This is me. The court-artist of the King drew this, and since the King doesn’t like me I was entitled with a horrible haircut. I’ll give my horse – no, my duchy! – to the non-Frenchman that can pronounce my name. I had a German fellow hanged the other day for pronouncing it disgracefully though, so beware if you’re up for the challenge.
To the left, you see my home: Vendome! It’s in north-western France, and all over it are green fields, woodlands, fair maidens that don’t mind getting a visit from the count’s son, and there life was nice.
Right to it is my current residence. It is called Jaffa, as are the oranges from there. It consists of a vast amount of sand, an occasional palm-tree, a few camels and a ton of women that either are married or dressed in tents. As of now, I don't even have a court.
‘Tis the jackass that placed me here. Or well, I guess I ought to be grateful for becoming duke over one of the richest areas of the kingdom – but mind you, those pesky Italian merchants take it all – but the man is an imbecile and I like to blame my horrible placement on him.
In fact, it all started with my father stating, when I became sixteen, that “You lack the right spirit, mah boi! You fight well, but that is about it. I have arranged a transport that will take you to king Badouin’s court, and from there you will make yourself a career as a great military leader.
It all sounded well from the start, but after having spent two weeks in Jerusalem during which I managed,
Primo, to fail to qualify to neither the Knights Templar nor the Order of St. John – not pious enough, they said –,
Segundo to, after my first night with a local woman, acquire rashes on my
Petit Chévalier it was not that fun anymore.
A month later or so there was some heavy bashing with the Saracens however. Since I had nothing better to do – after the incident with the rashes I had avoided all intimate company – I followed on the little campaign. And boy, did we wipe them! Or is it whipped them? Well, never mind. The king appreciated my efforts anyhow, although not enough to let my stay at the court. Thus I am now in charge of a few harbours full of Italians.
A few people have begun to arrive at my court. Mostly local nobles and they are all French, thank God. As you see, I have very appropriate candidates for all posts except for the one of Diocese Bishop – since he is better qualified to do other things – and the one of marshal – as you can see, Guillaume is neither bright nor fierce. He is another worthless son sent away by a disappointed baron of a father.
There’s this guy as well, of course. Interestingly enough, he and Guillaume have almost the exactly same personality. Don’t get fooled by his diplomatic appearance though – Guillaume’s incompetence makes him well-suited as a marshal, since he will obey me more.
It’s rather depressing that the
crème de la crème of the warriors in Jaffa are guys like these two. To be honest, it blows immensely.
My brother sent me a gift today, in the form of a wife. I think it is a taunt, seeing as that he enclosed a note saying something about that if she also gave me rashes, He could re-use her himself. As if I’d give him that pleasure.
Booyaka! If it wasn’t for the fact that I, since the incident in Jerusalem, can’t make my grand one stand rigid anymore, I’d be rolling around between the trees by some oasis already. She might be a complete imbecile, even more useless than Guillaume and Thommy, but there’s some great t&a on this girl.
Duke Tancred wants my very qualified steward to marry his marshal, a bearded chap named Roger. I laugh at his proposition and order a servant to kick the messenger all the way to the door. No way that I am trading away her – that would mean that either my git of a wife or, horrible thought, Thomas as steward.
What the... the hell I will!
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And so the tale about Raoul of the Hard-to-pronounce-surname has started! And so has the series of disclaimers, for no, this little teaser is not at all a plagiarism of the chroniclAARs like phargle, Alfred Packer and anonymous4401, it has one vital difference: these are fully centred! Truly, no one would overcome that argument.
Look for next chapter, when Raoul hates Thomas, looks for the right hole and disobeys the King as the story of the Preuilly’s continues!