto mighty Muradid Empire starting what was to be a steady encroachment into Hispania, aided by Crusades called by the Holy Father in Rome and the establishment in Western Hispania of a base for the Knight’s Hospitallers.
His successor, Phillipe I, crowned himself Emperor in 1226 at a glittering ceremony in Saintes, his sons and kin were bequeathed the kingdoms of Brittany, Frisia, Aquitaine, Aragon and Navarra-a glorious legacy for a dynasty that was now one of the most powerful in Christendom. His Imperial Majesty’s twin objectives were now to drive the Moors from Spain in its entirety and to retake what was left of West Francia to make a Greater France.
Go me!
The acquisition of the Empire of Carpathia in the early 1299 by the young Emperor Henri I, on his mother the Empress Dorrottya’s death, cemented that burgeoning power immeasurably and though he would spend the early part of his reign fighting off a number of major internal revolts that sought to challenge his power he was, in the end, victorious and bequeathed his son, Geoffrey II, a vast region. Fifty years later, in the zenith of that illustrious ruler’s reign, his hegemony spanned from the bounds of Moorish Potucale in the west to the steppes of the Bulgars in the East, from icy Denmark in the north to the sandy beaches of Malaga and the grandeur of Granada in the south. He came to be known as ‘Geoffrey the blessed’ such was his fame, his zeal to drive the Moors from Hispania and his cementing of a mighty legacy and an authority to whom no less than five kings would bend the knee, an empire that could summons, in an instant, more than sixty thousand men at arms when the call came. Aquitaine was then a far cry indeed from its humble origins in the eighth and ninth centuries but one that had nonetheless been foretold…
“And o’er all a dynasty to reach and grow and strain at power, at rule and overlordship-the De Poitous they…”
Behold my lands and tremble!
Dr Ben Amponsah, Manchester, England, July 2016
(From the New York Times Bestseller ‘Res Aquitani’ adapted from the Chronicles of the Lords of Aquitaine 970-1460 AD, by Doctor Benjamin Nelson)
Thy Kingdom come
It is the year 1060 and the kingdom of Aquitaine has been locked in a vicious on-off war with its overlord, the kingdom of West Francia for thirty-three years. It started initially as an internal revolt launched by a Karling of one of its many Cadet branches against the rightful King Foulques and supported by the West Frank king, Louis V, against his own brother-he wanted the larger, more prosperous and more fertile part of what he considered his kingdom back. Duke Geraud of Aquitaine, ever loyal, had not hesitated to commit his plentiful levies to battle in support of his liege.
Geraud had died in August 1040 and was succeeded by his cunning and warlike son, Gaucelin. His liege, Foulques had died not more than 10 years later in November 1050 but if the new French King Charles V reckoned on his most powerful vassal meekly bending the knee he was to be grievously disabused of that notion by Heralds adorned with the couchant lion of Aquitaine. Their message was thus:
‘To my greedy cousin Charles Karling, proud Aquitaine will in no wise submit to your yoke. If you want our fertile lands then you will have to best us on the field of battle-something which, as yet, has been utterly beyond you!’
The war dragged on…
The Castle Town of Saintes, Saintonge, Aquitaine
2nd March 1060 AD
Gaucelin was taking in the air in the castle gardens since the first milder winds of spring were in the air-it suited him to be outside for, come rain or shine, it allowed his mind to truly exercise itself. He was a thinker this Duke, many would say a schemer and it was true that in the ninety years that had passed since his great grandfather, Gauzbert II had worn the coronet, he and his forebears had strengthened their twin Duchies of Aquitaine and Poitou immeasurably, added a number of demesnes, including rich Bordeaux and built the treasury up to a stunning two thousand pounds of gold. Notwithstanding the treasury had been severely depleted by the war with West Francia that was now stretching into its thirty-fourth year-a war that he had inherited from his father, Duke Geraud.
But he was also a man of action and such was evidenced by his powerful frame, tight fitting velvet hose and the expensive brocade that adorned his silk tunic. Lost in thought he mused that if his plans were true and his spies correct that war would very soon be at an end. Just to wait for his heralds…
‘Your grace there you are!’ Came a shout from the other end of the gardens, as approaching there was a lithe, almost skeletal man-a minor lord, judging by his raiment, wispy grey hair clinging to his unlovely thin face but eyes that missed nothing. Despite his severe appearance Simon, Baron of La Rochefoucauld, smiled warmly as he gave the most perfunctory of bows to his liege.
‘My Lord Chancellor, I might have divined that you would find me here! Nothing escapes your purview by the mass! You are well acquainted with Pierre Hilaire, my new Chronicler, are you not?’ the Duke asked solicitously gesturing to a slight, blonde youth, following on behind encumbered with parchments and quills.
‘A son of your previous man is he not?’ The Baron opined, fixing the youth with a steely glare, ‘if you are half the scribe your father was then you may well encompass some of the momentous deeds of this age of Aquitaine lad!’
The boy nodded shyly then returned to his furious shorthand. The duke, for his part, took his councillor by the hand and steered him through the hedgerows, the surrounding acacia and beech trees just beginning to blossom even now with winter’s icy grip but recently departed.
‘Ah I do love Saintes at this time of year Simon-now tell me where I stand with my other vassals-think you that they will support me in this bold venture?’
‘Your lords stand four square behind you your grace save for Toulouse whose enmity is not for softening nowise.’
Gaucelin’s affable mien disappeared at once, a stormy look appearing on his countenance-a harbinger of the infamous De Poitou anger that so characterised this dynasty. ‘Ahhhh, Duke Geoffrey, after myself, the realm’s most powerful magnate-how typical that he should be the one to continue to bear the family grudge! I have tried bribes, threats and your good offices but it seems the whoreson will not turn to amity?’
‘He will not my lord. Not without Narbonne…’
‘Narbonne be damned! He will not lay a hand on one of my own domains the ingrate!’ The Duke’s colour was up imagining this slight to his name but then, as if realising where he was he sucked in a deep breath and continued more calmly, ‘think you that he will threaten our plans?’
‘That remains to be seen your Grace-he was not able to use his influence amongst your vassals to stop you changing the inheritance laws was he? I think that on these matters when it comes down to it he is practical and sensible enough not to oppose you.’
Gaucelin was placated-it had been his life’s work to get his barons to agree to a change in the centuries-old inheritance laws such that his titles would now pass to his eldest male issue. His magnates were at a stroke disinherited and there was much opposition from all sides but using impeccable legal arguments and the threat of force he had faced down each and every one of the dissenting vassals and they had finally, not one year past, agreed to pass the new law.
‘They might still bellyache Simon but they will soon see the use of such….
At which point their attention was drawn to another figure approaching from the eastern transept of the castle. The Ducal guards at once parted-this was not a character to be gainsaid.
‘Ah well here's a man who can fill us in methinks. You are well met Valeran!’
The man approaching was suave, well dressed but simply. He had the look of a professional, someone who dealt in the more underhand goings on, someone who was most at ease in the shadows. Ostensibly he was a burgher, the mayor of Royan, one of Aquitaine’s most prosperous towns. In his other life, however, he had built a secretive and powerful spy network and had been honoured to turn it over to his Duke’s service when he got the call these twelve years past.
‘Your Grace-well met indeed.’ The mayor bowed low. He was a lithe man of thirty eight summers-a man utterly in charge of his own destiny. ‘I have come from the same place that my esteemed Lord of Rochefoucauld has; Melgeuil-a nest of vipers where your good grace is concerned if ever I visited one.’
Gaucelin’s mood was in no way leavening with these new tidings such that he snapped ‘I pray you bring me some tidings that I can be joyful about sir!’
For his part the crafty Burgher was none abashed and sought to soothe his lord with the news that he had set in train some events that should Toulouse break cover and move against his rival it would play out very ill for him as far as his hitherto good repute was concerned.
This lightened the mood and as they completed a circuit of the great grounds moving back to the environs of the castle itself they heard the church bells sounding Sext. The Duke was, of a sudden, agitated and purposeful. ‘My friends the game is afoot and I have set in train events that will transform our fortunes. I command you meet me back here in two days hence and much more will be revealed’ He turned to leave and as he did looked back and added ‘oh and bring your harness’ and was gone, determined stride taking him towards the brooding presence of the great Chateau.
The Baron and the Burgher looked askance each upon the other little comprehending what their puissant lord was saying-what game? Why were they not in the know? They were uneasy but had, for too long, been in the service of the Duke to gainsay him and so set off as bidden.
When they returned to Saintes on the day after celebrating the Feast of Saint Eusebius, the fourth of March, it was with some surprise to find the castle and its surrounds full of soldiery. The Mayor’s keen eye reckoned there must be some several thousands-routiers and those wearing the livery of the Duchy of Aquitaine. There must have been near enough ten thousand armed men preparing to march.
As they fought their way past the men they came upon the Duke’s fifteen-year-old son, the Count of Lusignan, himself in battle dress, his handsome young features wreathed in a broad smile. He came to greet them arms outstretched. ‘My lords-is this not a marvellous adventure we are setting forth upon?’ He could hardly contain himself in his youthful enthusiasm.
‘My lord we would fain understand what venture this is that we are embarking upon…your lord father has rather kept us in the dark’ Baron Simon snapped his patience wearing thin. He was a member of the Small Council-it was insufferable that whatever had been decided upon by the Duke it seemed that he was amongst the last to know. He looked at his colleague and was shocked to see that he too was in the know. ‘How did you…?’ He started but was interrupted by the entrance into the courtyard of the Duke himself, riding his favourite charger, a high spirited black stallion. He was an expert horseman and brought the horse to a clattering standstill, sparks flying from the cobbles themselves as the Duke leapt down in full chain armour, a great broadsword hanging by his side, his tabard decorated with the golden lion couchant of Aquitaine against a bright scarlet background. He looked every inch a warrior.
As all knelt low in obeisance he cried out in ringing tones, ‘my friends, my soldiery, we are embarking upon the greatest adventure of our lives-we go to fulfil a destiny that was foretold many hundreds of years ago that it would be the De Poitous who would hold dominion over Aquitaine but not as its Dukes but as its Kings!’ At this a great cheer rose up from all and in the hubbub the Chancellor found himself raised up by his liege and whispered words ‘forgive me my friend-I meant to tell you all but…’ before once again being swept up in the press as all strained to touch the mighty Duke.
That afternoon a host left the environs of Saintes of some ten thousand men at arms and mounted knights. It was an impressive sight and was intended to be so for though the war with West Francia had drained that realm of monies and men it was the other conflicts recently commenced with mighty Italy and also a resurgent England that ensured that the Duke’s kinsman, Charles V had few levies and no monies with which to oppose him.
No battles were fought, no sieges started and prosecuted and so it was that not more than one month later two embassages met in the fields before Paris to parley and broker a final agreement between the two belligerents.
The space before the King’s pavilion was set up such that the entourages could stand off and view their charges deep in conversation in the little valley below them. There had been rain earlier and the ground was damp underfoot but it was a day that was warming quickly and had the promise of a pleasant spring day.
They walked hand in hand for what seemed like an interminable time, the mighty Duke, a man approaching fifty summers, a warrior, powerful, brooding and the young king-his second cousin, for the Duke’s mother had been a Karling princess. What were they finding to talk about all this time the Chancellor fretted? His friend, the Mayor had departed-again for Melgeuil-he had important business to attend to there it seemed and so Simon was left babysitting the Duke’s son who was no less impatient to divine the outcome of their congress. Whatever their discussions behind them stood a powerful reminder to the king that what the Duke may not be granted could be taken by force if necessary. By contrast the King has mustered a pitiful force of a mere two thousand-a sad reflection on their changing fortunes mayhap.
Call yourself kin?
Finally it seemed that they were done. A perfunctory nod from both, an embrace and a kiss and with that the Duke was returning a jaunty spring in his step. At his approach all present hemmed him all around desirous of the outcome-his personal guards rudely barged the nearest out of the way shouting ‘make way! Make way for your king!’
The King? Simon thought as he strained to hear and see-his own retinue making space for him to approach the grinning Gaucelin. Never had he seen him so triumphant. On seeing his Chancellor the new king held out his arms to embrace him and then, as if realising the occasion, held out his hand for Simon to take his hand and kiss his ring in the age old sign of fealty to ones king. He had done it! The good Duke had bested his rival and become a king. The King of Aquitaine, the master of Bretagne and Poitiers-it was the final realisation of a dream…a dream of Aquitaine.
The realisation of my dream
I
A scion of our dynasty...even if I say so myself
A scion of our dynasty...even if I say so myself
I
The lie of the land 1060
The lie of the land 1060
The End
Afterword
Gaucelin was only to survive for four years after he so brazenly inveigled the crown of Aquitaine from his Karling kin but he had set the de Poitou dynasty on very firm ground indeed and by securing Primogeniture inheritance he ensured stability and that the bloodline would be preserved.
You'll miss me...
By 1212 AD his descendant, King Charles VII ‘The Just’ had captured the ancient kingdom of Navarra and parts of Zaragoza from the hitherto mighty Muradid Empire starting what was to be a steady encroachment into Hispania, aided by Crusades called by the Holy Father in Rome and the establishment in Western Hispania of a base for the Knight’s Hospitallers.
His successor, Phillipe I, crowned himself Emperor in 1226 at a glittering ceremony in Saintes, his sons and kin were bequeathed the kingdoms of Brittany, Frisia, Aquitaine, Aragon and Navarra-a glorious legacy for a dynasty that was now one of the most powerful in Christendom. His Imperial Majesty’s twin objectives were now to drive the Moors from Spain in its entirety and to retake what was left of West Francia to make a Greater France.
Go me!
The acquisition of the Empire of Carpathia in the early 1299 by the young Emperor Henri I, on his mother the Empress Dorrottya’s death, cemented that burgeoning power immeasurably and though he would spend the early part of his reign fighting off a number of major internal revolts that sought to challenge his power he was, in the end, victorious and bequeathed his son, Geoffrey II, a vast region. Fifty years later, in the zenith of that illustrious ruler’s reign, his hegemony spanned from the bounds of Moorish Potucale in the west to the steppes of the Bulgars in the East, from icy Denmark in the north to the sandy beaches of Malaga and the grandeur of Granada in the south. He came to be known as ‘Geoffrey the blessed’ such was his fame, his zeal to drive the Moors from Hispania and his cementing of a mighty legacy and an authority to whom no less than five kings would bend the knee, an empire that could summons, in an instant, more than sixty thousand men at arms when the call came. Aquitaine was then a far cry indeed from its humble origins in the eighth and ninth centuries but one that had nonetheless been foretold…
I
“And o’er all a dynasty to reach and grow and strain at power, at rule and overlordship-the De Poitous they…”
Behold my lands and tremble!
Dr Ben Amponsah, Manchester, England, July 2016
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