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May be a bit premature but I have this feeling that Rictus may be one of the few survivors in this little story.
His Excellency the Cardinal xxxxxx, Canterbury
Your Excellency,
I am writing to you in secret; as a pledge may it be said that I served under the Late Protector Lord Cromwell, whose particular friend I became during his Italian days. During those days I met you in the monastary of Santa Arielle in San Giminano. May this serve to identify me in your eyes.
You may be aware of the recent developments at court and the manner in which these are handled by Lord Cromwell (the younger). You will also be most certainly aware of the involvement of members of the order of St. Columbo, in particular that of another Italian acquaintance: Petronius Falkenburgh (I have only now learned the correct name). You may not know that Charles Cromwell has sent inquiries to the Holy Father in Canterbury to stop the activities of the Columbian monks and to request a renewed inquisition in England. (I have this intelligence from a letter sent by Cromwell that I paid some footman dearly to read.) As you are aware, this means that the position of the most Holy Catholic Church in England would be undermined, since the people here, seeing how they have to put up with mint sauce and kidney-pies, would surely not put up with Church oppression. You will know what steps to take in this situation.
You should know that I have established a loose connection with an interested faction at court, led by LD and devout Catholic Poles (they are looking for a Polich papacy, surely...).
My situation in England is dangerous since Cromwell has put a price on my head and sworn that he will kill me if I set foot on English soil. There may be a mongolian bloodhound already on my scent... Also, I know that my mail is being intercepted. Probably Cromwell's puppet in New York, Stuyvesand, is looking for me already: My views on Cromwell are well-known.
Your Excellency, I comend my soul to God, and wish you well---
XXX
P.S. Do you know about a certain Fournier, an expatriot Frenchman? He was recommended to me but I hitherto considered him Cromwell's henchman. X
Your Excellency,
I am writing to you in secret; as a pledge may it be said that I served under the Late Protector Lord Cromwell, whose particular friend I became during his Italian days. During those days I met you in the monastary of Santa Arielle in San Giminano. May this serve to identify me in your eyes.
You may be aware of the recent developments at court and the manner in which these are handled by Lord Cromwell (the younger). You will also be most certainly aware of the involvement of members of the order of St. Columbo, in particular that of another Italian acquaintance: Petronius Falkenburgh (I have only now learned the correct name). You may not know that Charles Cromwell has sent inquiries to the Holy Father in Canterbury to stop the activities of the Columbian monks and to request a renewed inquisition in England. (I have this intelligence from a letter sent by Cromwell that I paid some footman dearly to read.) As you are aware, this means that the position of the most Holy Catholic Church in England would be undermined, since the people here, seeing how they have to put up with mint sauce and kidney-pies, would surely not put up with Church oppression. You will know what steps to take in this situation.
You should know that I have established a loose connection with an interested faction at court, led by LD and devout Catholic Poles (they are looking for a Polich papacy, surely...).
My situation in England is dangerous since Cromwell has put a price on my head and sworn that he will kill me if I set foot on English soil. There may be a mongolian bloodhound already on my scent... Also, I know that my mail is being intercepted. Probably Cromwell's puppet in New York, Stuyvesand, is looking for me already: My views on Cromwell are well-known.
Your Excellency, I comend my soul to God, and wish you well---
XXX
P.S. Do you know about a certain Fournier, an expatriot Frenchman? He was recommended to me but I hitherto considered him Cromwell's henchman. X
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Some comments on anachronisms
Noooooo! How can you send a telegram when the postal service has not been around that long (I am not even sure it already is) ?
And if it takes you only two days on horseback to go from York to London there's not much point sending a courier : he probably will not be that much faster! So let's say it's an agreed-upon rendez-vous.
Apart from that this guy du Basra not only is not worried about being noticed throwing money like that around, but he must have a line direct to the Exchequer!
Also who's still minting ducats. I mean, Italy is one of England's oldest possessions, they're all turning good pounds and shillings there.
So let's say he dropped two silver shillings and the maid was happy to do his bidding.
And btw, Pan Zagloba, what's used to make vodka ? I don't know why but I had this thought it could be from potatoes, in which case it's possible yet improbable it's made it to be commonly available there in Ariel's Poland.
Noooooo! How can you send a telegram when the postal service has not been around that long (I am not even sure it already is) ?
And if it takes you only two days on horseback to go from York to London there's not much point sending a courier : he probably will not be that much faster! So let's say it's an agreed-upon rendez-vous.
Apart from that this guy du Basra not only is not worried about being noticed throwing money like that around, but he must have a line direct to the Exchequer!
Also who's still minting ducats. I mean, Italy is one of England's oldest possessions, they're all turning good pounds and shillings there.
So let's say he dropped two silver shillings and the maid was happy to do his bidding.
And btw, Pan Zagloba, what's used to make vodka ? I don't know why but I had this thought it could be from potatoes, in which case it's possible yet improbable it's made it to be commonly available there in Ariel's Poland.
Sgt B -
Oh, I see. That explains a lot... I had no idea you and Ollie were such close friends...
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From Cardinal F. to E.B., esq., delivered a few days later by a young priest.
I recall with great fondness our time in Santa Arielle. I will take your warnings to my heart and act upon them as I may. Inquisition indeed, what a barbarous idea! Only could have been imagined by a frenchman! I hope His Holiness would not be so brash but these are troubled times. Also this institution was first implemented in France, but it seems our spanish allies have become its foremost users and their influence in the Curia is great nowadays. Well, time will tell.
Concerning the Frenchman you asked about, I hear tell he has gone to Warsaw upon the request of the polish ambassador. Be careful with your trust in this man as I have heard rumors that his goals are private and he may choose to side with the Lord C. should he believe it in his own interest.
Fare thee well and may God Almighty extend his protective Hand over you.
I recall with great fondness our time in Santa Arielle. I will take your warnings to my heart and act upon them as I may. Inquisition indeed, what a barbarous idea! Only could have been imagined by a frenchman! I hope His Holiness would not be so brash but these are troubled times. Also this institution was first implemented in France, but it seems our spanish allies have become its foremost users and their influence in the Curia is great nowadays. Well, time will tell.
Concerning the Frenchman you asked about, I hear tell he has gone to Warsaw upon the request of the polish ambassador. Be careful with your trust in this man as I have heard rumors that his goals are private and he may choose to side with the Lord C. should he believe it in his own interest.
Fare thee well and may God Almighty extend his protective Hand over you.
From Cardinal Jeffries to Lord Chancellor Charles Cromwell, (dated two months ago)
Greetings my son,
Having read your communique (how wise to send a second copy under military escort, knowing that your enemies would be watching that bumbling servant of yours), I am resolved to act immediately upon the intelligence therein. His Holiness shall be aprised of the situation immediately and I feel confident that within days we shall be in a position to move against the heretical scum. I understand that the Order of Saint Columbo has links to the old Knights Templar, and may even be engaged in spreading the same foul heresies (John the Baptist the true messiah - ridiculous).
I have already called for our Spanish brethren to attend us although of course we should not try to expect their arrival...
My Lord, I commend myself to you your humble servant &c.
Cardinal Jeffries of Kent
**
Cromwell studied the letter once more, then re-folded it and returned it to its place amongst his papers. Soon, he mused the meddling Falkenberg, who althugh he had not stirred from his bolt hole often these two months past still managed to stir up trouble with his whispered accusations and insinuations, would feel his full wrath.
The Spanish brothers had landed in Wessex late last night and even now were on their way to London. Cromwell simply could not wait for their arrival...
...there was a knock at the door.
"In!"
The door swung back and there stood a man in Cardinal's robes, his complexion tanned by the Andalusian sun, his eyes dark, still pools of contemplation.
"Senor Cromwell."
"You! I didn't expect..."
The Cardinal held up a hand. "Yes, yes, we know how that works. Now, can you tell us where we might find this troublesome priest..."
Greetings my son,
Having read your communique (how wise to send a second copy under military escort, knowing that your enemies would be watching that bumbling servant of yours), I am resolved to act immediately upon the intelligence therein. His Holiness shall be aprised of the situation immediately and I feel confident that within days we shall be in a position to move against the heretical scum. I understand that the Order of Saint Columbo has links to the old Knights Templar, and may even be engaged in spreading the same foul heresies (John the Baptist the true messiah - ridiculous).
I have already called for our Spanish brethren to attend us although of course we should not try to expect their arrival...
My Lord, I commend myself to you your humble servant &c.
Cardinal Jeffries of Kent
**
Cromwell studied the letter once more, then re-folded it and returned it to its place amongst his papers. Soon, he mused the meddling Falkenberg, who althugh he had not stirred from his bolt hole often these two months past still managed to stir up trouble with his whispered accusations and insinuations, would feel his full wrath.
The Spanish brothers had landed in Wessex late last night and even now were on their way to London. Cromwell simply could not wait for their arrival...
...there was a knock at the door.
"In!"
The door swung back and there stood a man in Cardinal's robes, his complexion tanned by the Andalusian sun, his eyes dark, still pools of contemplation.
"Senor Cromwell."
"You! I didn't expect..."
The Cardinal held up a hand. "Yes, yes, we know how that works. Now, can you tell us where we might find this troublesome priest..."
York
Lord Durham sat in his study behind an oak table surrounded by paintings, tapestries, wall mounted shields and crossed swords, pikes, halberds, spoils of war and banners. Every device contained it's own history of the illustrious family that dated back centuries.
He was a troubled man. This whole mess with the chancellor and the King should never have happened. He almost regretted his friend Falkenberg's persistent meddling which had begun the whole crisis. But it did expose the duplicitous nature of the man behind the throne. Cromwell. His father a hero, and his son a murderer, worse, a killer of kings! That Cromwell was guilty, even if by association was certain. But to dispose of the man was risky, too risky. Now things appeared to be flying out of control. There had to be another way.
*Thump, thump, thump*
Lord Durham snapped back to reality. "Enter".
The door opened and Master-at-Arms Harper smartly strode in followed by a visibly more mobile Falkenberg and a third party, a messenger judging by the dusty garments he wore. Harper came to attention in front of Durham's desk while Falkenberg moved over to the plush chair that had become his by default. The messenger stood nervously by the entrance.
"Master-at-Arms Harper reporting, My Lord," he waved toward the messenger. "Come closer, Sergeant, My Lord does not bite."
The man came up to stand beside Harper, his hand clasped around the handle of an oversized sabre. His eyes darted around the room, taking in everything. They settled on Lord Durham.
"Your name, Sergeant."
"Elliot Bloomfield, 19th Royal Manhattan Regiment? my Lord."
Durham sat back, a half smile on his lips, "A long way from home, are we not?"
Sergeant Bloomfield shrugged. "One does what needs to be done for the cause."
"The cause?" Lord Durham was pensive a few moments, drumming his fingers on the heavy desk. "The cause indeed. You look parched. There is wine over there."
Harper broke the silence, "Sergeant Bloomfield has returned from Ambassador Zagloba."
"Ah. I see. The message was delivered, obviously." He looked over to Falkenberg, " Any response from the Ambassador?"
Sergeant Bloomfield downed the goblet of wine and shook his head. "Nothing specific. He was most overjoyed to hear Mr.Falkenberg was in good health."
Falkenberg spoke up; "My 'guardian angel' has indeed made his acquaintance with Pan Zagloba as I guessed. His assistant, a man named Lewis, is aiding the Ambassador as we speak."
Lord Durham grunted, "Good. Anything else?"
There was a long pause as Harper and Falkenberg exchanged looks. Finally Harper cleared his voice; "We have reason to believe Cromwell knows you are involved. The night at the monastery, several people overheard your name spoken."
Lord Durham raised an eyebrow, "And how could that be? Who would have such a loose tongue?"
Falkenberg slapped his forehead, "De Witt and Penn. When I was hanging from the window they mentioned your name."
Bloomfield barked a laugh. All eyes turned to him. "Sorry. Hanging from a window? And no pretty maid involved?"
"Only if you could find those two pretty," Falkenberg replied.
"We have not heard from De Witt and Penn the past few days, either." Harper said.
"No matter. Their cause may not be our cause. However, they are welcome if need be." Lord Durham stood up. He was of medium height and build, short-cropped hair graying at the sides. It was the eyes that attracted attention. They pierced, as if penetrating the very soul of the person studied. "What about this Khan, or the Frenchman?"
"We believe that Khan is more than he seems," said Harper. "There are rumours of an organisation, far-reaching and deadly. We think he is associated with it."
Falkenberg muttered to himself, nodding, "The Fist of God."
Lord Durham only caught a bit of it. "Care to enlighten us, dear friend?"
Falkenberg shrugged, scratched his head. "Just a name I have heard bandied about. They are nowhere near as old and venerable as the Order of St.Columbo, but they are equally dangerous."
Bloomfield looked at Falkenberg incredulously, "Equally dangerous? You are a monastic order, are you not?"
Falkenberg's answer was short, cryptic; "We are not entirely what we seem."
"And the Frenchman?" Durham asked, changing the subject. When there was no answer he sighed. "Very well. If I have been discovered, then the need to hide behind false names has ended. Falkenberg, can you travel?"
"My Lord?"
"It is time we took a trip to London. I would very much like to meet this Ambassador Zagloba and," he gave Bloomfield a piercing stare, "perhaps any of your friends in this cause."
Master-at-Arms Harper snapped to attention. "I shall saddle the horses and arrange an escort."
"My Lord, there is one other item," Bloomfield began. "I have it on good authority that Cromwell wishes to bring the Inquisition to England to root out the Order of St.Columbo. I should let you know that I have taken certain... steps in that matter."
"Very well. Sergeant Bloomfield, well met. You may join us, if you wish. We leave within the hour!"
Lord Durham sat in his study behind an oak table surrounded by paintings, tapestries, wall mounted shields and crossed swords, pikes, halberds, spoils of war and banners. Every device contained it's own history of the illustrious family that dated back centuries.
He was a troubled man. This whole mess with the chancellor and the King should never have happened. He almost regretted his friend Falkenberg's persistent meddling which had begun the whole crisis. But it did expose the duplicitous nature of the man behind the throne. Cromwell. His father a hero, and his son a murderer, worse, a killer of kings! That Cromwell was guilty, even if by association was certain. But to dispose of the man was risky, too risky. Now things appeared to be flying out of control. There had to be another way.
*Thump, thump, thump*
Lord Durham snapped back to reality. "Enter".
The door opened and Master-at-Arms Harper smartly strode in followed by a visibly more mobile Falkenberg and a third party, a messenger judging by the dusty garments he wore. Harper came to attention in front of Durham's desk while Falkenberg moved over to the plush chair that had become his by default. The messenger stood nervously by the entrance.
"Master-at-Arms Harper reporting, My Lord," he waved toward the messenger. "Come closer, Sergeant, My Lord does not bite."
The man came up to stand beside Harper, his hand clasped around the handle of an oversized sabre. His eyes darted around the room, taking in everything. They settled on Lord Durham.
"Your name, Sergeant."
"Elliot Bloomfield, 19th Royal Manhattan Regiment? my Lord."
Durham sat back, a half smile on his lips, "A long way from home, are we not?"
Sergeant Bloomfield shrugged. "One does what needs to be done for the cause."
"The cause?" Lord Durham was pensive a few moments, drumming his fingers on the heavy desk. "The cause indeed. You look parched. There is wine over there."
Harper broke the silence, "Sergeant Bloomfield has returned from Ambassador Zagloba."
"Ah. I see. The message was delivered, obviously." He looked over to Falkenberg, " Any response from the Ambassador?"
Sergeant Bloomfield downed the goblet of wine and shook his head. "Nothing specific. He was most overjoyed to hear Mr.Falkenberg was in good health."
Falkenberg spoke up; "My 'guardian angel' has indeed made his acquaintance with Pan Zagloba as I guessed. His assistant, a man named Lewis, is aiding the Ambassador as we speak."
Lord Durham grunted, "Good. Anything else?"
There was a long pause as Harper and Falkenberg exchanged looks. Finally Harper cleared his voice; "We have reason to believe Cromwell knows you are involved. The night at the monastery, several people overheard your name spoken."
Lord Durham raised an eyebrow, "And how could that be? Who would have such a loose tongue?"
Falkenberg slapped his forehead, "De Witt and Penn. When I was hanging from the window they mentioned your name."
Bloomfield barked a laugh. All eyes turned to him. "Sorry. Hanging from a window? And no pretty maid involved?"
"Only if you could find those two pretty," Falkenberg replied.
"We have not heard from De Witt and Penn the past few days, either." Harper said.
"No matter. Their cause may not be our cause. However, they are welcome if need be." Lord Durham stood up. He was of medium height and build, short-cropped hair graying at the sides. It was the eyes that attracted attention. They pierced, as if penetrating the very soul of the person studied. "What about this Khan, or the Frenchman?"
"We believe that Khan is more than he seems," said Harper. "There are rumours of an organisation, far-reaching and deadly. We think he is associated with it."
Falkenberg muttered to himself, nodding, "The Fist of God."
Lord Durham only caught a bit of it. "Care to enlighten us, dear friend?"
Falkenberg shrugged, scratched his head. "Just a name I have heard bandied about. They are nowhere near as old and venerable as the Order of St.Columbo, but they are equally dangerous."
Bloomfield looked at Falkenberg incredulously, "Equally dangerous? You are a monastic order, are you not?"
Falkenberg's answer was short, cryptic; "We are not entirely what we seem."
"And the Frenchman?" Durham asked, changing the subject. When there was no answer he sighed. "Very well. If I have been discovered, then the need to hide behind false names has ended. Falkenberg, can you travel?"
"My Lord?"
"It is time we took a trip to London. I would very much like to meet this Ambassador Zagloba and," he gave Bloomfield a piercing stare, "perhaps any of your friends in this cause."
Master-at-Arms Harper snapped to attention. "I shall saddle the horses and arrange an escort."
"My Lord, there is one other item," Bloomfield began. "I have it on good authority that Cromwell wishes to bring the Inquisition to England to root out the Order of St.Columbo. I should let you know that I have taken certain... steps in that matter."
"Very well. Sergeant Bloomfield, well met. You may join us, if you wish. We leave within the hour!"
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"My Lordship: A word in private?"
Bloomfield and Lord Durham let their horses drop to the back of the small group that shared the road to London. The wind and the sound of the hooves prevented their voices from carrying.
"Yes, Bloomfield, what is it?"
"Your Lordship, I have been many weeks now in London, flitting from one place to another avoiding Cromwell's cunning curs. You might not realize how little chance of escape I'd have if Cruel Charlie caught me. Anyway, I have used that time and I have done some digging that I could not do while I was away in the Colonies. There is a person I believe you should see in London. I will not say more now, but he is French and has lived in London these many, many years. He is old, but still quite dignified. That is not to be wondered at---in his day he was considered the greatest dancing-master at the King's cou..."
"Your Lordship!"
"Yes, Harper?"
"There, up ahead, are the city gates! We have arrived in London."
Bloomfield and Lord Durham let their horses drop to the back of the small group that shared the road to London. The wind and the sound of the hooves prevented their voices from carrying.
"Yes, Bloomfield, what is it?"
"Your Lordship, I have been many weeks now in London, flitting from one place to another avoiding Cromwell's cunning curs. You might not realize how little chance of escape I'd have if Cruel Charlie caught me. Anyway, I have used that time and I have done some digging that I could not do while I was away in the Colonies. There is a person I believe you should see in London. I will not say more now, but he is French and has lived in London these many, many years. He is old, but still quite dignified. That is not to be wondered at---in his day he was considered the greatest dancing-master at the King's cou..."
"Your Lordship!"
"Yes, Harper?"
"There, up ahead, are the city gates! We have arrived in London."
The Gates of London
Drill-sergeant Dean yawned lazily and watched his cloudy breath drift skywards. His weapon was resting against the battlements and that was probably where it was doomed to stay until he retired. Nobody would dare invade London now, so the maintainence of so many thousands of soldiers often seemed pointless to him, but Cromwell, the Saviour and Englands greatest hero, must have his reasons.
He corrected himself, a wall and garrison was needed even if just as a deterant.
He turned now to face London, a busy would-be metropolis that threatened to overrun the very walls he 'guarded' from inside, an ironic thought to say the least. Busy with the income and administration of half of Europe (it seemed) India and New England, not to mention scores of other provinces.
Below him, three carts wove their way through the crowds, heaped with dung or plague victims, to his left a peddler advertised his wares and, if he spuinted to his far right a massive statue was being tediously raised, inch by inch day by day.
A private nudged him out of his contemplation.
"Visitors, sah" He pointed out of the city where a small group of horsebacked riders where coming into view.
"Very good private. Back to your station"
So what? Dean thought as the youth marched smartly to position, a group that small wouldn't prove any trouble, surely?
Drill-sergeant Dean yawned lazily and watched his cloudy breath drift skywards. His weapon was resting against the battlements and that was probably where it was doomed to stay until he retired. Nobody would dare invade London now, so the maintainence of so many thousands of soldiers often seemed pointless to him, but Cromwell, the Saviour and Englands greatest hero, must have his reasons.
He corrected himself, a wall and garrison was needed even if just as a deterant.
He turned now to face London, a busy would-be metropolis that threatened to overrun the very walls he 'guarded' from inside, an ironic thought to say the least. Busy with the income and administration of half of Europe (it seemed) India and New England, not to mention scores of other provinces.
Below him, three carts wove their way through the crowds, heaped with dung or plague victims, to his left a peddler advertised his wares and, if he spuinted to his far right a massive statue was being tediously raised, inch by inch day by day.
A private nudged him out of his contemplation.
"Visitors, sah" He pointed out of the city where a small group of horsebacked riders where coming into view.
"Very good private. Back to your station"
So what? Dean thought as the youth marched smartly to position, a group that small wouldn't prove any trouble, surely?
"Very well," Lord Durham said. "Go ahead and make arrangements."
With a curt nod Harper and several footmen carried on into the city.
Falkenberg, looking somewhat undignified on his donkey, rode over to Durham and Bloomfield. "I must report in." With that laconic statement he laid heel into the burrow and bounced off.
"Will he be safe?" asked Bloomfield.
Lord Durham twisted around in the saddle, eyeing the throng of people entering and leaving the bustling city.
"Quite. There are at least a dozen people of his order watching out for him as we speak."
Bloomfield grunted.
"Now, Sergeant, about this gentleman. This... dancing master. I believe it is your move..."
With a curt nod Harper and several footmen carried on into the city.
Falkenberg, looking somewhat undignified on his donkey, rode over to Durham and Bloomfield. "I must report in." With that laconic statement he laid heel into the burrow and bounced off.
"Will he be safe?" asked Bloomfield.
Lord Durham twisted around in the saddle, eyeing the throng of people entering and leaving the bustling city.
"Quite. There are at least a dozen people of his order watching out for him as we speak."
Bloomfield grunted.
"Now, Sergeant, about this gentleman. This... dancing master. I believe it is your move..."
God, how I resented it when he married that silly giggling wench.Oh, I see. That explains a lot... I had no idea you and Ollie were such close friends...
The park at Temple Inn. Fog rolling through the narrow, dark alleys and mews. Some figures loom briefly against the lighter mist and are again hidden in the darkness.
"My Lord, you are here at last. Come this way, quick."
They disappear into a sidestreet, through a gateway and up narrow, creaking stairs. A knock rings hollow in the wet night.
"Qui est la?"
"Ce moi, Champsdefleurs. Avec l'ami."
The door opens and two figures slip into the tiny apartment.
"Ah, Msr Champsdefleurs, come in. You have come as you said you would, I find."
"I want you to tell us about the late Lady Cromwell, our dear departed Protector's wife. But before you do, and in order for you to be quite candid with us, let me assure you that the Order of St. Columbo will see to your protection, should certain parties learn that you have been in contact with us."
"Tres bien. Madame Cromwell. She was a fiery one, eh?. She came to my dance classes for the ladies of the court. Quite pretty and quite wild. Oh, I fear that I may not have been as restrained in those days as I should have been. But the Lord Cromwell, he always had other things to occupy him. He neglected her and was away for months and years. Shameful. We tried to be careful, of course, but more may have come of those dance lessons than we intended. The Lord Cromwell, he never suspected that the child was not his. Drole, n'est-ce pas? But you realize, no one knew of this: we were very discreet. Only one person have I told this to before..."
"Thank you, Monsieur. Your Lordship, have you heard enough?"
"Yes, by God. It wants believing, I assure you, my dear, uh ... Champsdefleurs. Come, we must act quickly."
A hurried departure, and two figures slip back into the enternal fog that shrouds Temple Inn, one tripping over a heavy sabre and cursing softly. Far off, a clock strikes midnight.
"My Lord, you are here at last. Come this way, quick."
They disappear into a sidestreet, through a gateway and up narrow, creaking stairs. A knock rings hollow in the wet night.
"Qui est la?"
"Ce moi, Champsdefleurs. Avec l'ami."
The door opens and two figures slip into the tiny apartment.
"Ah, Msr Champsdefleurs, come in. You have come as you said you would, I find."
"I want you to tell us about the late Lady Cromwell, our dear departed Protector's wife. But before you do, and in order for you to be quite candid with us, let me assure you that the Order of St. Columbo will see to your protection, should certain parties learn that you have been in contact with us."
"Tres bien. Madame Cromwell. She was a fiery one, eh?. She came to my dance classes for the ladies of the court. Quite pretty and quite wild. Oh, I fear that I may not have been as restrained in those days as I should have been. But the Lord Cromwell, he always had other things to occupy him. He neglected her and was away for months and years. Shameful. We tried to be careful, of course, but more may have come of those dance lessons than we intended. The Lord Cromwell, he never suspected that the child was not his. Drole, n'est-ce pas? But you realize, no one knew of this: we were very discreet. Only one person have I told this to before..."
"Thank you, Monsieur. Your Lordship, have you heard enough?"
"Yes, by God. It wants believing, I assure you, my dear, uh ... Champsdefleurs. Come, we must act quickly."
A hurried departure, and two figures slip back into the enternal fog that shrouds Temple Inn, one tripping over a heavy sabre and cursing softly. Far off, a clock strikes midnight.
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To: Sir Charles Cromwell, Lord Protector of England
From: John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, Commander of hi Majesty's Armies in the Low Lands
My Dear Sir Charles,
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
As you are no doubt aware, there have of late been a spate of malicious rumours regarding the death of the late King James. Normally the men in the army would disregard this nonsense, but in these idle times of peace, all they do is gamble and gossip.Unfortunately the rumours have caught the imagination of some of the men, and there is now talk of insurrection in some circles.
This is especially true of the Dutch regiments in the army. While this was not a problem while King William was with the Army in the field, since his departure there have been an increase in cases of insubordination by the Dutch soldiery towards their English officers. Indeed there are strong indications of an impending nationalist insurrection to "liberate" the Dutch provinces from our Empire. In view of this, I cannot guarantee the effectiveness or the loyalty of the Army in the event of War.
There is also discontent in the army in view of reports of a rift with our Polish allies. Some of the men having tasted defeat from the Brandenburgers in Ireland, fear that the Poles are even bigger and more powerful. This foolishness is confined largely in the Ulster militia, with your permission I would like to disband these units, for they are of inferior quality.
My main concern, and General York agrees with me in this matter, are the Dutch regiments. I have taken some action, such as reassigning suspect officers to less significant posts, but in view of the delicate situation am proceeding cautiously. Guidance would be much appreciated.
Also my spies report increased activity by certain leaders of the Flanders, Zeeland and Hague rebellions during the last War, who escaped hanging due to the King's (to my mind misguided) generosity. One of these, a Colonel de Witt (the diabolically cunning fiend responsible for annihilating the 18th foot at Utrecht) has apparently been to York of all place! My agent, corporal Witherspoon has been tracking his movements and it seems that he has been in contact with some of the English nobility. This would suggest a possibly widespread conspiracy against the realm.
Apparently de Witt was with a fellow called Nehemiah Penn, a friend of Witherspoon's and a bit of a simpleton and blabber mouth. It might be advisable to capture and interogate this man to find out futher details. Indeed this could be done wothout arousing suspicion since Penn and de Witt have separated, with Penn going to Scotland and de Witt to London.
My Lord, I would humbly advise you to be on your guard and to keeps in mind the condition of the Army as you consider what action to take to safe guard the realm. If I may suggest, an English Queen reigning on her own as the glorious Elizabeth did, without any of this Dutch riff raff in attendance.
Your loyal servant,
John Churchill
---------------------------------------
I hope you guys dont mind my barging in, but I have followed Ariel's awesome AAR during the past week with great excitement during my (rather extended) study breaks. Now that finals are over (woo hoo!) I have free time!
For those who are historically minded, I know that Churchill was not actually made Duke of Marlborough until after William died (he was made Duke by Queen Anne, Marlborough and William did not get along that well since he disliked William's dutch favoritism), but in the game he is Duke from the beginning, so....
From: John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, Commander of hi Majesty's Armies in the Low Lands
My Dear Sir Charles,
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
As you are no doubt aware, there have of late been a spate of malicious rumours regarding the death of the late King James. Normally the men in the army would disregard this nonsense, but in these idle times of peace, all they do is gamble and gossip.Unfortunately the rumours have caught the imagination of some of the men, and there is now talk of insurrection in some circles.
This is especially true of the Dutch regiments in the army. While this was not a problem while King William was with the Army in the field, since his departure there have been an increase in cases of insubordination by the Dutch soldiery towards their English officers. Indeed there are strong indications of an impending nationalist insurrection to "liberate" the Dutch provinces from our Empire. In view of this, I cannot guarantee the effectiveness or the loyalty of the Army in the event of War.
There is also discontent in the army in view of reports of a rift with our Polish allies. Some of the men having tasted defeat from the Brandenburgers in Ireland, fear that the Poles are even bigger and more powerful. This foolishness is confined largely in the Ulster militia, with your permission I would like to disband these units, for they are of inferior quality.
My main concern, and General York agrees with me in this matter, are the Dutch regiments. I have taken some action, such as reassigning suspect officers to less significant posts, but in view of the delicate situation am proceeding cautiously. Guidance would be much appreciated.
Also my spies report increased activity by certain leaders of the Flanders, Zeeland and Hague rebellions during the last War, who escaped hanging due to the King's (to my mind misguided) generosity. One of these, a Colonel de Witt (the diabolically cunning fiend responsible for annihilating the 18th foot at Utrecht) has apparently been to York of all place! My agent, corporal Witherspoon has been tracking his movements and it seems that he has been in contact with some of the English nobility. This would suggest a possibly widespread conspiracy against the realm.
Apparently de Witt was with a fellow called Nehemiah Penn, a friend of Witherspoon's and a bit of a simpleton and blabber mouth. It might be advisable to capture and interogate this man to find out futher details. Indeed this could be done wothout arousing suspicion since Penn and de Witt have separated, with Penn going to Scotland and de Witt to London.
My Lord, I would humbly advise you to be on your guard and to keeps in mind the condition of the Army as you consider what action to take to safe guard the realm. If I may suggest, an English Queen reigning on her own as the glorious Elizabeth did, without any of this Dutch riff raff in attendance.
Your loyal servant,
John Churchill
---------------------------------------
I hope you guys dont mind my barging in, but I have followed Ariel's awesome AAR during the past week with great excitement during my (rather extended) study breaks. Now that finals are over (woo hoo!) I have free time!
For those who are historically minded, I know that Churchill was not actually made Duke of Marlborough until after William died (he was made Duke by Queen Anne, Marlborough and William did not get along that well since he disliked William's dutch favoritism), but in the game he is Duke from the beginning, so....
John Churchil:
You are more than welcome to barge in, if I may play the role of chamberlain here. And the more history-minded, the better. Just don't give us any but-Cromwell-was-Protestant stuff, because it is a lie, of course.
Now, you will observe that even the rebels strive to observe propper forms here in the Chamberpot Conspiracy. (There are exceptions, of course, but we are glad of even a grunt out of Khan ). I think you should therefore address the young Cromwell as either "Lord Cromwell", "my Lord", "your Lordship" etc. or as "Cruel Charlie", "Lackey", "B***ard" (but don't try the latter to his face, his migranes make him slightly irascible at times).
"Sir" may be good and well for a knight, but Cruel Charlie inherited the peerage from his father, if little else. (Hey, Chuckie, you listening?!)
Good post, I like the Dutch rebellions, and probably Ariel will have some of those on his hands to weave them into the narrative. And watch out for Barkdreg, that is one mean Dutchman...
P.S. Khan: no offence, just kidding
You are more than welcome to barge in, if I may play the role of chamberlain here. And the more history-minded, the better. Just don't give us any but-Cromwell-was-Protestant stuff, because it is a lie, of course.
Now, you will observe that even the rebels strive to observe propper forms here in the Chamberpot Conspiracy. (There are exceptions, of course, but we are glad of even a grunt out of Khan
). I think you should therefore address the young Cromwell as either "Lord Cromwell", "my Lord", "your Lordship" etc. or as "Cruel Charlie", "Lackey", "B***ard" (but don't try the latter to his face, his migranes make him slightly irascible at times)."Sir" may be good and well for a knight, but Cruel Charlie inherited the peerage from his father, if little else.
(Hey, Chuckie, you listening?!)Good post, I like the Dutch rebellions, and probably Ariel will have some of those on his hands to weave them into the narrative. And watch out for Barkdreg, that is one mean Dutchman...
P.S. Khan: no offence, just kidding
The self-styled Earl of Vimy waited nervously in his study in Ottawa, in the province of Niagara. An armed guard had arrived in town and from his window he noted a befrocked figure dismounting from the escorted carriage outside. The figure moved directly to his residence with four of the guards and there was a sharp rasp at the door.
"Oh wot sor' o' tarm d'ya carl this", screeched the charwoman as she ambled toward the door. "It's ayt clock in the e'en and the master of the 'ass dunt tayk vis'ters at this ar" she declared angrily to the entourage outside.
"Well then, my good lady", said the man. "I think you'd better go and ask him. We'll wait here in the lobby", and pushing past, the five arrivals entered the house.
"I darn nar 'bout tha'" she complained.
"It's not a problem", Vimy called out. "You can show them in here".
The guests were invited into the study where the priest moved toward the desk to sit in Vimy's place. The guards stood at either side of the door.
"We'd just like.." commenced the priest "..a few words, if you please. Perhaps you'd like to take a seat"
Put aback by the rude introduction, Vimy was not to be completely outstaged in his own home. Taking the seat opposite the priest, he started "Perhaps you could first introduce yourself"
The priest gestured for the guards to leave and waited for the door to shut before starting. "Thomas Weare of the Order of St Martins in Massachussets. You are Earl de Vimy as I understand. But please, if you’d allow me to ask a few questions first. You’ve lived in these parts for how long exactly?”
“Seven years, sauf a winter sejourn in the south”, answered Vimy. “Of what concern is..”
“Where were you prior to your move here?” the inquisition continued
“Alors, my family settled in the French colonies to the north before we were forced to move under the threat of the English invaders” Vimy responded, unable yet to establish any clear aim of the priest.
“French? Mmm.” the holy man continued. “Perhaps we may return to that at a later stage. What exactly are your principal activities then in the English territories?”
“There’s good money to be made in the fur trade here and the few native Indians who remain in the area still understand very little English. I can act as an interpreter in certain transactions”. Vimy felt no need to conceal any of these irrelevant facts. There was little in his past that might place him at any great risk.
“How well do you know a certain Sergeant Eliot Bloomfield?”
Now that was sooner than expected. Vimy had expected this interview to have been a rather tedious affair. “I recall meeting him during one of my visits to the east. I believe he used to serve in the Delaware regiment under Cromwell.”
“That would be the late Lord Protector?”
“Indeed, c’est vrai”
“Well please continue”. The Franciscan had clearly not mastered the virtue of patience
Vimy returned to his account. “I met Sergeant Bloomfield in a tavern by the old dock area of Boston. He struck me at the time of being rather impetuous gentleman with a tendency to overreact at times. I even recall him challenging a local judge to a duel but I understand that he had forgotten about the incident by the following morning. I find the English habit of indulging in ale rather distasteful but in a country such as this, the wine is simply too foul an alternative. Toute de meme, one should still drink in moderation. Well I digress, the judge in question, a rather venerable figure, was in no mood to remind him of the matter and the whole affair was simply hushed up somewhat. Cromwell probably got to hear about it and I think Bloomfield was cautioned on the matter although the old general’s use of the heavy sabre had deteriorated a fair deal from his younger days ”
“Interesting. Anything else?”
“Well, on getting closer acquainted, I actually got to like the guy. He had a sort of noble character to him, a sort of self-styled protector of the weak and oppressed. He was totally opposed to the native clearances that had taken place and I think the whole matter affected him a little. I did hear a story once of him saving the life of a young footman. Moving stuff I must say, but if you ask me I think he means well even if his brash manner may make him rather too many enemies”
“Enemies?” the monk asked. “What sort of enemies?”
“Oh, you know the sort” Vimy continued. “A few loose words in this day and age can be misinterpreted and before long, a family feud has developed. Your own Guillaume Chesapeake wrote lots of plays on this theme.”
“I think you’ll find it was Shakespeare but let us return to the matter at hand. What would you say if I told you that Bloomfield is guilty of conspiracy to commit high treason against the very person of Cromwell's own son and that he is at this moment acting to undermine the very fabric of all that our society holds dear?” declared Weare, this final part delivered with such crescendo that he was unable to remain in his seat.
“High treason?” exclaimed the startled Vimy. “But that can’t be true”. Regaining his composure after the amazing revelation, he resumed. “I would say, my honourable sir, that you would be tempting me into the little web that you have been spinning for this past half hour. A practice, I should add, that is not commensurate with your holy standing” Vimy surprised himself at his audacity but was unable to suppress a wry smile.
“Very well”, the monk resumed, “what exactly would you say about this?” He handed Vimy a text which the latter proceed to read aloud:
“all power and jurisdiction is reciprocal, no one having more than another, there being nothing more evident than that creatures of the same species and rank, promiscuously born to all the same advantages of Nature, and the use of the same faculties, should also be equal one amongst another, without subordination or subjection, unless the lord and master of them all should, by any manifest declaration of his will, set one above another, and confer on him, by an evident and clear appointment, an undoubted right to dominion and sovereignty.”
“Lord and Master?” enquired Vimy “For that one can presumably read Cromwell”
“I don’t think that was the intention of the article” answered his erstwhile inquisitor.
“The whole suggestion is preposterous” opined Vimy
“Yes, disgraceful” answered Weare.
“Same species and rank?” repeated Vimy, “Who was responsible for such nonsense?”
“Actually these are words written by a Scotsman from some years back” the monk answered. “The actually texts have been suppressed of course lest they lead to such ideas gaining any wide acceptance. You see it wouldn’t be very convenient if that happened would it?”
“I think I understand your point”, Vimy now seemed to be asking more questions than the priest.
“Perhaps you might also take a look at this”, the monk said handing him a second manuscript.
“ The powers of governing while it remains in the hands of the Lord Chancellor will have a detrimental effect over all legislation of this continent. And as he hath shewn himself such an inveterate enemy to liberty, and discovered such a thirst for arbitrary power; is he, or is he not, a proper man to say to these colonies, "You shall make no laws but what I please."
“Who would have the temerity to write such as this?” ejaculated Vimy nearly falling of his chair.
“I did” confessed the monk.
Vimy fell.
“What exactly do you hope to gain from the publication of such material?” asked Vimy. “Or is martyrdom your chosen profession?”
“Oh I don’t intend to publish it.” said the monk. “In fact it was just something that I had written down on the journey up to these bleak lands. I’ll probably have to burn it now but I guess I’ll remember it when I need to.”
“Are you actually a member of the clergy?” asked Vimy.
“Not exactly” said Weare. “Although I still like to use my former title when it serves my purpose. For now though let us adjourn to more pleasant surroundings. I hear that the Bold Dragoon Inn provides a fine flagon of ale and a good meal for a traveller like myself. What are the locals like around here”
“If you mean, where do their loyalties lie,” said Vimy “they are rather a self-serving people. Papal edicts and the like are not, how you say, their cup of coffee. But then, I would guess this is true of many of the northern provinces in the area.”
“Would they be prepared to answer a call to arms?” asked Thomas
“I rather doubt it” answered Vimy. “The loyalist forces here are too strong for any effective rebellion”
“It is probably for the better” said Weare. “But the time will come later. Even so, one could still use a little diversion for our friends in London. Well let us go and take some sustenance. The Bold Dragoon is probably a more amenable environment in which we can continue our conversation”
"Oh wot sor' o' tarm d'ya carl this", screeched the charwoman as she ambled toward the door. "It's ayt clock in the e'en and the master of the 'ass dunt tayk vis'ters at this ar" she declared angrily to the entourage outside.
"Well then, my good lady", said the man. "I think you'd better go and ask him. We'll wait here in the lobby", and pushing past, the five arrivals entered the house.
"I darn nar 'bout tha'" she complained.
"It's not a problem", Vimy called out. "You can show them in here".
The guests were invited into the study where the priest moved toward the desk to sit in Vimy's place. The guards stood at either side of the door.
"We'd just like.." commenced the priest "..a few words, if you please. Perhaps you'd like to take a seat"
Put aback by the rude introduction, Vimy was not to be completely outstaged in his own home. Taking the seat opposite the priest, he started "Perhaps you could first introduce yourself"
The priest gestured for the guards to leave and waited for the door to shut before starting. "Thomas Weare of the Order of St Martins in Massachussets. You are Earl de Vimy as I understand. But please, if you’d allow me to ask a few questions first. You’ve lived in these parts for how long exactly?”
“Seven years, sauf a winter sejourn in the south”, answered Vimy. “Of what concern is..”
“Where were you prior to your move here?” the inquisition continued
“Alors, my family settled in the French colonies to the north before we were forced to move under the threat of the English invaders” Vimy responded, unable yet to establish any clear aim of the priest.
“French? Mmm.” the holy man continued. “Perhaps we may return to that at a later stage. What exactly are your principal activities then in the English territories?”
“There’s good money to be made in the fur trade here and the few native Indians who remain in the area still understand very little English. I can act as an interpreter in certain transactions”. Vimy felt no need to conceal any of these irrelevant facts. There was little in his past that might place him at any great risk.
“How well do you know a certain Sergeant Eliot Bloomfield?”
Now that was sooner than expected. Vimy had expected this interview to have been a rather tedious affair. “I recall meeting him during one of my visits to the east. I believe he used to serve in the Delaware regiment under Cromwell.”
“That would be the late Lord Protector?”
“Indeed, c’est vrai”
“Well please continue”. The Franciscan had clearly not mastered the virtue of patience
Vimy returned to his account. “I met Sergeant Bloomfield in a tavern by the old dock area of Boston. He struck me at the time of being rather impetuous gentleman with a tendency to overreact at times. I even recall him challenging a local judge to a duel but I understand that he had forgotten about the incident by the following morning. I find the English habit of indulging in ale rather distasteful but in a country such as this, the wine is simply too foul an alternative. Toute de meme, one should still drink in moderation. Well I digress, the judge in question, a rather venerable figure, was in no mood to remind him of the matter and the whole affair was simply hushed up somewhat. Cromwell probably got to hear about it and I think Bloomfield was cautioned on the matter although the old general’s use of the heavy sabre had deteriorated a fair deal from his younger days ”
“Interesting. Anything else?”
“Well, on getting closer acquainted, I actually got to like the guy. He had a sort of noble character to him, a sort of self-styled protector of the weak and oppressed. He was totally opposed to the native clearances that had taken place and I think the whole matter affected him a little. I did hear a story once of him saving the life of a young footman. Moving stuff I must say, but if you ask me I think he means well even if his brash manner may make him rather too many enemies”
“Enemies?” the monk asked. “What sort of enemies?”
“Oh, you know the sort” Vimy continued. “A few loose words in this day and age can be misinterpreted and before long, a family feud has developed. Your own Guillaume Chesapeake wrote lots of plays on this theme.”
“I think you’ll find it was Shakespeare but let us return to the matter at hand. What would you say if I told you that Bloomfield is guilty of conspiracy to commit high treason against the very person of Cromwell's own son and that he is at this moment acting to undermine the very fabric of all that our society holds dear?” declared Weare, this final part delivered with such crescendo that he was unable to remain in his seat.
“High treason?” exclaimed the startled Vimy. “But that can’t be true”. Regaining his composure after the amazing revelation, he resumed. “I would say, my honourable sir, that you would be tempting me into the little web that you have been spinning for this past half hour. A practice, I should add, that is not commensurate with your holy standing” Vimy surprised himself at his audacity but was unable to suppress a wry smile.
“Very well”, the monk resumed, “what exactly would you say about this?” He handed Vimy a text which the latter proceed to read aloud:
“all power and jurisdiction is reciprocal, no one having more than another, there being nothing more evident than that creatures of the same species and rank, promiscuously born to all the same advantages of Nature, and the use of the same faculties, should also be equal one amongst another, without subordination or subjection, unless the lord and master of them all should, by any manifest declaration of his will, set one above another, and confer on him, by an evident and clear appointment, an undoubted right to dominion and sovereignty.”
“Lord and Master?” enquired Vimy “For that one can presumably read Cromwell”
“I don’t think that was the intention of the article” answered his erstwhile inquisitor.
“The whole suggestion is preposterous” opined Vimy
“Yes, disgraceful” answered Weare.
“Same species and rank?” repeated Vimy, “Who was responsible for such nonsense?”
“Actually these are words written by a Scotsman from some years back” the monk answered. “The actually texts have been suppressed of course lest they lead to such ideas gaining any wide acceptance. You see it wouldn’t be very convenient if that happened would it?”
“I think I understand your point”, Vimy now seemed to be asking more questions than the priest.
“Perhaps you might also take a look at this”, the monk said handing him a second manuscript.
“ The powers of governing while it remains in the hands of the Lord Chancellor will have a detrimental effect over all legislation of this continent. And as he hath shewn himself such an inveterate enemy to liberty, and discovered such a thirst for arbitrary power; is he, or is he not, a proper man to say to these colonies, "You shall make no laws but what I please."
“Who would have the temerity to write such as this?” ejaculated Vimy nearly falling of his chair.
“I did” confessed the monk.
Vimy fell.
“What exactly do you hope to gain from the publication of such material?” asked Vimy. “Or is martyrdom your chosen profession?”
“Oh I don’t intend to publish it.” said the monk. “In fact it was just something that I had written down on the journey up to these bleak lands. I’ll probably have to burn it now but I guess I’ll remember it when I need to.”
“Are you actually a member of the clergy?” asked Vimy.
“Not exactly” said Weare. “Although I still like to use my former title when it serves my purpose. For now though let us adjourn to more pleasant surroundings. I hear that the Bold Dragoon Inn provides a fine flagon of ale and a good meal for a traveller like myself. What are the locals like around here”
“If you mean, where do their loyalties lie,” said Vimy “they are rather a self-serving people. Papal edicts and the like are not, how you say, their cup of coffee. But then, I would guess this is true of many of the northern provinces in the area.”
“Would they be prepared to answer a call to arms?” asked Thomas
“I rather doubt it” answered Vimy. “The loyalist forces here are too strong for any effective rebellion”
“It is probably for the better” said Weare. “But the time will come later. Even so, one could still use a little diversion for our friends in London. Well let us go and take some sustenance. The Bold Dragoon is probably a more amenable environment in which we can continue our conversation”
Peter Stuyvesant was at his desk in his governors office on Manhattan island studiously going over his accounts and dealings from his own plantations in Roanoke province. Trade was brisk and profits were high despite losses from the constant wars in Europe.
There was a knock on the door. "Enter" answered the governor.
Captain Smith entered the governors office. "There's a young lady here to see you sir".
"Did she give a name, Captain?" asked Peter. He never did enjoy these menial tasks that the post of governor required of him, prefering more to use the position as a means of self-enrichment.
"Yes sir. It's a Madame Sophie Bloomfield sir". The Dutchman raised his eyebrows at the name. "Well then, show her in will you" Perhaps this might be a chance to find out what that rascal Bloomfield had been up to ever since he had sent him to Europe to gather information on the local markets for North American furs and tobacco. All he had heard of the man since he had left last April were various tedious details of population movements and the like.
And of course there was that letter from Earl of Vimy from Ottawa.
Peter Stuyvesant rose to greet the young woman enter the room. Her delicate frame was shrouded in a full dress, modest for the times and her composure betrayed a shy and fragile individual.
But in her eyes, Stuyvesant detected a clear purpose in her visit...
There was a knock on the door. "Enter" answered the governor.
Captain Smith entered the governors office. "There's a young lady here to see you sir".
"Did she give a name, Captain?" asked Peter. He never did enjoy these menial tasks that the post of governor required of him, prefering more to use the position as a means of self-enrichment.
"Yes sir. It's a Madame Sophie Bloomfield sir". The Dutchman raised his eyebrows at the name. "Well then, show her in will you" Perhaps this might be a chance to find out what that rascal Bloomfield had been up to ever since he had sent him to Europe to gather information on the local markets for North American furs and tobacco. All he had heard of the man since he had left last April were various tedious details of population movements and the like.
And of course there was that letter from Earl of Vimy from Ottawa.
Peter Stuyvesant rose to greet the young woman enter the room. Her delicate frame was shrouded in a full dress, modest for the times and her composure betrayed a shy and fragile individual.
But in her eyes, Stuyvesant detected a clear purpose in her visit...
Khan's Sorrow
At Barkreg’s exclamation, Du Basra rose hoping to cut the man off before he reached either Khan or Elric.
“Stay there” growled Khan menacingly, drawing his sword, and what could only be described as the most lethal looking dagger Du Basra had ever seen.
“Brother, he’s mine” shouted Elric, moving lithely in front of the now immobile Khan, Elric drew his own sword.
“Elric Bloodsinger” hissed Barkreg “I have you now, you heathen bastard !”
Moving quickly for such a big man, Barkreg launched himself over the upturned table. Sword in hand, he advanced.
Looking at the two men facing off against each other, you would be had pressed to see which one could be the victor. Both of a similar build and stature, they obviously knew how to handle the arms they both carried.
With surprising quickness, Barkra launched a ferocious assault. Elric, surprised at the initial onslaught, was forced backwards. Managing to block the initial thrust, his countered with a lethal riposte at the Dutchman’s head. Ducking under the blow, Barkreg drew a small dagger from his left boot. Rising into the crook of Elric’s extended arm, he slid the dagger the left side of the Ragusan.
With a groan, Elric slowly slid to the floor. Barkreg, seeing that he was now out of the picture, turned to Khan.
“Your time will come” he said pointing at the shocked Ragusan. “I swear you will pay the same price as your comrade. But not yet, not yet……”
At that he dived through the window, rolling to avoid a horse. Springing to his feet, he set off down the alley heading in the general direction of the docks.
Khan knelt on the floor, Elric’s head resting in his lap
“Brother” whispered the distraught Ragusan
“Khan” Elric croaked, “I’m getting rusty, letting someone get the better of me like that, especially a damnable Dutchman”
“Easy, take it easy” said Khan gently, noticed the thick pool of dark red blood congealing on the floor under his brother.
“We’ll find him, don’t you worry”
Du Basra, feeling awkward at seeing someone of Khan’s nature in tears, walked to the door.
“That’s odd” he thought, looking at the group of horseman riding by. “the rather odd looking monk on that donkey looks like Falk……..bloody hell, it’s Durham !!”
“Khan, Durham’s in London” he exclaimed.
Not noticing Du Basra’s surprise, Khan gently lowered his brothers head to the floor.
“By the will of God, I intone thee”
“By the will of God, I love thee”
“By the will of God, I leave thee”
“By the will of God, I WILL avenge thee”
Eye’s blazing Khan stood, casting one last glance at his now dead brother, he turned and made his way to the door.
“Guy”, he said “If Durham is here, I must talk to him. There is far far more to all of this than I first thought. If there are Dutch involved, we could be heading for an all out Civil War……”
At Barkreg’s exclamation, Du Basra rose hoping to cut the man off before he reached either Khan or Elric.
“Stay there” growled Khan menacingly, drawing his sword, and what could only be described as the most lethal looking dagger Du Basra had ever seen.
“Brother, he’s mine” shouted Elric, moving lithely in front of the now immobile Khan, Elric drew his own sword.
“Elric Bloodsinger” hissed Barkreg “I have you now, you heathen bastard !”
Moving quickly for such a big man, Barkreg launched himself over the upturned table. Sword in hand, he advanced.
Looking at the two men facing off against each other, you would be had pressed to see which one could be the victor. Both of a similar build and stature, they obviously knew how to handle the arms they both carried.
With surprising quickness, Barkra launched a ferocious assault. Elric, surprised at the initial onslaught, was forced backwards. Managing to block the initial thrust, his countered with a lethal riposte at the Dutchman’s head. Ducking under the blow, Barkreg drew a small dagger from his left boot. Rising into the crook of Elric’s extended arm, he slid the dagger the left side of the Ragusan.
With a groan, Elric slowly slid to the floor. Barkreg, seeing that he was now out of the picture, turned to Khan.
“Your time will come” he said pointing at the shocked Ragusan. “I swear you will pay the same price as your comrade. But not yet, not yet……”
At that he dived through the window, rolling to avoid a horse. Springing to his feet, he set off down the alley heading in the general direction of the docks.
Khan knelt on the floor, Elric’s head resting in his lap
“Brother” whispered the distraught Ragusan
“Khan” Elric croaked, “I’m getting rusty, letting someone get the better of me like that, especially a damnable Dutchman”
“Easy, take it easy” said Khan gently, noticed the thick pool of dark red blood congealing on the floor under his brother.
“We’ll find him, don’t you worry”
Du Basra, feeling awkward at seeing someone of Khan’s nature in tears, walked to the door.
“That’s odd” he thought, looking at the group of horseman riding by. “the rather odd looking monk on that donkey looks like Falk……..bloody hell, it’s Durham !!”
“Khan, Durham’s in London” he exclaimed.
Not noticing Du Basra’s surprise, Khan gently lowered his brothers head to the floor.
“By the will of God, I intone thee”
“By the will of God, I love thee”
“By the will of God, I leave thee”
“By the will of God, I WILL avenge thee”
Eye’s blazing Khan stood, casting one last glance at his now dead brother, he turned and made his way to the door.
“Guy”, he said “If Durham is here, I must talk to him. There is far far more to all of this than I first thought. If there are Dutch involved, we could be heading for an all out Civil War……”
"..murder they say, murder most foul... I hear them, I hear them... oh yes, I hear them... whiserping, whispering, always whispering... murder, most foul murder... but no, he fell, he fell I say, he fell..."
De Witt had been in London for a few days but had failed to contact Barkdreg. Perhaps this could wait a while since the time already had been spent on the more mundane matters of being seen in his more traditional habitat in the banking area of Old Holborn.
It was during one of the many visits around St James' Park that he made the most unusual of observations. From a distance he could make out that unmistakeable outline of Cromwell. Alone in the park? The man is indeed getting a little careless these days.
The Lord Chancellor was moving towards De Witt but he appeared almost oblivious to passers by. De Witt move to the side to conceal himself. His hand moved towards his pistol. Here was his chance to revenge himself of the murders of his kinsmen. As the slovenly figure of Cromwell moved closer, De Witt felt his hour of destiny had arrived.
"Murder most foul.. foul foul murder" (sic)
What was that? Has the man gone mad? His hand remained frozen unable to decide whether to follow the mind or heart of its owner. But his mind in a blur. Such a revelation would be of vital importance in determining when to strike. To act now would risk possibly greater victories in the future.
And then, as suddenly an unexpectedly as it had arrived, the Lord Chancellor and the opportunity was gone.
De Witt returned to his quarters and fell on his bed and wept. The perpetrator of crimes hitherto unheard of had been within his grasp. A single motion of his could have erased that monster for eternity. Yet he had failed his countrymen. More than this he had failed himself.
Recovering his faculties De Witt returned to his more comfortable stoic attitude as he pushed himself back to his feet. He would have to atone for his failure to act earlier. His mind was fixed. He would journey back to his homeland. He would raise up an army by the end of the year before the war with France was finished. What better time would there be to strike?
It was during one of the many visits around St James' Park that he made the most unusual of observations. From a distance he could make out that unmistakeable outline of Cromwell. Alone in the park? The man is indeed getting a little careless these days.
The Lord Chancellor was moving towards De Witt but he appeared almost oblivious to passers by. De Witt move to the side to conceal himself. His hand moved towards his pistol. Here was his chance to revenge himself of the murders of his kinsmen. As the slovenly figure of Cromwell moved closer, De Witt felt his hour of destiny had arrived.
"Murder most foul.. foul foul murder" (sic)
What was that? Has the man gone mad? His hand remained frozen unable to decide whether to follow the mind or heart of its owner. But his mind in a blur. Such a revelation would be of vital importance in determining when to strike. To act now would risk possibly greater victories in the future.
And then, as suddenly an unexpectedly as it had arrived, the Lord Chancellor and the opportunity was gone.
De Witt returned to his quarters and fell on his bed and wept. The perpetrator of crimes hitherto unheard of had been within his grasp. A single motion of his could have erased that monster for eternity. Yet he had failed his countrymen. More than this he had failed himself.
Recovering his faculties De Witt returned to his more comfortable stoic attitude as he pushed himself back to his feet. He would have to atone for his failure to act earlier. His mind was fixed. He would journey back to his homeland. He would raise up an army by the end of the year before the war with France was finished. What better time would there be to strike?