Skofte Ossorsson Crovan
King of Norway, The Heretic King
Grumblings about the middle years, 1159-1163
Here is my newest daughter Ingrid. At this point I’m just picking the names out of the baby book at random. I think Ingrid means "Dweller of the farmlands."
At this point some of you may be wondering why I am
so concerned about producing an heir. “But Skofte,” you might be saying, “surely you have some high quality nephews out there who could really do a great job as kings.”
To these people, I say meet Uncle Aslak’s Grandson, Grim the Inbred. My current heir.
Gudbrand graduated from Court School today with a major in Scheming and a minor in Flamboyancy. I am adding the job Special Envoy to Whining Courtiers to his titles.
*sigh* And here is my newest daughter Ecfrida. I’m still working through the “Frida” section of the baby book.
On the world news front, England is totally gone. So is the Holy Roman Empire. Bohemia is holding on pretty well. None of this, of course, involves me at all.
A self-proclaimed talented warrior offers to take my nine year old daughter into the woods and make “a real man” out of her. The best part is that he wants almost 300 pounds of gold for this service.
I guess everyone has just decided that Skofte the Heretic is a total moron. Today, the Papal Nuncio popped by with an offer of reconciliation from the Pope himself. For the bargain price of 1,424 pounds of gold – the sacrament of abject soul crushing poverty – the Pope will let me back into Heaven (and will also stop inciting my subjects to violent revolution).
Since I no longer have subjects with enough power to actually accomplish anything should they rebel, I like having money, and I won’t be allowed to plant Horseheads of Shame should I rejoin the Catholic fold, I politely refuse.
My refusal to ruin the whole nation by rejoining the Catholic Church seems to have upset Trian of Uliad, a crazy vengeful murderous cruel Irish fanatical suicidal goober who for some reason has been allowed to live within the castle walls. I sent him off to speak with my Special Envoy to Whiney Courtiers. I hear he has since departed to a Swedish court.
My Horsehead of Shame (and its attendant curse) has begun to bear fruit.
Gudbrand, in his role as Special Envoy to Whiney Courtiers might have crossed a line today by tossing Maria Skenkillsdottir out of a castle window. While many did consider her “whiney” in a traditional sense, she had never really complained to me, which kind of places her outside the scope of Gudbrand’s job description.
I did thank him for taking such a proactive stance in regards to his duties.
The other courtiers seemed a little upset that I did not, say, punish Gudbrand in anyway for this murder. They shut up when I offered to let them speak individually with my Special Envoy.
Alas, dear Gudbrand himself passed away today. The official cause of death, as listed by my official court doctor Skenkill was an acute iron allergy brought on by an attempted suicide. I am not sure how Gudbrand mananged to stab himself 43 times in the back, stomach and head with four different knives, but he was always a very industrious fellow.
So Skofte spent the whole episode sitting around complaining and accomplishing nothing – yet again. The only active member of the court was Gudbrand, and now he is dead, the tragic victim of suicide. The author would attempt a clever cliff-hanging teaser, but with Skofte on the thone what is the point? “What color socks will Skofte choose tomorrow? Find out on the next exciting episode?” Not likely. With any luck, Skofte won’t bore away the rest of the readers on the next stupefying episode of