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    Real Strategy Requires Cunning

Woody Man

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Well, a little introduction first, this will be the Directors cut of The Woodhouse Dynasty 1187-1453. I was vastly unhappy with my rushed conclusion of the AAR and have often felt that it left me with inadequate foundations for the sequel, something that should be rectified!

This will be largely narrative, if not totally. The updates will not be as frequent (if thats the right word) as Rebirth of England, as this is a tertiary project to College work and Rebirth.

But anyway, I hope you all enjoy this offering!

E~P



EDIT- Just thought I'd switch some things around
 
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Woody Man

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Prologue - Visions of Jerusalem

Deus Vult! - God Wills It!

- Pope Urban II

The young boy crept along the polished stone corridors, his bare feet treading carefully across the cold floor while his chubby hands slithered across the smooth wall. The light here was scarce, only a few candles flickered into the darkness, revealing glimpses of the grandeur of the Palace. Through their light the child could see frescoes and intricate wooden carvings acting as windows to other darkened rooms. The air was warm and carried a sweet scent. As the boy walked the sound of hushed conversation emanated from a nearby room. Edging ever closer to the great wooden door, the boy pushed his long dark hair back and pressed his ear to the door.

One spoke in Latin “Through this anointing and through His most divine mercy, may the Lord forgive your sins”

Then all that could be heard was a faint mumbling and then a long silence. The boy caught his breath and felt the need to push the door open and see what was inside, instead, he sat on the floor facing away from the tall door and pulled his linen shirt over his legs and wrapped his arms around himself.

“He is dead my Lady” A solemn voice pronounced, the voice was answered only by a constrained sob.

“May the Lord God rest his Noble soul, Christendom will not forget what he has done in their service”

There was no answer, a stillness swam over the place, only to be broken by the sound of footsteps coming towards the door. The boy sprang to his feet and awaited, nervously wringing his hands in the folds of his shirt. The heavy door was pulled open and what must have been a Bishop strode from out of the room. The man ignored the child and walked out of sight down the dark corridor. The room was brightly lit and shafts of radiant light stabbed out into the gloomy dark. The boy gingerly stepped into the light, he kept a firm hold of the door frame in case he would walk into somewhere undesirable. The scene before him however, was more confusing than not, filled with familiar, yet unknown faces.

The child walked forward deeper into the room, his mouth agape, the building was unlike anything he had seen, the ceiling was high and divided by decorative supports, marble pillars jutted out from the carpeted floor and wide windows displayed the star filled night sky for all to see. The centre piece of the room was a high platform, grandly designed. Upon it, lay the body of what must have been a King, his clothes were fine to the point of garish and clasped between his two hands, was placed a gleaming sword. The man was older than the boys father no doubt, but even in death he retained a fiery demeanor, as if he carried ambition with him into heaven. His skin was lightly tanned and his long brown hair was flecked with grey at the temples, indeed he must have been a King, the boy stepped slowly towards the body, ignoring everything else around him. He stretched out his hand and ran it along the fine velvet of the King’s sleeve and then looked towards his face. The Kings nose dominated his face, prominent and aquiline. The boy stared at the deceased King fearing that he would awaken again, but he did not stir.

The sound of sobbing nearby broke the child from his reverie and it was then he noticed the woman sat near the dais, her face buried in her hands. A thin dark veil covered her head and complemented her extravagant Burgundy red dress. The room was empty save for the two of them, she must be the Queen, the boy thought, though she wore no crown.

“Oh where are your sons?” The Lady cried out into the empty room

“Mama?” A voice called out from across the expansive room, the woman looked up towards and the boy caught a glimpse of her face, he jumped back worried that she would scold him for being somewhere he shouldn’t but she ignored him, her brown eyes, red rimmed from weeping stared across the room.

“Andrew?” She called out in a unsteady tone. “You should not be here”

The newcomer ignored his mother and ran out across the rooms and wrapped himself in her arms. Andrew was a mirror of the child, his slender frame, pale skin, blue eyes and brown hair that retained tinges of blonde. Another man hurried into the room gasping for breath.

“Forgive me, my Lady” the servant bowed, he looked to offer excuses but the woman silenced him with a cold gaze. The servant stood straight and stepped to one side of the door, “My Lady, Lord Eustace, Marshal of Jerusalem”

A tall Knight walked into the room, his stride purposeful, he bore an extraordinary resemblance to the dead King. The same wild hair, the same eyes, face, only much younger. Eustace stopped short of the body and bowed slightly to the still seated woman.

“My Lady” Eustace greeted her, his manner was not affectionate, nor was it cold, it held no regard, as one merely going through the motions.

Young Andrew slipped from his mothers knees and ran towards Eustace and hugged his chain mail covered leg, the Lady stood and bowed her head and forced a smile.

“My Lord Marshal, how much I regret meeting under these circumstances”

Eustace smiled awkwardly and detached Andrew from his leg and with evident constraint patted the boy on his head. The Lady stood as if waiting for a reply from the Marshal, instead he walked over prone body of his father and knelt. As he whispered a prayer for the dead man, the woman reached over and grabbed Andrews hand and drew the boy towards her, a genuine look of fear covered her face. The boy stood rooted to the spot, detached to the scene, yet he felt as if he could not escape. The Marshal gave an aura of unrivalled power as if the gravity of his personality would pull the stone from the glorious building. The Marshal stood and took something from the dead King and placed it within a pouch tied to his scabbard belt.

“What becomes of us my Lord?” The woman blurted out, her grip on Andrew tightened.

“God will judge my father for his sins” The Marshal’s voice rang out as cold as steel “But I will not judge your own, my father has commanded me with your safekeeping my Lady, young Andrew will continue his education in the Church, god willing, he will become the Bishop of Jerusalem”

The Lady breathed a sigh of relief, Andrew looked puzzled at the situation, the poor boy was no older than seven or eight.

“Thank you My Lord”

The Marshal said nothing he span around and walked towards the door, Eustace stopped and stood in the doorway.

“I have received news from my brother the Earl of the West March, and now the Duke of Lancaster, he has gone to war with England, this war, though fought in another land, may come to us. Our cousin has no love for us.”

With that the Marshal left the room and marched into the darkness. The boy stepped back and turned to leave, but jumped at the surprise of the figure behind him. The monk leant forward and clapped his hand on the boys shoulder.

“Come Bevan its time to wake up” The monk smiled

“What?” The boy asked
 
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Woody Man

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chapter1rx9.jpg


Chapter I, The battle at Montamise

Lancaster Priory, 14th June 1187


“The boy works well..” The Prior said, staring out the stone edged window.

“He does indeed father, his reading greatly impresses us and his devotion to the Benedictine code can always be counted on”
The boy continued to thumb his way through the thick leatherbound tome as the two monks talked at the other end of the room. The men spoke in hushed tones, but Bevan managed to gleam to object of their conversation, England had gone to war with France again, no doubt his father was among the Knights called to fight for the Angevin lands in France. Despite it all, life would go on, God was on England’s side after all, he always was.

“And King Henry? What news father?” The monk asked cautiously

“Popular with all but his sons and France, they say that Richard has refused to levy his Knights in support of the King”

“And the army?” Brother John whispered to the Prior

“It is now south of Anjou, though no-one yet knows of King Phillipe’s army, I fear for the worst”

Both men looked to the young boy who happily scratched away at his parchment slowly copying the text from one book to another.

…​

The Village of Montamise, France.

Michael steadied his charger as it nervously shied from the burning thatch and dead villagers. The Knight held the reins firm but presented a gentle hand to the beast in an attempt to calm it. English soldiers grabbed what they could from the dying village, food, livestock, meagre possessions and pitiful savings of money, all was taken by the looters. A thick blanket of grey cloud covered the sun and the blue sky, as if God was shunning them for their war. In fact, only the flames engulfing the village injected any colour in the sad visage laid before him, the wet mud, the dull grass, even the bodies of the slain were, almost uninteresting.

“Ha! Woodhouse!” Another Englishman rode up to meet Michael and reined his horse in close, a great smile drawn across his face. “By God we laid a bloody defeat on the French did we not?”

“Indeed my Lord Suffolk” Michael bowed his head “Though, I expected as much, we fought militia numbering under one thousand men” He continued with a great air of nonchalance.

A cold wind tore through the village and enraged the fires which burst out engulfing more of the village.

“Well Woodhouse, without men and food, how can the French fight?”

“Another excellent point, My Lord Suffolk, but it leads me to answer, why in Gods name are we in the territory of Prince Richard?” The Knight answered with a tinge of annoyance in his voice.

“Are we?” Suffolk mocked Michael “I shall tell the King immediately” The Earl of Suffolk twisted the horse back around and kicked it forward at a gallop. Michael wasn’t sorry to see him go and urged his horse onwards towards his retinue. Michael’s soldiers were mostly garbed in padded armour, few could afford chain mail and only some had helms, but they were good dependable men, Michael had kept a close relationship with his tenants. Lancashire was a poor county and only cooperation got them through the winter. Michael’s chain mail armour was expensive enough that it would likely be passed on to his young son Bevan when he inherited the small estate, Michael worried about his younger son Gwydion, he would gain nothing little from the inheritance. And who knows how well the brothers would cooperate. Bevan had spent five of his ten years at Lancaster Priory under Prior Grey, Gwydion had stayed at the Estate and was tutored by his household staff. Michael dreamed of a better life for his sons, but they were unlikely to inherit anything, his marriage was not advantageous, nor where his blood relations. Merit alone would determine his position in life, that and influence.

A scout thundered past the Knight and towards the King, though Michael only caught a brief flash of the man, his anxiety and worry were quite apparent. The horse thundered down the column, now making its way out of the devastated village, the rider violently pulled up in front of the King, the horse bucked angrily at its mistreatment.

“My Liege! Phillipe approaches with an army! The messenger shouted and flung his arm in a Northerly direction.

“Damn him! How many men Clifford?” Henry bit his lip

“Only about two thousand, few Knights my King” The messenger replied hurriedly, the horse turned in on itself and pawed at the mud.

“Ha! Peasants my Liege” Suffolk pressed his horse towards the King and pushed his helm onto his head “Allow me the honour of destroying this pitiful army” the Earl continued.

Michael, upon hearing the disastrously set conversation rode with haste towards the King, “My Liege we cannot divide our force”

“The Impertinence!” Shouted Suffolk

“Impertinent indeed, but he is right Suffolk” The King calmly interjected “It would be unwise to divide our force, and we have good ground here, no stay with us Suffolk, take the right flank and watch for King Phillipe”

Suffolk kept his silence and cast a vile glance at Michael, the Knight held his stare with cold blue eyes and watched as the Earl tugged the reins of his horse and galloped away from the party. The King watched him leave and scratched at his red beard.

“My liege?” The Knight asked.

“Stay with me, Knight, we’ll hold the French here, they would not force battle with two thousand”

King Henry turned his horse and rode towards a small rise that looked down upon the smouldering village, the army began to march towards the treeline, just a mile in the distance, The marked spotted the French army, it was marching towards them, evidently they had been seen, not unusual considering the stack of flame and smoke emanating from the ruined village, below him Knights and Men-at-arms began to order their companies. Suffolk was readying his Knights, Henry could almost see the searing anger in him and he shouted orders and wrenched his horse about the lines.

And then Suffolk did something the King thought he would never do. At first a slow trot, and then at a gallop, Suffolk and his Knights left the Angevin lines and headed towards the French. Henry’s eyes darted around him as if hoping for a solution to present itself, but there was none, Suffolk was too far gone, even now his knights were skirting the valley north of the village and were moving to attack the enemy army.

“My Lord!?” the Earl of Kent called out

“I know, hold yourselves, we can do nothing now” The King replied wearily.

Henry looked on helpless, Suffolk and his Knights thundered towards the French army, but Suffolk was exactly where the French King wanted him. The French force that the scout had seen was just a peasant rabble, the Capetian Knights were waiting for a moment like this. And with Suffolk gleefully fulfilling the role, the French sprang from the nearby woods and surrounded Suffolk and his men.

Henry did not watch Suffolk’s death, instead he rode his horse closer to the English lines and looked upon his men. Much of them were poor, few could afford a mail coat or sword. The King knew the forthcoming battle would test his army, especially after Suffolk’s ill-fated charge. The English had set up a long line, several lines deep, though how deep varied throughout. The raised ground would give them an advantage, however slight, as would the many spears deployed in Henry’s army. Phillipe Augustus had raised a large cavalry force, from what Henry had seen. A combination of these factors gave the English a better chance that it would seem.


Thankfully for Henry, the French army was a disorganised and as impetuous as the Earl of Suffolk was. The first attack came less than an hour after Suffolk’s defeat. The French cavalry tore through the burning village and towards the English lines. A few of the lightly armoured riders fell to a meagre amount of English archers, their lifeless bodies falling into the mud, but the majority reached the English lines.

The charge’s climax was a resounding clash as the French crashed into the English lines, some of the Cavalry managed to push into the lines and killed as many as they could. But the Angevin line held and quickly counterattacked, horses were impaled upon spears and their riders mercilessly finished, some were pulled from their horses by a multitude of scrambling hands and their throats cut by English levies. The first attack lasted less than ten minutes before it broke off in disorder.

The French did not intend to let the English get away, as the first attack left the second began, this time French Knights dismounted and joined their men-at-arms and Sergeants. The English stood fast, the few Knights that were left in Henry’s army dismounted and prepared to withstand the French onslaught. The Capetian army ran up the hill towards the English shield wall. This fight was brutal, the heavily armoured Knights broke down much of the first line and the English were pushed back, the quicker French sergeants and peasants quickly moved to fill the gap. The weight of the French army became so much that even Henry was obliged to dismount and draw his sword.

Michael himself was becoming increasingly burdened by the French numbers, one Sergeants axe fell towards his head, Michael forcefully blocked the weapon and hacked his sword into the Frenchmans side, the fallen sergeant tumbled down the incline, another filled his place, his boots sliding across the damp mud, Michael hammered his shield onto the Frenchmans and clumsily pushed him out again. The battle wore on, neither side gained an advantage, French cavalry charges were repelled, but the French infantry held their ground keeping the English engaged in melee. The end of the battle came quietly, the French tired of fighting began to hold back, and then gradually slipped from battle, the English were low in number and exhausted from battle and did not pursue. Henry was bloodied from battle, as were much of his men, his army was ruined by this victory and the campaign was over.

“Exeter, prepare the men, we make for Avranches and home, we can no longer retain our state of war”

“As you wish, my Liege” The Earl of Exeter made his way down to a group of Knights and relayed the message.

The remains of the English army sifted through the dead, some looted, others buried and took note of the deceased, at least his soldiers would be better equipped for the next battle, Henry thought, it had been a grim day, but he was alive, and at least his son Richard had yet to throw his cards on the table, he would always be trouble. Wearily, Henry turned his back on the battlefield and mounted his horse. How he longed to be back in England.
 

stnylan

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That sounds like a decidely pyrrhic victory. I missed your first efforts, so I am glad to be able to catch this one at ground-level, so to speak.
 

Woody Man

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stnylan said:
That sounds like a decidely pyrrhic victory. I missed your first efforts, so I am glad to be able to catch this one at ground-level, so to speak.

It was! I'm glad you're able to catch this one Stnlyan! Happy reading!
 

canonized

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Wow , an excellent idea , Mr. Woodhouse ! Very inspiring and it's so good to see your narrative style ; it's turning out amazingly great ! The different pastiche of emotions and hardship protrays the times well !
 

General_BT

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I've always admired the original of this AAR, and now I get it see it start anew! Looking forward to seeing how this "victory" turns out for the English...
 

Woody Man

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Canonized - Thank you and Welcome! Its great to have you along for the ride

General_BT - Thanks for joining and coming back to us, I hope this AAR will expand enormously on the previous
 

coz1

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Excellent, EP. :) I waited until you had a couple of posts before commenting just to see the flow and I like it. If anything, I might desire a bit more set up for these characters, not having read the original AAR. But the scenes are vivid and your sense of prose is excellent. I like it much, sir!
 

Woody Man

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coz1 said:
Excellent, EP. :) I waited until you had a couple of posts before commenting just to see the flow and I like it. If anything, I might desire a bit more set up for these characters, not having read the original AAR. But the scenes are vivid and your sense of prose is excellent. I like it much, sir!


I'm very glad you like it coz1! My original plan was to quickly jump through the war in France and move straight towards Bevan Epee de Dieu's tenure as Earl of the West March and beyond, but if people desire it I can take my time and expand on the late 12th century more.

:)
 

Kurt_Steiner

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A highly interesting idea, by my throat!
 

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Kurt_Steiner said:
A highly interesting idea, by my throat!

I'm very glad you like it, and that you've returned again!



Sorry about the very looong hiatus, college work and all that :( and my other AAR, I am endeavouring to get an update done tonight or tomorro

E~P
 

Woody Man

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chapter2ih0.jpg


Chapter II, Ile St. Martin


Ile St. Martin, Twenty miles from Tours, June 29th 1187

Michael pulled back his chain mail hood and looked out at the river, it was the only barrier on the path home, the Capetian army stood right behind him, its blue banners fluttering in the brisk wind and its Knights armour shining in the golden sun. It was a fresh army no doubt, brought up from Toulouse. The English would have to stand, and the King knew it. The Loire blocked their line of retreat, the bridges were a almost as far away as Tours. Henry would have to win here and he knew it. His head sunk in despair, the campaign was over two weeks ago and he knew, his army was battered and demoralised, most of his Knights had been killed with that fool Suffolk, and Henry’s sons were nowhere to be found. Though at least, they had not turned against him, and to think that Richard would succeed him, after all he had done to his father. The French were moving closer, marching down a small incline and into the fields before them.

Henry was watching the French cavalry splash through a small stream when one of his Knights rode over to him, the rider was covered in sweat, the armour and hot summers day did not treat the Knights well.

“My Liege, the French emissary” the Knight gasped as he reigned his horse in. The King nodded gravely, if they were terms, they would be harsh.

The French emissary galloped towards the King, the French Royal standard held aloft.

“From France?” The King inquired wearily

“From him, and thus he greets your Majesty” The Emissary announced grandly, the smirk on his face was unmistakable.

“My King does demand, that in exchange for you safety you do rightful homage to him as King of France and acknowledge his mastery over this Kingdom of France, if you agree to these most generous terms, then you and your valiant army may return to England, if however you refuse, not one will leave these fields, and My King shall make you pay homage to him as your lawful King, what say you, King Henry of England?”

“Tell my noble brother of France that we shall bow down to him for lands that we have rightfully been invested in since birth, no tell him that we will fight, and that his and our Knights will both stain the ground red” The Kings eyes stared out at the emissary, the Frenchman bowed his head in return and rode back to the French lines that were arraying before the English.

The Earl of Exeter rode up to the King, he was a thin man, in contrast to the King, and naturally sharp face that made him look neither kind nor saintly.

“What are your plans sire?” The Earl asked, looking out at the French

“What can we plan for Exeter? Just hold the ground we stand on”

“Yes my liege” Exeter grimaced and returned to his levy

Henry looked over his army, it was battered, diseased and tired, but Henry was no better, he was fifty four now, no longer a young man, was he still the same person that had crushed Ireland, or defeated Scotland at the battle of Alnwick? This battle would tell him. The King spurred his horse down towards the English lines, archers were stringing their longbows, Men at Arms gave confession and the Knights organised their levies. It was foolish of him to go to war, he knew that now, but Richard needed to be swayed from an alliance with Phillipe of France, he had to be shown his father was still a force on the continent, but this war might show the exact opposite, the one victory on this accursed campaign was pyrrhic at best, and now this. Maybe Richard would be right to rebel.

Michael pulled his mail coif over his black hair and planted his helm firmly atop his head, he stretched out his arms and checked over last piece of his chain mail armour, satisfied with the arrangement he stepped up to the warhorse and slid his foot into the stirrup and vaulted into the saddle. Geoffrey, his squire handed him his shield, three white flowers sat upon a black background divided by a golden chevron, he weighed the shield and pushed his arm through the leather handles and gripped the reins of the horse.

“Go on Geoffrey, back to the lines” Michael twisted his neck trying to attain some comfort from his armour.

The French began to advance, the French nobility leading, impetuous in its desire to destroy the English army.

Michael spurred his horse to join the remaining English Knights and the King, it was Henry’s wish to strike a decisive blow and defeat Phillipe personally, it was the only chance they had of victory.

The French came closer still, the Knights thundered across the summery fields of Tourraine, The King drew his sword and his Knights followed suit, the English archers notched their bows and prepared to loose them at the oncoming enemy.

The arrows whipped through the air and tore into the French ranks, few fell and the horses came closer. The King spurred his charger and Michael stabbed his heels into his, the English Knights took off and charged across the fields.

The first contact was always the worst, a shattering crash accompanied the clash of the two sides, the galloping of horses replaced by the sound of steel against steel. Michael followed his horse through the melee, he threw his shield forward to deflect an oncoming lance blow, another knight drew up on his right but was de-horsed by an English lance, Michael pulled his own horse round and struck a French Knight across the neck, the force of the blow slung the man from his horse, Michael was now an island in a swirling melee, infantry and cavalry clashed, Knights stabbed down at foot soldiers and foot soldiers pulled knights from their horses and murdered them.

Michael threw his sword up and parried a downward blow, he pushed his sword back against the Frenchman and threw him off guard, Michael’s riposte battered into the mans shield and he pulled back for another stroke, striking again in the same place, the sword splintered the top half of the Frenchman’s shield and cut into his skull. Michael wrenched the blade free, quickly turned his head and attempted to take stock of the situation. Both armies were fully committed to the fight, if the French had reserves they were hidden far away, but the disparity in numbers was telling, the French were beginning to surround them and parts of the English line were breaking. Another sword blow, another shield parry, Michael swung his sword towards the Frenchman’s head but he had already ridden past.

“Henry is dead!, the King is dead!” The lone voice signalled chaos, at its cry the English line faltered and started to crumble.

Michael cursed inwardly and sought a way out of the melee, the French were pouring through the gaps in the line, rider less horses followed their instincts and galloped after them, the English ran, though they had no destination, another horsemen rode towards Michael, the Frenchman swung high, Michael ducked underneath and thrust his sword into the horses neck, the beast cried out in agony and thrashed its legs against the ground before collapsing bringing the Frenchman with it, Michael jammed his spurs into his own horse and made for the Loire, it was wide no doubt, but rain had been thin this summer and there were sandbanks dotted along, with his horse Michael could make it across the river, and alive.

Michael stabbed his heels into the horse, willing it to go ever faster, the English soldiers were scattered across the fields, some began to swim the river, others hid, the unlucky were cut down by French cavalry, the lucky were captured for ransom, Michael would have no such luck, his family barely had the money to pay for his armour, let alone a ransom.

Michael broke from the pack and made it to the river, the water was fast flowing, though thankfully not too deep, he prepared to cross when a soldier stumbled up behind him, Michael pulled the horse to face the man and readied his sword.

“My liege!” Michael cried out in disbelief

The man panted, but kept his eyes behind him, “It’s you isn’t it, Knight, you stood up to Suffolk”

Michael vaulted off his horse and hurried over to Henry, his red hair was caked in sweat, his helm discarded on the battle with his shield and sword.

“Take my horse, noble King, there is a bridge several miles east of here” Michael threw his shield on the ground and pulled off his helmet.

Henry gripped the reins and vaulted onto the horse. “I shall not forget this, what his your name?”

“I am Michael Woodhouse, of Lancaster, son of Peter” Michael bowed his head, it occurred to him it may not be the time for such formalities, but the old ways died hard.
“If you escape this, come to Rouen, I shall not see you unrewarded, Fare Well, Michael” The King bowed his head gently and spurred the horse and rode off to the east. Michael began to tear off his chain mail and throw it upon the floor, there went his money, lost in a French river bank, he could not however, leave his sword, it was too precious.

And then, Michael plunged into the water of the Loire like so many others around him, the going was hard, the water cold, at points he regretted taking the sword for it so pulled him down into the icy depths. The water flooded his woollen clothes and weighed them down, but at last he reached the muddy river bank and dragged himself up on the shore. Michael gasped for air, his legs ached and his arms shook from exhaustion, he wanted to collapse onto the grass and lay there for hours, instead he scrambled up to the field, and began to run as hard as he could towards the tree line. He glanced behind him, the French weren’t crossing the river, but were going east towards King Henry and the bridge, Michael wondered if his sacrifice had all been in vain. It didn’t take him long to reach the thin wood separating the field from the rest of France and when he felt suitably hidden amongst the sporadic shadows he collapsed against a thick tree trunk and began to laugh.
 

canonized

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Ahh and so it begins ! An excellently played scene . The final swim was also very well put , I think . It really infused so much emotion into a single action and then the struggle . It was like a baptism before the life of being in the Church militant !
 

coz1

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An excellent battle description, EP! Very engaging and surely bloody. Michael has paid the King a favor and we can see how he might be rewarded in future. Very nice. :cool:
 

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Director's Cut eh? Where have I seen that before? :)

Good work E_P. Telling the prologue through the eyes of Bevan was nicely handled. And now I'll wait patiently for more...
 

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Canonized - Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed it :)

coz1 - Thank you very much! I'm really happy you enjoyed the battle, I always have a tough time writing them, but I'm glad it came through!

Lord Durham - Haha! Well I must admit I did take a little inspiration from somewhere ;) I'm glad you liked the prologue and I'm happy you're on board!
 

Kurt_Steiner

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English Patriot said:
“Take my horse, noble King, there is a bridge several miles east of here” Michael threw his shield on the ground and pulled off his helmet.

He may have lost his armour, but he hasn't lost the sense to throw a good sentence. Shakespeare would be willing to put that to one of his plays ;)
 

Woody Man

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Kurt_Steiner said:
He may have lost his armour, but he hasn't lost the sense to throw a good sentence. Shakespeare would be willing to put that to one of his plays ;)

Haha! You flatter me Kurt! I had Shakespeare in mind when I wrote the piece, I'm glad you picked up on it!
 

Kurt_Steiner

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I knew that thy style was quite familiar to me, m'lord... :D






Having the ghost of Sir Laurence Olivier shouting in my ear "there! there!" helps a bit, trust me :rofl: