Ragnar grunted as the boats rocking almost made him fall off the bench. He chewed the salmon a little more and spat it out to the water after which he turned back to look at his mysterious client. He wasn't one for questions, he was a simple norseman trying to make a living in a constantly normanising Britain. The man made him a little nervous though, he wore a white robe with a grand black cross with its borders made out of real gold, real gold!, on the back. As he was having a rest in the Rennes docks, the man approached him and without saying anything threw a purse on his lap. Then he pointed north over the Channel. And that was the last he had anything even close to a conversation with him. As he sat down on one of the benches back in France, he was sitting there still. Another thing that made him nervous was the fact that the traveller hasn't moved even an inch since then! Every time he looked at him he sat in the same position. His head down, his hands together as in a prayer. Ragnar shook his head and looked at the sail. There wasn't much wind but they should arrive in Cornwall by the evening. Ah, well. The job wasn't that bad. Even though the client was odd, he got enough money to get drunk for a whole week.
"When?" The harsh voice of the robed man almost gave him a heart attack.
"S.. Sorry?" Ragnar turned around holding his chest and huffing.
"When shall we arrive?" For the first time Ragnar could see his clients face as he looked up and took of his cloak. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and he could see armor under his white tunic.
"Ah... Um... This evening M'lord. Are you in a hurry?" The ferry man quieted himself down and tried to look into his clients eyes. The mans gaze was as steel.
"No. It is fine." The mysterious knight put the cloak back on and leaned back, probably to get some sleep.
Ragnar shook his head in disbelief. Why would a noble knight use a simple ferry boat like his? Ah, those nobles. Lousy lot, all of 'em. And what was that thing he held in his hands? It looked like a rosary but the beads looked strange. Maybe he was a monk? One of those knight-monks who served the pope in the Holy Land? Who knew.
As those interesting debates took place in Ragnars mind, his throat reminded him it was at least an hour since his last drank. With a sigh he grabbed the horn he had under his bench and poured himself some beer from his travelling keg. It was hard to live day by day when everything was changing. Alcohol helped.
Time stopped for those few seconds before the crash of the armies. Neros and Stephanes gazes met and in an instant, the two kings knew only death of one of them would end this. As the distance between them shortened, the first french nobles reached the Wardens. Blood and wood were everywhere around them as lances broke either on armor or flesh, but the two kings were focused only on themselves. The world around them didn't exist. Nero sheathed his bastard sword and reached for his spear while Stephane adjusted his shield and aimed his sword straight at the head of the english king. The distance grew smaller and smaller. Stephane was seconds away when Nero holding his spear together with his rosary in his left hand and his right tightening its grip on the bridle jumped out of the saddle and held on to his horses right side . After Stephanes sword swung through air where Neros neck was a second before, the englishman jumped back into the saddle and turning around thrusted his spear forward where it found its target. The spear entered the french kings body from the back and re-appeared on the front. Nero let go of it to save himself from falling from the horse and looked as the dying king galloped forward on his horse. The un-experienced french nobles were slowly giving ground to the Wardens but when they saw their king pierced by a spear they broke into a full rout. The battle was won. Agincourt was english. The french king was dead.
"Hurray for England!" With his sword back in his hand, Nero shouted into the air. "Hurray for Britannia!"
The Wardens yelled with their king, and as the soldiers broke into a celebration one of them rode to the kings side.
"We won!" Rodrigo was covered in both blood and mud, but his distinctive smile would make Nero recognize him whatever was happening.
"Those rats are escaping, give me permission to get them while they're still close! We should use our victory to the fulelst"
"Fine!" Nero tried to calm his horse as he started to get unnerved by the racket going on around. "Capture some of them alive if you can! I think I can find some uses for them!"
"As you wish,
Commander!" With a laugh, the spaniard gathered some men and bolted forward after the french.
Nero smiled as he heard the cheers, this was his day. This was his war. And he would make sure this was his age. He rose his left hand into the sky and opened it letting the beads hang on his fingers.
"God has granted me victory!" This one yell, lost in the noise on the battlefield was heard by someone far far away. A certain knight in London smiled and opened his hands discovering a rosary. A skull rosary.
England was much alike to other european countries. They were almost like France, but if you would tell an englishman it was so, you would risk dying. Many elements of norse, and to a smaller extent, celtic, cultures were present too. Big parts of the saxon culture were also normanised to fit into the new realm. But they were basically french. And he had no sympathy for the french. But a papal order was like an order from God so he had no choice but to obey. He would go to London, and he would get English support for the knight orders. One way or another. He still wasn't sure of the Papal decision to break the
Miles Militis Dei into smaller parts that would become Knight-Monk orders. His friend, knight Gerard Tune has gone to Sicily to establish a Mediterranean based order with French backing, his former master and leader of the
Militis Dei, Heinrich von Bassenheim has gone to Athens to bring Catholicism to schismatics and muslims alike. He was chosen to go to England and establish a military order that would eventually take the role of protecting pilgrims in Egypt and Levant.
The three Great Military Orders of the Dark Ages
As his horse made its way over a hill he, for a short moment, had to admit the english were powerful. London, the capitol city, was stretching on the horizon. He remembered the words of some french, that London was a cancer on the english land, constantly spreading and expanding. Those words were pretty accurate, if things would go on like this for the next, say, fifty years, London could surpass even Constantinople from the times it still stood. As he made his way around the various merchants and their carts, he couldn't stop himself from thinking about the potential his mission had. Even though those thoughts weren't ones the Pope would approve off, he was a free man now, wasn't he? He was free of the Papal supervision, the Regent of Christ has made him the master of himself, the only duty he had now was the one before God. With the backing of the english king he could create an order that could promote christianity even in the furthest corners of the world.
As Hughes de Payens made his way to the Grand Palace of the Briton rulers as the kings of England styled themselves, the king himself was riding alongside his friend on one of the tracts to London, coming back from a Falconering trip. The meeting between the two would shape Europe for years to come.