Chapter 14:
Aldebert’s Story: Lord of the West March
On the 23rd January 929 I instructed my Chancellor to declare war for the ancient Breton County of Kernev and called on my allies. My kinsman Guillaume of Limousin did not hesitate now he had reached his majority and no longer needed to kowtow to the whims of his guardians. Elsebed of Mortain, for once, declined, mayhap exhausted by my constant demands to aid me in my expansionist aims.
After the death of my second daughter Constance three years past my wife had become frail. Her spirit was as strong as ever but I found myself recalling her prescient words the very month after we announced our intent to take Kernev:
‘It seems that there must be a reckoning with our saviour for your gains in Bretagne my love-for each and every success there comes a price you must pay from your heart.’
I had hushed her, laughing at the time, but when she had caught a chill in the frigid winter of 929 I had feared the worst. She had become weaker and weaker and no amount of bleeding and fussing by my best physicians seemed to avail us. I had eventually, at my patience’s end, forcibly ejected them from her bedchamber and had taken her in my strong arms. She felt like an old twig that I could break in a trice-her life's end was nearing: she had passed only fifty summers.
‘Ah my love my love-how can you leave me to ply this lonely road by myself?’ I had wept like a boy at the thought as I cradled her. She had been more than my paramour, she had been a firm friend and wise counsel, the proud mother of my six children. I had ordered the surviving adult children, Nicolas-back from his sojourn in Galicia-Melisande and dim-witted Ramnulf, to our Manor with all haste but I feared they would be too late. Young Gauzbert, of course, was with me as I become more and more inconsolable.
‘Sweeting you must be strong for our boy’s sake-look how you are distressing him. My lord-look to the lad. Let him say goodbye and come back to me.’ She had whispered her breaths coming in short, laboured gasps.
Weakly I had concurred and left them alone until at last and led wailing by his tutor the lad was taken away. I was back by the proud Duchesses side, holding her. I still could not fathom life without her-it had been thirty two years…
‘I have told the boy that it is to greater things that he must aspire my love,’ she said faintly at last. ‘You are building something-will be lord paramount of nearly all of Western Gaul. That is political capital. The Karlings will not always be pre-eminent…’
‘Challenge them?’ I blinked back tears, ‘you think it possible? We have always been loyal to the crown..’
She struggled up, bid me prop her up on the pillow and took my head in her hands-it seemed like she was using up most of her waning strength to perform even this perfunctory deed. ‘Use your strength my lord-use it or set Gauzbert to use it to establish something better for Aquitaine-what have the Karlings brought us but never ending internecine wars?’
Her eyes were shining brightly, feverish, gripped as she was by the passion of what she was proposing. I found myself caught up in her fervour and assenting vigorously. Satisfied she then settled down and gently, it seemed, fell to sleep.
It was a sleep from which she never awoke…
I mourned her with my surviving children through the spring and once the summer had arrived launched my armies at Kernev, the martial Count Wulgrin at their head. Almost three thousand met their nine hundred at Karacz, crushing the Breton army in a vice with the loss of only one hundred and twenty eight. I read the despatches with a cold heart through the long hot summer-Wulgrin assured me that the war would be over by Christmas.
Too easy!
And so it passed as I was proclaimed Count of Cornouaille (to give Kernev its Frankish name) on the 15th December 929.
Just one Breton County to go mwu hahaha!
I would ponder for six months who to invest with this new holding but as I joined our old king in putting down yet another revolt to lower his crown authority in the spring and summer of that year-this one launched by the Duke of Gascogne’s impudent son, Sigismond of Marsan, it occurred to me that one was more deserving than one of my most trusty generals; Mayor Rorgués of Chancelade.
Again? Come on then Vascons-I will have Agen from you!
‘This is a signal honour Rorgués-you understand?’ I had counselled him on one of the rare occasions he was not in the field fighting my battles. In truth I had ridden south towards our border with Gascony, where our levies were once more mustering to take the fight to Sigismond and invested him before his adoring troops. It was well done for with soldiers symbolism is all.
He had nodded sombrely-he had been a trusty general, there was no reason to believe that he would be anything but a steadfast vassal. I had not tarried long for I had heard news that my Steward Bouchard had died. The same month we mourned the passing of yet another Pope-Eugene III had gone to meet his maker and was succeeded by Adeodatus III, another Holy Father who esteemed me greatly my bishops told me-I was heartened by this as the goodwill of the holy see might benefit me and my progeny greatly if my borders expanded south and met with those of the acquisitive Saracens beyond the Pyrenees. Before that there were lands in Gascony, namely Agen that was mine de jure, and which I was determined to retake as part of the suppression of Sigismond’s revolt.
It was in the summer of 931 that we eventually ran the Gascon rebels to ground, Wulgrin and Rorgues winning several key battles. I prayed to all the providences that we might finally win the province and strike a symbolic blow against one of our oldest rivals. So when messengers arrived at my Chateau in Saintes on a sodden November day, the roads so muddy as to be virtually impassable, my heart gave a start of nervous anticipation-good tidings or ill?
I noted that beneath the grime, the messengers livery bore the golden lilies of West Francia set against a blue background-it was a royal missive!
Calling my Castellan to attend to the Heralds’ horses and bring them warming spiced wine I opened the letters with trepidation. They were not from the old King Charles, who had gone to meet his maker decrepit and infirm, but King Louis, his twenty four year old son. We had a new sovereign and as my greedy eyes ranged across the words I saw I had been relieved of my great office of state as Chancellor, replaced by Theoderic ‘the fat’ of Normandy. I was called on to cease my war with Sigismond who had himself inherited the Duchy of Gascogne from his now deceased father. Agen had once more slipped through my grasp!
Goddamnit!
As soon as the spring came in 932 I called a meeting with my Chancellor to take stock of the new political landscape. Bishop Alberic of Chancelade remained as smooth as ever despite his advancing years and for a well travelled man now in his sixth decade, remarkably sprightly.
‘Your Grace.’ I had said kissing his ring in the age-old fashion.
‘My lord-well met.’ He had responded. We had taken up station in my solar, a place of repose and solitude since my wife’s passing. The Bishop had taken my shoulders in a kindly embrace solicitously asking how I fared.
‘I am well enough your Grace-there remains much to do to prepare the Duchies for my youngest.’
‘Indeed mon Duc-I hear that he is of fine character though somewhat over fond of the whispering arts…think you that his Guardian, Bernard de Bonaguil, is of sound character for that job being also our Spymaster?’
‘Worry you not my friend-he will be just what Aquitaine requires when I have passed. Now tell me what you have gleaned from your recent trip to Paris,’ I said dismissing his concerns blithely for a schemer was just what Aquitaine needed in the years to come-I was sure of it. Such abilities would stand Gauzbert in better stead than the unflinching loyalty and dedication that we had heretofore shown the crown.
‘My Lord you remain the pre-eminent Baron in all of West Francia, both in terms of coin and military might. Then there is Duchess Adelinde of Anjou and now Gascogne-I know how her new marriage must have galled you seeing as you were heretofore in such amity.’
My mouth tightened: I had been wroth indeed when I had learned that Duchess Adelinde, my former friend had remarried when her husband Boudewijn of Flanders had died. I understood that she felt she must protect her birthright for her own progeny but to marry my mortal enemy? It was beyond my understanding and I had sent an angry letter north to Anjou to tell just what I thought of such a match…there had been no response of course.
‘After that there is Jean of Toulouse-he is gone quite mad I am told. Regent is Alarich of Champagne-a piffling Duchy for a trifling man. The Chancellor as you know is Normandy. The new Lord Marshal is Bishop Huguès of St Denis whilst Seneschal is Count Eudes of Chartres.’ The kindly but astute man of the cloth appraised me to see whether my demotion still rankled.
‘If it pleases my lord the new king seems of sound character-he bids me tell you that he will have need of you soon enough but, unlike his father with your uncle, does not intend to work you to death in your winter years.’
‘If it is so then it is well done…I suppose.’ I conceded. ‘What else my lord bishop?’
We passed the rest of the afternoon and evening locked in earnest discussion. At some point I invited young Gauzbert to join us for he must at fourteen, perforce, learn of the affairs of the world ready for his own accession to my lands and titles. He was an eager student gobbling up news of Navarra’s war to acquire Viscaya from Galicia to our South, of Burgundy’s ceding of its lonely county of Amiens, deep in West Francia’s territory, to our new king and Louis’s earnest desire to resist further Muslim expansion in Hispania, particularly in the Duchy of Barcelona and the Baleares. Such passion was to be of momentous consequence for our kingdom and for my own lands…
canny...
In the autumn of 933, October as I recall, I had been locked in a heated discussion with my new Steward, Mayor Ancel, who was of the opinion that the only way to force some of our more recalcitrant peasants to pay their taxes was to hire ruffians to bully and menace them.
‘And your Tax Collectors are not ruffian enough Ancel?’ I snorted derisively, my voice rising in anger. When would my Councillors realise that we depended on the goodwill of the serfs for the good governance and peace of our lands? They were of the opinion that peasants should be squeezed like ripe fruit until the seeds burst from their shattered skin. ‘We will not discuss this matter again-do your job with the means at your disposal Sirrah or I shall find someone else who can!’
Rough them up? Why I oughta!
Suddenly there was a hubbub without and in bustled my Chancellor, the old bishop.
‘Your Grace-well met. I have news of grave import from the royal court: The Saracen Sultan Murad has declared a holy war for Barcelona-the wheel turns once more. The King has said that we should await orders in case a general muster is needed.’
‘I see-someone fetch his Grace a drink. Send for the Lord Marshal-we must be ready for the call to arms.’
We waited…and waited and waited but the call to arms never came. What we did hear were troubling rumours from both Paris and Catalonia that the royal levy had been woefully inadequate, that the Duke of Barcelona had quarrelled with Louis, who had ridden south himself at the head of a mere two thousand men and that Muslim armies in the field numbered five times their number.
Finally, in June 934, we received the dread news that we had all somehow been expecting: our army had been shattered by a vastly superior Muslim one on the plains to the south of Barcelona. The king himself captured and the three richest counties in the Duchy of Barcelona; Urgell, Empuries and Barcelona itself had fallen to the Saracen! Barcelona was now merely a rump of just the Baleares, Mallorca, Ibiza and Menorca-a heinous and catastrophic reverse.
The humbled King was released only one month later by Sultan Murad, often called ‘The Wise’ but the damage had been done both to his own conception of his martial valour and to the spirit of the body politic of West Francia: for a hundred years we had stood firm against Muslim aggression in Hispania-Barcelona was ours! Only to be lost in a trice and because of infighting and squabbling I could barely contain my fury-why had the vassal levies not been called? Between us we could have put more than twenty thousand fighting men into the field against the infidels-more than enough to best them by God! Why had we not been called?
Dear me...
That summer, despite several plots being uncovered that indicated several of my vassals were plotting to claim the title of Duke of Bretagne, I determined to find out-I sent a missive to the king demanding an audience. As the most powerful magnate in the land he could hardly refuse. I set off with my retainers and son in tow on a sultry August day noting with some sadness how French Saintonge had become-even the Peasants were barely troubling to converse in the Langue D’Oc eschewing their old ways for new à la mode French ones.
Sacre bleu!!
‘Never forget your roots mon fils.’ I had sternly told Gauzbert as we rode along. He had nodded but kept his own counsel behind those bright young eyes.
On arrival at the magnificent Chateau and Palace of Melun we were billeted on the castle grounds and I was informed that the King would send for us presently. In the event we were to wait for two whole days before being summonsed-I was seething with anger at this snub to my authority and good name.
As we processed down the Great Hall towards the throne room, my son one step behind me I noted that the throne itself stood empty. We both knelt and awaited the King-I would certainly be mentioning my anger at being kept waiting, I had determined.
It was with some surprise, then, that it was not my sovereign who finally entered but the portly and shuffling figure of Duke Theoderic of Normandy. I rose stiffly, ‘Well met my lord of Normandy-where is the King?’
That fat man looked decidedly nervous, ‘Ahem-erm…our liege is indisposed my lord of Aquitaine-he will not-ah-cannot see you.’
I stood staring, letting the words sink in. I don’t know how much time had passed before I was aware of a pull on my arm-it was my fifteen year old son.
‘Sire mayhap we should tarry not-it seems we are not wanted or needed here.’
I nodded to Gauzbert before turning to fix Normandy and the watching courtiers with a baleful gaze, ‘I will not stay my lord but see you that the king is in no doubt how I have taken this slur to my good name and that of Aquitaine this day.’
Normandy blustered, ‘look you Sir-you cannot come here and levy threats at our...’
‘CANNOT SIR! CANNOT YOU SAY?’ I thundered my self control at last gone, ‘By god sir only time will tell what I can and cannot do-I give you and your milksop king good day!’ And with that I turned on my heel and stalked angrily from the chamber, a worried Bishop Alberic and my silent son in my train.
I retired forthwith to my domains to lick my wounds and fulminate against this most ingrate king. My son, ever my confidante and companion was an ever-present salve to my wounds. He turned sixteen on the Feast of Saint Gregory, the 9th March 935 and was immediately invested by me as the Count of Perigord, all the better to support me and resist several plots to do away with him from his jealous cousins, Ramnulf, my eldest’s dim witted progeny.
He will do nicely
That autumn as I digested news of the departure of yet another Holy Father-Adeodatus, succeeded by Zachary II, I fell seriously ill-it was an illness from which I began to doubt that I would recover as autumn turned to winter and then to spring again. But recover I did, much to Gauzbert’s relief-he and his elder brother Nicolas who had become his strong right hand. If he minded playing second fiddle to his young sibling it did not show-he had already been King for awhile after all-his sons and daughters princes of Galicia.
As I recuperated I contented myself with spending time with my youngest daughter Mélisande, she was a spirited lady but not one for marrying-she had long expressed a wish to be with her own fairer sex-eschewing the thought of a marriage. I had indulged her despite salacious rumours that persisted in Saintes of illicit and sinful trysts with other noble ladies. My dearest Constance had bequeathed me three grandsons in East Francia but they were far away and wholly German-I did not hear from them. And then there was my drooling eldest Ramnulf whose lack of wit had not dimmed his ability to procreate seeing as he had whelped no less than four children, two boys and two girls-all as ugly as sin and none any brighter than their lackwit father-one, however, Benoîte had managed to be crowned Queen of Pannonia-wonders would never cease!
The news that arrived hotfoot at my Chateau in the summer of 936 was of surprise to no one: the Emir of Africa Sultan Suleyman II had declared a holy war to take the Baleares. I cared not-I was more concerned with finding Gauzbert a good match with an Occitan noblewoman, Petronilla de Gevaudan. The betrothal was duly arranged.
In April the next year I adjudged the time propitious to send Count Guruant of Roazhon my intent to seize the County from him since he refused to be my vassal. War it was to be-his cause hopeless.
Not three months later further dread news: our king was dead-slain before the walls of Palma de Mallorca by a rampant Muslim army. His son-one year old Charles IV-his Regent a mere Mayor: Henri of Aubusson, his mother a mere twenty-year-old stripling, Queen Mother Ursula. Urgent letters arrived at Saintes asking, cajoling, begging me to declare my allegiance to the new child king-I demurred. I owed them nothing at all-now would the Karlings come to see the reckoning at hand.
Our king-a babe?
I like not the amount of land the Muslim holds...
Early in 938 Roazhon finally fell and I became Count of Rennes-it was the last piece in the Bretagne puzzle and made me Lord Paramount of the West March of Francia from stormy Leon in the North to hot and arid Bordeaux in the south. I had only just also received word of the passing of my Paladin, Lord Marshal Rorgués of Cornouaille, without issue and so I received back from him that County. It would be for Gauzbert to decide whom to invest it with. Meanwhile I gave orders that Count Wulgrin, that other fearsome warrior, would succeed as Lord Marshal.
Why thanks!
In March 939 I received the following letter from the Regency Council:
To the most high and esteemed Duke of Aquitaine
You will no doubt be aware that our situation is most grave regarding our on going war with the Saracen. We have entreated you before and do so again-we beg you to commit your power to our cause, raise your levies and despatch them to assist us in Mallorca. All bad blood that has been extant between our liege and the good lord of Aquitaine shall be expunged should you heed us in our time of gravest need.
Concilium Regis
My answer was no.
I fell ill again that summer and this time there was to be no spirited recovery: I took to my bed permanently-I had passed sixty four summers-I could see the end of my life’s road. Not such a bad thought I had mused as it will reunite me with my beloved Imagina.
What's that you say?
As the war with the Muslim raged we found that Saracen armies had landed to our north and in Agen to the south. I could stay mute no longer and ordered a general muster under Count Ximeno of Bordeaux. I also summoned my three sons and daughter to my manor-it was to bid them farewell. Mélisande of course was inconsolable, Nicolas stoic, Ramnulf just drooled as was his wont. I dismissed them all. It was Gauzbert my youngest, still only eighteen, who parting from would be hardest.
‘How do you fare father?’ He had said his eyes moist
‘Ah not so bad my son-not so bad. At least I know that my passing, whensoever it should come, will be a painless one.’
Gauzbert gripped my frail hand in his youthful strong one
‘This man here’ I said indicating the scribe furiously writing away at my bedside, ‘comes from a great family of chroniclers-you will let him take up your-our story. It shall be easier for you that way.’
From now on he can do the work!
‘As you wish father.’
I could feel the strength fading from my body with every minute that passed. ‘This new Karling king-he is yet a babe. We owe them no allegiance now you understand?’
‘I have understood that since we were at Melun father-I understand that my duty is first and foremost to Aquitaine, Bretagne and Poitiers.’ His eyes were bright with passion. He would do well by me and my forebears-it was done. Aquitaine would rise under this son of mine. This son of ours. And now sweet repose take me and that sweet light beyond which resides my beloved wife, my dear uncle and my sweet father…
Aldebert’s Story: Lord of the West March
On the 23rd January 929 I instructed my Chancellor to declare war for the ancient Breton County of Kernev and called on my allies. My kinsman Guillaume of Limousin did not hesitate now he had reached his majority and no longer needed to kowtow to the whims of his guardians. Elsebed of Mortain, for once, declined, mayhap exhausted by my constant demands to aid me in my expansionist aims.
After the death of my second daughter Constance three years past my wife had become frail. Her spirit was as strong as ever but I found myself recalling her prescient words the very month after we announced our intent to take Kernev:
‘It seems that there must be a reckoning with our saviour for your gains in Bretagne my love-for each and every success there comes a price you must pay from your heart.’
I had hushed her, laughing at the time, but when she had caught a chill in the frigid winter of 929 I had feared the worst. She had become weaker and weaker and no amount of bleeding and fussing by my best physicians seemed to avail us. I had eventually, at my patience’s end, forcibly ejected them from her bedchamber and had taken her in my strong arms. She felt like an old twig that I could break in a trice-her life's end was nearing: she had passed only fifty summers.
‘Ah my love my love-how can you leave me to ply this lonely road by myself?’ I had wept like a boy at the thought as I cradled her. She had been more than my paramour, she had been a firm friend and wise counsel, the proud mother of my six children. I had ordered the surviving adult children, Nicolas-back from his sojourn in Galicia-Melisande and dim-witted Ramnulf, to our Manor with all haste but I feared they would be too late. Young Gauzbert, of course, was with me as I become more and more inconsolable.
‘Sweeting you must be strong for our boy’s sake-look how you are distressing him. My lord-look to the lad. Let him say goodbye and come back to me.’ She had whispered her breaths coming in short, laboured gasps.
Weakly I had concurred and left them alone until at last and led wailing by his tutor the lad was taken away. I was back by the proud Duchesses side, holding her. I still could not fathom life without her-it had been thirty two years…
‘I have told the boy that it is to greater things that he must aspire my love,’ she said faintly at last. ‘You are building something-will be lord paramount of nearly all of Western Gaul. That is political capital. The Karlings will not always be pre-eminent…’
‘Challenge them?’ I blinked back tears, ‘you think it possible? We have always been loyal to the crown..’
She struggled up, bid me prop her up on the pillow and took my head in her hands-it seemed like she was using up most of her waning strength to perform even this perfunctory deed. ‘Use your strength my lord-use it or set Gauzbert to use it to establish something better for Aquitaine-what have the Karlings brought us but never ending internecine wars?’
Her eyes were shining brightly, feverish, gripped as she was by the passion of what she was proposing. I found myself caught up in her fervour and assenting vigorously. Satisfied she then settled down and gently, it seemed, fell to sleep.
It was a sleep from which she never awoke…
I mourned her with my surviving children through the spring and once the summer had arrived launched my armies at Kernev, the martial Count Wulgrin at their head. Almost three thousand met their nine hundred at Karacz, crushing the Breton army in a vice with the loss of only one hundred and twenty eight. I read the despatches with a cold heart through the long hot summer-Wulgrin assured me that the war would be over by Christmas.
Too easy!
And so it passed as I was proclaimed Count of Cornouaille (to give Kernev its Frankish name) on the 15th December 929.
Just one Breton County to go mwu hahaha!
I would ponder for six months who to invest with this new holding but as I joined our old king in putting down yet another revolt to lower his crown authority in the spring and summer of that year-this one launched by the Duke of Gascogne’s impudent son, Sigismond of Marsan, it occurred to me that one was more deserving than one of my most trusty generals; Mayor Rorgués of Chancelade.
Again? Come on then Vascons-I will have Agen from you!
‘This is a signal honour Rorgués-you understand?’ I had counselled him on one of the rare occasions he was not in the field fighting my battles. In truth I had ridden south towards our border with Gascony, where our levies were once more mustering to take the fight to Sigismond and invested him before his adoring troops. It was well done for with soldiers symbolism is all.
He had nodded sombrely-he had been a trusty general, there was no reason to believe that he would be anything but a steadfast vassal. I had not tarried long for I had heard news that my Steward Bouchard had died. The same month we mourned the passing of yet another Pope-Eugene III had gone to meet his maker and was succeeded by Adeodatus III, another Holy Father who esteemed me greatly my bishops told me-I was heartened by this as the goodwill of the holy see might benefit me and my progeny greatly if my borders expanded south and met with those of the acquisitive Saracens beyond the Pyrenees. Before that there were lands in Gascony, namely Agen that was mine de jure, and which I was determined to retake as part of the suppression of Sigismond’s revolt.
It was in the summer of 931 that we eventually ran the Gascon rebels to ground, Wulgrin and Rorgues winning several key battles. I prayed to all the providences that we might finally win the province and strike a symbolic blow against one of our oldest rivals. So when messengers arrived at my Chateau in Saintes on a sodden November day, the roads so muddy as to be virtually impassable, my heart gave a start of nervous anticipation-good tidings or ill?
I noted that beneath the grime, the messengers livery bore the golden lilies of West Francia set against a blue background-it was a royal missive!
Calling my Castellan to attend to the Heralds’ horses and bring them warming spiced wine I opened the letters with trepidation. They were not from the old King Charles, who had gone to meet his maker decrepit and infirm, but King Louis, his twenty four year old son. We had a new sovereign and as my greedy eyes ranged across the words I saw I had been relieved of my great office of state as Chancellor, replaced by Theoderic ‘the fat’ of Normandy. I was called on to cease my war with Sigismond who had himself inherited the Duchy of Gascogne from his now deceased father. Agen had once more slipped through my grasp!
Goddamnit!
As soon as the spring came in 932 I called a meeting with my Chancellor to take stock of the new political landscape. Bishop Alberic of Chancelade remained as smooth as ever despite his advancing years and for a well travelled man now in his sixth decade, remarkably sprightly.
‘Your Grace.’ I had said kissing his ring in the age-old fashion.
‘My lord-well met.’ He had responded. We had taken up station in my solar, a place of repose and solitude since my wife’s passing. The Bishop had taken my shoulders in a kindly embrace solicitously asking how I fared.
‘I am well enough your Grace-there remains much to do to prepare the Duchies for my youngest.’
‘Indeed mon Duc-I hear that he is of fine character though somewhat over fond of the whispering arts…think you that his Guardian, Bernard de Bonaguil, is of sound character for that job being also our Spymaster?’
‘Worry you not my friend-he will be just what Aquitaine requires when I have passed. Now tell me what you have gleaned from your recent trip to Paris,’ I said dismissing his concerns blithely for a schemer was just what Aquitaine needed in the years to come-I was sure of it. Such abilities would stand Gauzbert in better stead than the unflinching loyalty and dedication that we had heretofore shown the crown.
‘My Lord you remain the pre-eminent Baron in all of West Francia, both in terms of coin and military might. Then there is Duchess Adelinde of Anjou and now Gascogne-I know how her new marriage must have galled you seeing as you were heretofore in such amity.’
My mouth tightened: I had been wroth indeed when I had learned that Duchess Adelinde, my former friend had remarried when her husband Boudewijn of Flanders had died. I understood that she felt she must protect her birthright for her own progeny but to marry my mortal enemy? It was beyond my understanding and I had sent an angry letter north to Anjou to tell just what I thought of such a match…there had been no response of course.
‘After that there is Jean of Toulouse-he is gone quite mad I am told. Regent is Alarich of Champagne-a piffling Duchy for a trifling man. The Chancellor as you know is Normandy. The new Lord Marshal is Bishop Huguès of St Denis whilst Seneschal is Count Eudes of Chartres.’ The kindly but astute man of the cloth appraised me to see whether my demotion still rankled.
‘If it pleases my lord the new king seems of sound character-he bids me tell you that he will have need of you soon enough but, unlike his father with your uncle, does not intend to work you to death in your winter years.’
‘If it is so then it is well done…I suppose.’ I conceded. ‘What else my lord bishop?’
We passed the rest of the afternoon and evening locked in earnest discussion. At some point I invited young Gauzbert to join us for he must at fourteen, perforce, learn of the affairs of the world ready for his own accession to my lands and titles. He was an eager student gobbling up news of Navarra’s war to acquire Viscaya from Galicia to our South, of Burgundy’s ceding of its lonely county of Amiens, deep in West Francia’s territory, to our new king and Louis’s earnest desire to resist further Muslim expansion in Hispania, particularly in the Duchy of Barcelona and the Baleares. Such passion was to be of momentous consequence for our kingdom and for my own lands…
canny...
In the autumn of 933, October as I recall, I had been locked in a heated discussion with my new Steward, Mayor Ancel, who was of the opinion that the only way to force some of our more recalcitrant peasants to pay their taxes was to hire ruffians to bully and menace them.
‘And your Tax Collectors are not ruffian enough Ancel?’ I snorted derisively, my voice rising in anger. When would my Councillors realise that we depended on the goodwill of the serfs for the good governance and peace of our lands? They were of the opinion that peasants should be squeezed like ripe fruit until the seeds burst from their shattered skin. ‘We will not discuss this matter again-do your job with the means at your disposal Sirrah or I shall find someone else who can!’
Rough them up? Why I oughta!
Suddenly there was a hubbub without and in bustled my Chancellor, the old bishop.
‘Your Grace-well met. I have news of grave import from the royal court: The Saracen Sultan Murad has declared a holy war for Barcelona-the wheel turns once more. The King has said that we should await orders in case a general muster is needed.’
‘I see-someone fetch his Grace a drink. Send for the Lord Marshal-we must be ready for the call to arms.’
We waited…and waited and waited but the call to arms never came. What we did hear were troubling rumours from both Paris and Catalonia that the royal levy had been woefully inadequate, that the Duke of Barcelona had quarrelled with Louis, who had ridden south himself at the head of a mere two thousand men and that Muslim armies in the field numbered five times their number.
Finally, in June 934, we received the dread news that we had all somehow been expecting: our army had been shattered by a vastly superior Muslim one on the plains to the south of Barcelona. The king himself captured and the three richest counties in the Duchy of Barcelona; Urgell, Empuries and Barcelona itself had fallen to the Saracen! Barcelona was now merely a rump of just the Baleares, Mallorca, Ibiza and Menorca-a heinous and catastrophic reverse.
The humbled King was released only one month later by Sultan Murad, often called ‘The Wise’ but the damage had been done both to his own conception of his martial valour and to the spirit of the body politic of West Francia: for a hundred years we had stood firm against Muslim aggression in Hispania-Barcelona was ours! Only to be lost in a trice and because of infighting and squabbling I could barely contain my fury-why had the vassal levies not been called? Between us we could have put more than twenty thousand fighting men into the field against the infidels-more than enough to best them by God! Why had we not been called?
Dear me...
That summer, despite several plots being uncovered that indicated several of my vassals were plotting to claim the title of Duke of Bretagne, I determined to find out-I sent a missive to the king demanding an audience. As the most powerful magnate in the land he could hardly refuse. I set off with my retainers and son in tow on a sultry August day noting with some sadness how French Saintonge had become-even the Peasants were barely troubling to converse in the Langue D’Oc eschewing their old ways for new à la mode French ones.
Sacre bleu!!
‘Never forget your roots mon fils.’ I had sternly told Gauzbert as we rode along. He had nodded but kept his own counsel behind those bright young eyes.
On arrival at the magnificent Chateau and Palace of Melun we were billeted on the castle grounds and I was informed that the King would send for us presently. In the event we were to wait for two whole days before being summonsed-I was seething with anger at this snub to my authority and good name.
As we processed down the Great Hall towards the throne room, my son one step behind me I noted that the throne itself stood empty. We both knelt and awaited the King-I would certainly be mentioning my anger at being kept waiting, I had determined.
It was with some surprise, then, that it was not my sovereign who finally entered but the portly and shuffling figure of Duke Theoderic of Normandy. I rose stiffly, ‘Well met my lord of Normandy-where is the King?’
That fat man looked decidedly nervous, ‘Ahem-erm…our liege is indisposed my lord of Aquitaine-he will not-ah-cannot see you.’
I stood staring, letting the words sink in. I don’t know how much time had passed before I was aware of a pull on my arm-it was my fifteen year old son.
‘Sire mayhap we should tarry not-it seems we are not wanted or needed here.’
I nodded to Gauzbert before turning to fix Normandy and the watching courtiers with a baleful gaze, ‘I will not stay my lord but see you that the king is in no doubt how I have taken this slur to my good name and that of Aquitaine this day.’
Normandy blustered, ‘look you Sir-you cannot come here and levy threats at our...’
‘CANNOT SIR! CANNOT YOU SAY?’ I thundered my self control at last gone, ‘By god sir only time will tell what I can and cannot do-I give you and your milksop king good day!’ And with that I turned on my heel and stalked angrily from the chamber, a worried Bishop Alberic and my silent son in my train.
I retired forthwith to my domains to lick my wounds and fulminate against this most ingrate king. My son, ever my confidante and companion was an ever-present salve to my wounds. He turned sixteen on the Feast of Saint Gregory, the 9th March 935 and was immediately invested by me as the Count of Perigord, all the better to support me and resist several plots to do away with him from his jealous cousins, Ramnulf, my eldest’s dim witted progeny.
He will do nicely
That autumn as I digested news of the departure of yet another Holy Father-Adeodatus, succeeded by Zachary II, I fell seriously ill-it was an illness from which I began to doubt that I would recover as autumn turned to winter and then to spring again. But recover I did, much to Gauzbert’s relief-he and his elder brother Nicolas who had become his strong right hand. If he minded playing second fiddle to his young sibling it did not show-he had already been King for awhile after all-his sons and daughters princes of Galicia.
As I recuperated I contented myself with spending time with my youngest daughter Mélisande, she was a spirited lady but not one for marrying-she had long expressed a wish to be with her own fairer sex-eschewing the thought of a marriage. I had indulged her despite salacious rumours that persisted in Saintes of illicit and sinful trysts with other noble ladies. My dearest Constance had bequeathed me three grandsons in East Francia but they were far away and wholly German-I did not hear from them. And then there was my drooling eldest Ramnulf whose lack of wit had not dimmed his ability to procreate seeing as he had whelped no less than four children, two boys and two girls-all as ugly as sin and none any brighter than their lackwit father-one, however, Benoîte had managed to be crowned Queen of Pannonia-wonders would never cease!
The news that arrived hotfoot at my Chateau in the summer of 936 was of surprise to no one: the Emir of Africa Sultan Suleyman II had declared a holy war to take the Baleares. I cared not-I was more concerned with finding Gauzbert a good match with an Occitan noblewoman, Petronilla de Gevaudan. The betrothal was duly arranged.
In April the next year I adjudged the time propitious to send Count Guruant of Roazhon my intent to seize the County from him since he refused to be my vassal. War it was to be-his cause hopeless.
Not three months later further dread news: our king was dead-slain before the walls of Palma de Mallorca by a rampant Muslim army. His son-one year old Charles IV-his Regent a mere Mayor: Henri of Aubusson, his mother a mere twenty-year-old stripling, Queen Mother Ursula. Urgent letters arrived at Saintes asking, cajoling, begging me to declare my allegiance to the new child king-I demurred. I owed them nothing at all-now would the Karlings come to see the reckoning at hand.
Our king-a babe?
I like not the amount of land the Muslim holds...
Early in 938 Roazhon finally fell and I became Count of Rennes-it was the last piece in the Bretagne puzzle and made me Lord Paramount of the West March of Francia from stormy Leon in the North to hot and arid Bordeaux in the south. I had only just also received word of the passing of my Paladin, Lord Marshal Rorgués of Cornouaille, without issue and so I received back from him that County. It would be for Gauzbert to decide whom to invest it with. Meanwhile I gave orders that Count Wulgrin, that other fearsome warrior, would succeed as Lord Marshal.
Why thanks!
In March 939 I received the following letter from the Regency Council:
To the most high and esteemed Duke of Aquitaine
You will no doubt be aware that our situation is most grave regarding our on going war with the Saracen. We have entreated you before and do so again-we beg you to commit your power to our cause, raise your levies and despatch them to assist us in Mallorca. All bad blood that has been extant between our liege and the good lord of Aquitaine shall be expunged should you heed us in our time of gravest need.
Concilium Regis
My answer was no.
I fell ill again that summer and this time there was to be no spirited recovery: I took to my bed permanently-I had passed sixty four summers-I could see the end of my life’s road. Not such a bad thought I had mused as it will reunite me with my beloved Imagina.
What's that you say?
As the war with the Muslim raged we found that Saracen armies had landed to our north and in Agen to the south. I could stay mute no longer and ordered a general muster under Count Ximeno of Bordeaux. I also summoned my three sons and daughter to my manor-it was to bid them farewell. Mélisande of course was inconsolable, Nicolas stoic, Ramnulf just drooled as was his wont. I dismissed them all. It was Gauzbert my youngest, still only eighteen, who parting from would be hardest.
‘How do you fare father?’ He had said his eyes moist
‘Ah not so bad my son-not so bad. At least I know that my passing, whensoever it should come, will be a painless one.’
Gauzbert gripped my frail hand in his youthful strong one
‘This man here’ I said indicating the scribe furiously writing away at my bedside, ‘comes from a great family of chroniclers-you will let him take up your-our story. It shall be easier for you that way.’
From now on he can do the work!
‘As you wish father.’
I could feel the strength fading from my body with every minute that passed. ‘This new Karling king-he is yet a babe. We owe them no allegiance now you understand?’
‘I have understood that since we were at Melun father-I understand that my duty is first and foremost to Aquitaine, Bretagne and Poitiers.’ His eyes were bright with passion. He would do well by me and my forebears-it was done. Aquitaine would rise under this son of mine. This son of ours. And now sweet repose take me and that sweet light beyond which resides my beloved wife, my dear uncle and my sweet father…
