I, King Frédéric de Cornouaille, King of Brittany and all the Spains, put my seal upon this treaty.Emperor Ike said:
/Breton Seal/
It depends on how the game handles it...if it causes crashes, it'll be Duke; if not, it'll be King.Emperor Ike said:
There Will Be War - In The Balance
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/Breton Seal/
Breton Diplomatic Entanglements
My master, His Royal Majesty Frédéric de Cornouaille, King of Brittany and all the Spains, having received a request that Brittany enumerate and summarize her diplomatic entanglements, and having agreed that it would be wisest to have them out in the open (the better that the treaties might shed light to illuminate those who might otherwise have accidentally harmed themselves by drawing too near, on their Wings of Ambition, to the Breton Sun), hereby summarizes the Breton positions.
The most obvious of the Breton Treaties is the Treaty of Provence. Signed over 46 years ago, this treaty binds Brittany not to attack Italy or its vassals, and binds Italy in exchange not to attack Brittany or its vassals, on pain of excommunication and forfeiture of a Kingdom (Mauretania or Burgundy, to be specific). This treaty can be voided in a number of ways (Breton attacks on Arabia or Bohemia, or Italian attacks on France or Bohemia). This treaty will be in force until January 1, 1200.
The second of the Breton Treaties is the Breton Guarantee of Bohemian Independence. This proclamation simply states Brittany's long-standing recognition that Bohemian self-rule should be free from external meddling. This treaty has no enforcement provisions, and expires on January 1, 1200.
The third, and most recent, of the Breton Treaties is the Breton-Russian Non-aggression pact (see here and here). This treaty binds Brittany not to attack Russia, as long as Russia does not attack France or Bohemia. This treaty has no enforcement provisions, and expires on January 1, 1200.
In addition, while no formal treaties bind the two realms, Brittany has a longstanding friendship with France, and considers as a result attacks upon France to be as attacks upon Brittany.
My master hopes this summary will help guide you in your endeavors, and notes that Breton clerks stand ready to answer any questions you might have regarding the application of the Breton treaties to a specific considered action.
My master also bids me add, in an abundance of caution, that, while the above is believed to comprise the whole of Breton entanglements, this list was compiled from the records of many generations. Men die and forget, scrolls burn and are lost. All things fall apart. And so it may be that Brittany has inadvertently overlooked a diplomatic relationship. If so, please accept that no slight was intended, and please bring such a relationship to our attention as soon as possible.
My master, His Royal Majesty Frédéric de Cornouaille, King of Brittany and all the Spains, having received a request that Brittany enumerate and summarize her diplomatic entanglements, and having agreed that it would be wisest to have them out in the open (the better that the treaties might shed light to illuminate those who might otherwise have accidentally harmed themselves by drawing too near, on their Wings of Ambition, to the Breton Sun), hereby summarizes the Breton positions.
The most obvious of the Breton Treaties is the Treaty of Provence. Signed over 46 years ago, this treaty binds Brittany not to attack Italy or its vassals, and binds Italy in exchange not to attack Brittany or its vassals, on pain of excommunication and forfeiture of a Kingdom (Mauretania or Burgundy, to be specific). This treaty can be voided in a number of ways (Breton attacks on Arabia or Bohemia, or Italian attacks on France or Bohemia). This treaty will be in force until January 1, 1200.
The second of the Breton Treaties is the Breton Guarantee of Bohemian Independence. This proclamation simply states Brittany's long-standing recognition that Bohemian self-rule should be free from external meddling. This treaty has no enforcement provisions, and expires on January 1, 1200.
The third, and most recent, of the Breton Treaties is the Breton-Russian Non-aggression pact (see here and here). This treaty binds Brittany not to attack Russia, as long as Russia does not attack France or Bohemia. This treaty has no enforcement provisions, and expires on January 1, 1200.
In addition, while no formal treaties bind the two realms, Brittany has a longstanding friendship with France, and considers as a result attacks upon France to be as attacks upon Brittany.
My master hopes this summary will help guide you in your endeavors, and notes that Breton clerks stand ready to answer any questions you might have regarding the application of the Breton treaties to a specific considered action.
My master also bids me add, in an abundance of caution, that, while the above is believed to comprise the whole of Breton entanglements, this list was compiled from the records of many generations. Men die and forget, scrolls burn and are lost. All things fall apart. And so it may be that Brittany has inadvertently overlooked a diplomatic relationship. If so, please accept that no slight was intended, and please bring such a relationship to our attention as soon as possible.
Scotland and the Lusignans.
[Reposted from the main thread. Slightly edited to reflect current King-vassalization plans. Should appear chronologically before Ike's post above, but oh well.]
Regarding Scotland. King Frédéric is profoundly dismayed by the fashion in which King Silvester has conducted Scottish foreign policy. In just 11 short years after being set free to govern his own affairs, King Silvester has managed to lose 3 separate wars, loot his lands, and so disturb his own vassals (including King Frédéric's very dear sister, Countess Marguerite, and King Silvester's own mother) that said vassals run to all corners for protection.
In addition to the failures of Scottish foreign policy, King Silvester's fiscal policy has been similarly disastrous. Despite multiple rounds of fiscal support from Breton coffers, King Silvester has squandered all of his resources and extended his credit to the limit.
Finally, in addition to King Silvester's foreign and fiscal failures, King Silvester's personal failures also shock the conscience. King Silvester, who comes from a line long known as one of the most pious in all of Christendom, has so turned away from our Holy Mother Church and Her Teachings that he has been cast out and damned.
This cannot be allowed to stand.
King Frédéric and Brittany feel some responsibility for the way in which King Silvester has conducted himself. Obviously, Brittany was too lenient with the Lusignans when they were Dukes of Ireland. Accordingly, Brittany has collected the markers from Ireland and Scotland, and sets out the following.
1) As Brittany collected the counts from Ireland and Scotland that were then in the control of the King of Norway as his agent to deliver them to King Silvester, Brittany will do so. These counties will be enumerated at a later date. For now it suffices to note that these counties do not include the counties of Isle of Man, Berwick, or those counties in Ireland or Scotland recently held by King O'Brien of Ireland. Berwick will be given to the King of Norway, and the Isle of Man will be given to the King of Prussia.
2) Brittany reexert dominion over the Kingdoms of Scotland and Ireland, and more specifically over the Lusignan Kings of Scotland and Ireland. King Lusignan may maintain his Kingdom style, but must conduct no foreign policy independent of Brittany.
3) Should the Kings of Scotland prove themselves worthy, and reconcile with Holy Mother Church, they may once again in time be granted the independent rule of the Kingdoms they so briefly held.
King Frédéric de Cornouaille.
/s/Breton Seal
[Reposted from the main thread. Slightly edited to reflect current King-vassalization plans. Should appear chronologically before Ike's post above, but oh well.]
Regarding Scotland. King Frédéric is profoundly dismayed by the fashion in which King Silvester has conducted Scottish foreign policy. In just 11 short years after being set free to govern his own affairs, King Silvester has managed to lose 3 separate wars, loot his lands, and so disturb his own vassals (including King Frédéric's very dear sister, Countess Marguerite, and King Silvester's own mother) that said vassals run to all corners for protection.
In addition to the failures of Scottish foreign policy, King Silvester's fiscal policy has been similarly disastrous. Despite multiple rounds of fiscal support from Breton coffers, King Silvester has squandered all of his resources and extended his credit to the limit.
Finally, in addition to King Silvester's foreign and fiscal failures, King Silvester's personal failures also shock the conscience. King Silvester, who comes from a line long known as one of the most pious in all of Christendom, has so turned away from our Holy Mother Church and Her Teachings that he has been cast out and damned.
This cannot be allowed to stand.
King Frédéric and Brittany feel some responsibility for the way in which King Silvester has conducted himself. Obviously, Brittany was too lenient with the Lusignans when they were Dukes of Ireland. Accordingly, Brittany has collected the markers from Ireland and Scotland, and sets out the following.
1) As Brittany collected the counts from Ireland and Scotland that were then in the control of the King of Norway as his agent to deliver them to King Silvester, Brittany will do so. These counties will be enumerated at a later date. For now it suffices to note that these counties do not include the counties of Isle of Man, Berwick, or those counties in Ireland or Scotland recently held by King O'Brien of Ireland. Berwick will be given to the King of Norway, and the Isle of Man will be given to the King of Prussia.
2) Brittany reexert dominion over the Kingdoms of Scotland and Ireland, and more specifically over the Lusignan Kings of Scotland and Ireland. King Lusignan may maintain his Kingdom style, but must conduct no foreign policy independent of Brittany.
3) Should the Kings of Scotland prove themselves worthy, and reconcile with Holy Mother Church, they may once again in time be granted the independent rule of the Kingdoms they so briefly held.
King Frédéric de Cornouaille.
/s/Breton Seal
525 Gold money/ Gollevainen's arrival to Russia part-II
And then the principal host stopped their journey into City of Velikyi Rus, and the Prince Tvoromir looked his demesne and contentment filled his soul.
But then his eyes spotted the emptiness, and the smallness of the city fell heavily upon Tvoromir's soul.
“Oh why My lord, why, the city that bears the name of grandiosity and collosial tone is such poor little place?” He shouted his outcry to the air and people would see their Prince talking to his god. Such a devout man! And indeed it shall be god's will that the principal purse shall pour little something for the poor city of Velikyi Rus, As it was, no city of such name should be left in the Shaddow of bigger metropols of the realm.
And so it was that in the year 1169, begun the construction of the Castle of Saint Aleksandr of the Neva in the city of Velikyi Rus, and prince Tvoromir was contented.
Until he saw the poor people of Velikyi Rus.
“Oh why my children, why you wonder in poverty and despair? Why you fill your life with agony, when there is so much joy and riches that our god has given to us? Oh rise from the filth and be happy and rich!” Commanded Tvoromir, and people would weep over the piety of such noble man and indeed where they happy to live under the powers of such lord.
But in spite the wise words of the prince, the poor folk of Velikyi Rus would still look sad and bare the burdens of their earthly roam. And they looked sincerely to the face of the prince and multiple was the amount of tears they wept.
And oh, they wept! Indeed.
“But we have no money, your highness must know that?” They would moan.
Prince took a deep thought and considered these alarming news with wisdom and consideration. Then he spoke: “Then you shall do as I do, when my vault is empty: Pillage the Serfs! That is right given you by the god himself! Hollowed shall be his name!”
But the poor folk would groan in agony and their peals begun to have desperate tone: “Oh, our lord and ruler, you must know that we have no serfs of our own! What are we but more worse than our honest agrar co-sufferers? Us poor has no luxury of noble kin!”
And Tvoromir weighted these words and found true wisdom and deep relevance inside them. Indeed deep was the agony of the poor people of Velikyi Rus. In his life, the prince have newer come in front of such worrysome news, that the town proletarity had no earthly wealth, and more than what, no serfs or other estate based incomes.
Indeed it was time to seek higher council.
“Bring in my behind-the-throne-advisor!”
And then the court men brought the Chudian necromancer in front of the prince, and to him, Tvoromir explained his proplem.
“Well give them some money!” Gollevainen responded.
Tvoromir tasted the pits of wisdom in his word, but found unpleasent scents that didn't pleased him. Wouldn't that mean that he had to give away his own money? Sure there was a biblical quote that would make such thing a heretical? In his heart Tvoromir knew the honest of gods will and when his conscience spoke against the necromancers words, It must be gods will that spoke inside of his soul! And indeed such deed of giving away money to poor must come from Satan! Was it not whispered in the court of Novgorod, that the evil Chudian had connections to the underworld?
“No there must be another way! A way of god, where Satan doesent speak as a midhand!”
The Chudian face grew in fustration and In his heart Tvoromir knew that the grace of the lord above was challenging the webs of the Satanic webweaving!
Praise the lord and the holy mother of god!
“Well lent them some money then” Gollevainen finally said, and to Tvoromir it felt like his free christian soul would have spoken behind the iron door of the hell's dungeon...perhaps there were hope for him, and he shall repent and win the keys to heaven after all.
Such bliss filled Tvoromirs soul that tears fell from his eyes. And behold! He saw the will of the god in the tongue of Chudian Necromancer! It stormed from the words of Gollevainen like verbal riding of Archangel Mikael and transformed in Tvoromirs mind into a heavenly plan of righteousness.
So begun the building of money lenders offices into every city of Novgorod, and god's will was fulfilled and Tvoromir rested and wept in his prayers, so contented was he from the good deed he had done.
All praise the lord and his saints and the heavenly kingdom's rule over earthly overlords!
All shall condemn the false bishop of Rome and categorize him along with rodents in the books of beast!
A thousand years of bless to the city of Velikyi Rus for its sacret foresigth and let it be blessed decission that the poor folk of the city shall not be taken intress no more than 12 per centile from the first five years of their mortages!
Long live the twelve apostles and the st Aleksander of the Neva and the st Afram of the Smolenks!
God speed to all artillery men, as it has been foreseen that they will bring the thunder of god into battlefield, in the days of Armageddon!
So shall be the principal will, the the hat maker in the city of Pskov shall be declared saint as he had produced hat that resembles the skull of st. Nikander miracle maker with high detail. Praised shall be the gods will as it moves in mysterious ways!
Twelve years of happiness to the Grand-prince of All Rus, may the Basileus the great's post-mortal thoughts be with you in the governing this great nation.
13 years of agony and painful warts to the heretic kings of Norway and Pruzia from not acknowledging the Slavic overlord ship over the northern world!
Gollevainen looked upon his brother of trade and sighted. It didn't ment be this way...it wasn't his will...but...have he been not to look the backside of prize fur? Take what is been given...
He took the note from the Chudian who then vanished back into darkness. A bit weaker mind would have looked worryingly whether anyone would saw him dealing with those northern pagans, but Gollevainen didn't care. Let them know that what ever god reinged, Gollevainen had good deals with everyone of them.
The note was inscripted with shaky handwriting and Gollevainen could almoust see the knife pointed out to that poor squires neck who had been forced to write it down....had tears mingled into the ink? Or blood?
He smiled...
In Pskov, he handed it to the Dimitri Rurikovits, to Prince to come after Tvoromir The necromancer knew his skills to seal his true will, and often worked out that his accompanies expressed it by their own words, thinking it as their own will, not the sorcerers magic working on them.
“The filthy pagans and satan-worshipers wants us to pay 525 gold money from my father's ransom! Their heathen ways and heathen rebellion! Oh, didn't I said to my father: 'don't go, because I see only darkness in your path!'? What shall I do?”
The two men looked away from each others and each took a time for their own thoughts. Indeed what shall do a son to inherit a realm, or heathen necromancer pissed off by his liege's piety?
525 gold money...
---------------------------------------------
But for reward, my wife's owen to be filled with (preferably by a baby boy...)
Sorry dont know her ID, and too noob to look it out.
And then the principal host stopped their journey into City of Velikyi Rus, and the Prince Tvoromir looked his demesne and contentment filled his soul.
But then his eyes spotted the emptiness, and the smallness of the city fell heavily upon Tvoromir's soul.
“Oh why My lord, why, the city that bears the name of grandiosity and collosial tone is such poor little place?” He shouted his outcry to the air and people would see their Prince talking to his god. Such a devout man! And indeed it shall be god's will that the principal purse shall pour little something for the poor city of Velikyi Rus, As it was, no city of such name should be left in the Shaddow of bigger metropols of the realm.
And so it was that in the year 1169, begun the construction of the Castle of Saint Aleksandr of the Neva in the city of Velikyi Rus, and prince Tvoromir was contented.
Until he saw the poor people of Velikyi Rus.
“Oh why my children, why you wonder in poverty and despair? Why you fill your life with agony, when there is so much joy and riches that our god has given to us? Oh rise from the filth and be happy and rich!” Commanded Tvoromir, and people would weep over the piety of such noble man and indeed where they happy to live under the powers of such lord.
But in spite the wise words of the prince, the poor folk of Velikyi Rus would still look sad and bare the burdens of their earthly roam. And they looked sincerely to the face of the prince and multiple was the amount of tears they wept.
And oh, they wept! Indeed.
“But we have no money, your highness must know that?” They would moan.
Prince took a deep thought and considered these alarming news with wisdom and consideration. Then he spoke: “Then you shall do as I do, when my vault is empty: Pillage the Serfs! That is right given you by the god himself! Hollowed shall be his name!”
But the poor folk would groan in agony and their peals begun to have desperate tone: “Oh, our lord and ruler, you must know that we have no serfs of our own! What are we but more worse than our honest agrar co-sufferers? Us poor has no luxury of noble kin!”
And Tvoromir weighted these words and found true wisdom and deep relevance inside them. Indeed deep was the agony of the poor people of Velikyi Rus. In his life, the prince have newer come in front of such worrysome news, that the town proletarity had no earthly wealth, and more than what, no serfs or other estate based incomes.
Indeed it was time to seek higher council.
“Bring in my behind-the-throne-advisor!”
And then the court men brought the Chudian necromancer in front of the prince, and to him, Tvoromir explained his proplem.
“Well give them some money!” Gollevainen responded.
Tvoromir tasted the pits of wisdom in his word, but found unpleasent scents that didn't pleased him. Wouldn't that mean that he had to give away his own money? Sure there was a biblical quote that would make such thing a heretical? In his heart Tvoromir knew the honest of gods will and when his conscience spoke against the necromancers words, It must be gods will that spoke inside of his soul! And indeed such deed of giving away money to poor must come from Satan! Was it not whispered in the court of Novgorod, that the evil Chudian had connections to the underworld?
“No there must be another way! A way of god, where Satan doesent speak as a midhand!”
The Chudian face grew in fustration and In his heart Tvoromir knew that the grace of the lord above was challenging the webs of the Satanic webweaving!
Praise the lord and the holy mother of god!
“Well lent them some money then” Gollevainen finally said, and to Tvoromir it felt like his free christian soul would have spoken behind the iron door of the hell's dungeon...perhaps there were hope for him, and he shall repent and win the keys to heaven after all.
Such bliss filled Tvoromirs soul that tears fell from his eyes. And behold! He saw the will of the god in the tongue of Chudian Necromancer! It stormed from the words of Gollevainen like verbal riding of Archangel Mikael and transformed in Tvoromirs mind into a heavenly plan of righteousness.
So begun the building of money lenders offices into every city of Novgorod, and god's will was fulfilled and Tvoromir rested and wept in his prayers, so contented was he from the good deed he had done.
All praise the lord and his saints and the heavenly kingdom's rule over earthly overlords!
All shall condemn the false bishop of Rome and categorize him along with rodents in the books of beast!
A thousand years of bless to the city of Velikyi Rus for its sacret foresigth and let it be blessed decission that the poor folk of the city shall not be taken intress no more than 12 per centile from the first five years of their mortages!
Long live the twelve apostles and the st Aleksander of the Neva and the st Afram of the Smolenks!
God speed to all artillery men, as it has been foreseen that they will bring the thunder of god into battlefield, in the days of Armageddon!
So shall be the principal will, the the hat maker in the city of Pskov shall be declared saint as he had produced hat that resembles the skull of st. Nikander miracle maker with high detail. Praised shall be the gods will as it moves in mysterious ways!
Twelve years of happiness to the Grand-prince of All Rus, may the Basileus the great's post-mortal thoughts be with you in the governing this great nation.
13 years of agony and painful warts to the heretic kings of Norway and Pruzia from not acknowledging the Slavic overlord ship over the northern world!
Gollevainen looked upon his brother of trade and sighted. It didn't ment be this way...it wasn't his will...but...have he been not to look the backside of prize fur? Take what is been given...
He took the note from the Chudian who then vanished back into darkness. A bit weaker mind would have looked worryingly whether anyone would saw him dealing with those northern pagans, but Gollevainen didn't care. Let them know that what ever god reinged, Gollevainen had good deals with everyone of them.
The note was inscripted with shaky handwriting and Gollevainen could almoust see the knife pointed out to that poor squires neck who had been forced to write it down....had tears mingled into the ink? Or blood?
He smiled...
In Pskov, he handed it to the Dimitri Rurikovits, to Prince to come after Tvoromir The necromancer knew his skills to seal his true will, and often worked out that his accompanies expressed it by their own words, thinking it as their own will, not the sorcerers magic working on them.
“The filthy pagans and satan-worshipers wants us to pay 525 gold money from my father's ransom! Their heathen ways and heathen rebellion! Oh, didn't I said to my father: 'don't go, because I see only darkness in your path!'? What shall I do?”
The two men looked away from each others and each took a time for their own thoughts. Indeed what shall do a son to inherit a realm, or heathen necromancer pissed off by his liege's piety?
525 gold money...
---------------------------------------------
But for reward, my wife's owen to be filled with (preferably by a baby boy...)
Sorry dont know her ID, and too noob to look it out.
By order of the Emperor of the Byzantines, Adronikos Diogenes, the province of Southern Ural, located in Bulgar, Khazaria, shall be given back to it's rightful patron King Adarnese of Georgia. Let it be so.
(Seal of Andronikos Diogenes, King of Bulgaria.)
OOC:
Small treaty/transfer. please give the province of Southern Ural back to Fasquardon, FoCoG will be paid by me.
(Seal of Andronikos Diogenes, King of Bulgaria.)
OOC:
Small treaty/transfer. please give the province of Southern Ural back to Fasquardon, FoCoG will be paid by me.
Treaty of Lubeck
Know Ye All Men By What Follows
that the Count of York is hereby confirmed as the vassal of the Kings of Norway, who are charged now and forever to rule and defend these lands with the strength and wisdom granted them by Our Lord Jesus Christ.
That the County of Mecklemburg, to be ceded by the King of Norway, is hereby confirmed as a possession of the King of Prussia, who is charged now and forever to rule and defend these lands with the strength and wisdom granted them by Our Lord Jesus Christ.
X Olaf Yngling, his mark
X Seal of the Kingdom of Prussia (to be confirmed by carillon)
Each nation will pay 250 gold.
June 11th, 1176
Strathclyde, Scotland
Late afternoon
The battle was over, and the ransomable prisoners were being separated from the ones destined for Norwegian farms. There weren't many of the latter; men able to afford enough armour to stand in the line were generally wealthy enough to be worth ransoming. And besides, Irishmen of the warrior class made poor slaves. There would be better looting when they got to Ireland and could take their pick of the peasants. The camp followers were another matter; women were always valuable, especially ones who followed the drum. Apart from those few who'd had romantic ideas about following their boyfriends into battle, they were mostly sensible women with no illusions about what happened when an army was defeated, and they were doing their best to smile at their new men, hoping for lenient treatment. They'd get it, too; Oswine would have no berserkers in his ranks, and most of the lads were reasonable young men who understood about vinegar and honey. There would be some marriages in the weeks to come, and men with Irish blood in the army twenty years hence. Oswine was glad of it; the gallowglasses [1] had fought well. A long line of corpses marked the hill where they had made their stand. Boys too young to fight in the line were busy keeping the crows and ravens off, by his order, until the burial parties could get both sides underground.
At last the long line of prisoners coming up to Oswine to receive judgement ended; he pronounced the final "Held for ransom, two silver marks" with satisfaction, stretched, and turned to his tent. It had been a long day, and Jamiy would have made sure one of the prettier women was set aside for him.
June 12th, 1176
Strathclyde, Scotland
Early morning
Rising pillars of smoke marked the way the Norwegians had come; but now a dark fist rose towards the heavens ahead of their columns, and Oswine was puzzled. There was another army coming under Harald, but they were supposed to march across England and then cross to Ireland to campaign there, and anyway they could hardly have got ahead of him. Who else would be burning villages in Strathclyde? His frown cleared as the solution occurred to him, and he shouted for scouts. Scotland was a new conquest for the Irish, who were hardly very well disciplined at the best of times. Another warband perhaps, and then news of defeat carried by someone who'd gotten away yesterday, and a riot among the kerns?
Another thought occurred to him, and he turned to Jamiy. "Jamiy, bring me three of the prisoners we took yesterday, please. Chiefs, for preference. And some hirdsmenn," he added prudently. Irish chiefs were notoriously savage, it wouldn't do for them to get ideas. When they were brought up, big brawny men looking sullenly at the ground, he asked without preamble: "What other Irishmen are in the area?"
He gave them a few seconds; when it was clear that their silence was deliberate policy and not confusion or ignorance, he struck the middle one in the face with his gloved fist. There was a crunch of teeth, and the Irishman went down. He turned to the other two. "If you want to eat soup for the rest of your lives, just keep quiet. But I'm not an unreasonable man. A toothless chief isn't worth much. So, I'll reduce your ransoms to half. Or, of course, you can start talking." The chiefs glanced at each other; they had both blanched at the threat. Pain was one thing, but to live the rest of their lives as toothless cripples, that cut close to the bone. Still, neither of them wanted to look a coward in front of the other. It was only when Oswine ostentatiously selected one of them for his next blow that words began to spill out.
"I'll talk! Harald of the Isles is here, with all his men. A mighty host - ten thousand warriors!"
Oswine frowned. If that was true, he'd be outnumbered, two to one. Of course, it was quite likely that the Irishman wasn't actually numerate, and was just putting together the number he could count to with the largest number he knew. But in any case Harald of the Isles was a powerful jarl and could certainly call up a large number of wild clansmen. It might be best to look for a place to defend, in case the scouts confirmed the man's tale.
June 12th, 1176
Strathclyde, Scotland
Noon
The hills swarmed with bare-legged clansmen, brown and grey in their plaid; the sun glinted off their spears. Their numbers were enough to chill the blood; "ten thousand", the man had said, and perhaps he could count and perhaps not, but everywhere Oswine looked there were Scots bearing arms and out for his blood. Even so, he looked at his own army and was comforted. Where the Scots swarmed, his Norse stood in formed ranks, shoulder to shoulder, stolidly confident. Even the English levies, light-armed though they were, had picked up the example of the hirdsmenn, and stood in a reasonable line, not straggling in clumps all over the hill. Just in case, though, they were interspersed with Norsemen, and he had his own warband around him in the center of the position to deal with anyone who ran. It was a fine position for defense, as so many places in Scotland were; a hill, with his left flank resting on a steep, boulder-strewn slope.
Most of his scouts had not come back; the Scotsmen were lightly armoured, and that would tell against them in the line, but they knew the terrain, and there were lots of them. Oswine blessed whatever angry or greedy soul on the other side had fired that village up ahead; without the warning he'd gotten from the smoke, the Scots might have caught him in column of march, and that would have been very bad. Now it would be a stand-up fight.
He turned to the little clump of officers on the hill with him, to give final instructions. "Well, it looks like we dodged an arrow, here. The Scots will have to come to us. Just stand firm, watch out for feigned retreats, and throw them back. No pursuit until we've beaten their best." They all nodded, though his eldest son Oswine [2] looked rebellious. The lad had inflated ideas of their battle-luck; that was a danger of arranging things so you won, it made inexperienced folk think you couldn't lose no matter what you did. The younger Oswine no doubt wanted to launch an instant attack across the marshy valley, driving the clansmen before them. He would have to learn.
The Scots were organising into a proper formation, preparing for a massed charge across the valley; some of them were working themselves into a Celtic frenzy, shouting, turning to waggle bare buttocks towards the Norse army. Oswine was about to make his usual joke - the lads expected it - when he was interrupted by Brigid. She was the woman Jamiy had found for him the day before, black-haired and grey-eyed; a true beauty. Oswine couldn't help but smile a little at her when she curtsied, saying "M'Lord, there's something you ought to know."
"And what's that?"
"I'm not a camp follower."
The dagger she had been hiding in her skirts flashed once as it entered his eye.
June 12th, 1176
Strathclyde, Scotland
Just after noon
The Norse officers stood frozen for a second, but they were hard men, used to violent death, and recovered quickly. Inge lashed out at the assassin, knocking her over; the younger Oswine rushed to his father's aid, but there was nothing to be done. The body kicked a few times, voiding as the muscles loosened, and that was all.
There was no time; across the valley the Scots were beginning their charge. Thousands of brawny highlanders flung aside their plaids and sprinted near-naked across the bog, screaming and waving their spears. It was a sight to impress even the most veteran soldier, and a tiny shiver ran along the Norse ranks; and then the cry rang out: "Oswine is dead!"
The shiver repeated as men turned to see; one or two even broke ranks in their effort to see the commander and be reassured. That was deathly danger for all of them; even if the man who broke ranks was not thinking of running, another might see, and think him trying to escape, and then it would be every man for himself. Armies died that way.
The younger Oswine had looked up from his father's body in startlement when his name rang out. The grief hadn't had time to settle in yet, and his voice was firm; he knew what his father would have wanted him to say, and it was even true, in a sense. "Stand still, you bastards! Oswine lives! Close ranks and stand!"
Others took up the cry; "Oswine lives" and "Stand" ran along the line, and the shiver of movement stilled. Then the Scots were on them. A long, shrieking clang of iron on iron; men screaming. Smell of sweat and shit and blood; noise to overwhelm the senses. The Scots beat against the Norse line, spears flashing, spending their lives like water to create the breach that would end the matter. In return the Norwegians closed ranks around their dead, pushed their shields forward, and began to march. Step by step the Scots were forced back down the hill by sheer weight; as always, armour counted as much for weight in a shoving match as for the actual protection it gave. The near-naked clansmen could strike, and strike, and strike, and yet make no wound; but where an axe or sword lashed out from behind the wall of shields, a Scot went down, to be trampled in the slow advance.
This was the moment of maximum danger, when the Scots realised they were losing but hadn't yet been panicked into flight. Armour does not make a man invulnerable; Norse as well as Scots were going down. It only took a single man in the second rank to hesitate, to fail to close the gap in time, and a swift-witted Scot to push through and strike left and right to open the floodgate, and the line could still be broken. A brave man in the right place, a moment's failure of nerve on the other side - battles and empires turn on such things. But not this day. Today the line advanced like a mill stone, grinding exceeding fine; and at last - it had taken perhaps five minutes of close fighting - the Scots' nerve broke, and the men at the front ceased struggling to break the Norse line, and began struggling to get away through the press of their own comrades.
June 12th, 1176
Strathclyde, Scotland
Evening
Once again the sullen prisoners stood in line to hear their ransom or their fate. They were being set more harshly now, as befitted an army that would stoop to assassins. One man blanched to hear the price of his freedom set at thirty marks; protesting, he cried out, "Give me back my sword! I'll sooner die in honest fight, than surrender to such greed!"
Oswine smiled grimly. "Don't surrender to me, then. Under that bush lies my father, who defeated you this day. Surrender to him, who died by a woman's treacherous dagger. And then, if you will, complain of greed."
The Scot was silent. Where the line had stood, a vast flock of birds cawed and fought for the finest bits of carrion. No man lifted a hand to prevent them.
[1] I'm aware this is somewhat anachronistic. I think that with Brittany conquering the Isles, though, there could well be any number of "foreign Gaels" running about in Ireland.
[2] Sorry about the confusion, it's not my fault. To be completely clear: The viewpoint character is Count Oswine, in command of the Norwegian army. He is referring to his son, also Count Oswine, in command of his own regiment.
AAR reward: Pregnancy for my wife, please.
Strathclyde, Scotland
Late afternoon
The battle was over, and the ransomable prisoners were being separated from the ones destined for Norwegian farms. There weren't many of the latter; men able to afford enough armour to stand in the line were generally wealthy enough to be worth ransoming. And besides, Irishmen of the warrior class made poor slaves. There would be better looting when they got to Ireland and could take their pick of the peasants. The camp followers were another matter; women were always valuable, especially ones who followed the drum. Apart from those few who'd had romantic ideas about following their boyfriends into battle, they were mostly sensible women with no illusions about what happened when an army was defeated, and they were doing their best to smile at their new men, hoping for lenient treatment. They'd get it, too; Oswine would have no berserkers in his ranks, and most of the lads were reasonable young men who understood about vinegar and honey. There would be some marriages in the weeks to come, and men with Irish blood in the army twenty years hence. Oswine was glad of it; the gallowglasses [1] had fought well. A long line of corpses marked the hill where they had made their stand. Boys too young to fight in the line were busy keeping the crows and ravens off, by his order, until the burial parties could get both sides underground.
At last the long line of prisoners coming up to Oswine to receive judgement ended; he pronounced the final "Held for ransom, two silver marks" with satisfaction, stretched, and turned to his tent. It had been a long day, and Jamiy would have made sure one of the prettier women was set aside for him.
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June 12th, 1176
Strathclyde, Scotland
Early morning
Rising pillars of smoke marked the way the Norwegians had come; but now a dark fist rose towards the heavens ahead of their columns, and Oswine was puzzled. There was another army coming under Harald, but they were supposed to march across England and then cross to Ireland to campaign there, and anyway they could hardly have got ahead of him. Who else would be burning villages in Strathclyde? His frown cleared as the solution occurred to him, and he shouted for scouts. Scotland was a new conquest for the Irish, who were hardly very well disciplined at the best of times. Another warband perhaps, and then news of defeat carried by someone who'd gotten away yesterday, and a riot among the kerns?
Another thought occurred to him, and he turned to Jamiy. "Jamiy, bring me three of the prisoners we took yesterday, please. Chiefs, for preference. And some hirdsmenn," he added prudently. Irish chiefs were notoriously savage, it wouldn't do for them to get ideas. When they were brought up, big brawny men looking sullenly at the ground, he asked without preamble: "What other Irishmen are in the area?"
He gave them a few seconds; when it was clear that their silence was deliberate policy and not confusion or ignorance, he struck the middle one in the face with his gloved fist. There was a crunch of teeth, and the Irishman went down. He turned to the other two. "If you want to eat soup for the rest of your lives, just keep quiet. But I'm not an unreasonable man. A toothless chief isn't worth much. So, I'll reduce your ransoms to half. Or, of course, you can start talking." The chiefs glanced at each other; they had both blanched at the threat. Pain was one thing, but to live the rest of their lives as toothless cripples, that cut close to the bone. Still, neither of them wanted to look a coward in front of the other. It was only when Oswine ostentatiously selected one of them for his next blow that words began to spill out.
"I'll talk! Harald of the Isles is here, with all his men. A mighty host - ten thousand warriors!"
Oswine frowned. If that was true, he'd be outnumbered, two to one. Of course, it was quite likely that the Irishman wasn't actually numerate, and was just putting together the number he could count to with the largest number he knew. But in any case Harald of the Isles was a powerful jarl and could certainly call up a large number of wild clansmen. It might be best to look for a place to defend, in case the scouts confirmed the man's tale.
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June 12th, 1176
Strathclyde, Scotland
Noon
The hills swarmed with bare-legged clansmen, brown and grey in their plaid; the sun glinted off their spears. Their numbers were enough to chill the blood; "ten thousand", the man had said, and perhaps he could count and perhaps not, but everywhere Oswine looked there were Scots bearing arms and out for his blood. Even so, he looked at his own army and was comforted. Where the Scots swarmed, his Norse stood in formed ranks, shoulder to shoulder, stolidly confident. Even the English levies, light-armed though they were, had picked up the example of the hirdsmenn, and stood in a reasonable line, not straggling in clumps all over the hill. Just in case, though, they were interspersed with Norsemen, and he had his own warband around him in the center of the position to deal with anyone who ran. It was a fine position for defense, as so many places in Scotland were; a hill, with his left flank resting on a steep, boulder-strewn slope.
Most of his scouts had not come back; the Scotsmen were lightly armoured, and that would tell against them in the line, but they knew the terrain, and there were lots of them. Oswine blessed whatever angry or greedy soul on the other side had fired that village up ahead; without the warning he'd gotten from the smoke, the Scots might have caught him in column of march, and that would have been very bad. Now it would be a stand-up fight.
He turned to the little clump of officers on the hill with him, to give final instructions. "Well, it looks like we dodged an arrow, here. The Scots will have to come to us. Just stand firm, watch out for feigned retreats, and throw them back. No pursuit until we've beaten their best." They all nodded, though his eldest son Oswine [2] looked rebellious. The lad had inflated ideas of their battle-luck; that was a danger of arranging things so you won, it made inexperienced folk think you couldn't lose no matter what you did. The younger Oswine no doubt wanted to launch an instant attack across the marshy valley, driving the clansmen before them. He would have to learn.
The Scots were organising into a proper formation, preparing for a massed charge across the valley; some of them were working themselves into a Celtic frenzy, shouting, turning to waggle bare buttocks towards the Norse army. Oswine was about to make his usual joke - the lads expected it - when he was interrupted by Brigid. She was the woman Jamiy had found for him the day before, black-haired and grey-eyed; a true beauty. Oswine couldn't help but smile a little at her when she curtsied, saying "M'Lord, there's something you ought to know."
"And what's that?"
"I'm not a camp follower."
The dagger she had been hiding in her skirts flashed once as it entered his eye.
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June 12th, 1176
Strathclyde, Scotland
Just after noon
The Norse officers stood frozen for a second, but they were hard men, used to violent death, and recovered quickly. Inge lashed out at the assassin, knocking her over; the younger Oswine rushed to his father's aid, but there was nothing to be done. The body kicked a few times, voiding as the muscles loosened, and that was all.
There was no time; across the valley the Scots were beginning their charge. Thousands of brawny highlanders flung aside their plaids and sprinted near-naked across the bog, screaming and waving their spears. It was a sight to impress even the most veteran soldier, and a tiny shiver ran along the Norse ranks; and then the cry rang out: "Oswine is dead!"
The shiver repeated as men turned to see; one or two even broke ranks in their effort to see the commander and be reassured. That was deathly danger for all of them; even if the man who broke ranks was not thinking of running, another might see, and think him trying to escape, and then it would be every man for himself. Armies died that way.
The younger Oswine had looked up from his father's body in startlement when his name rang out. The grief hadn't had time to settle in yet, and his voice was firm; he knew what his father would have wanted him to say, and it was even true, in a sense. "Stand still, you bastards! Oswine lives! Close ranks and stand!"
Others took up the cry; "Oswine lives" and "Stand" ran along the line, and the shiver of movement stilled. Then the Scots were on them. A long, shrieking clang of iron on iron; men screaming. Smell of sweat and shit and blood; noise to overwhelm the senses. The Scots beat against the Norse line, spears flashing, spending their lives like water to create the breach that would end the matter. In return the Norwegians closed ranks around their dead, pushed their shields forward, and began to march. Step by step the Scots were forced back down the hill by sheer weight; as always, armour counted as much for weight in a shoving match as for the actual protection it gave. The near-naked clansmen could strike, and strike, and strike, and yet make no wound; but where an axe or sword lashed out from behind the wall of shields, a Scot went down, to be trampled in the slow advance.
This was the moment of maximum danger, when the Scots realised they were losing but hadn't yet been panicked into flight. Armour does not make a man invulnerable; Norse as well as Scots were going down. It only took a single man in the second rank to hesitate, to fail to close the gap in time, and a swift-witted Scot to push through and strike left and right to open the floodgate, and the line could still be broken. A brave man in the right place, a moment's failure of nerve on the other side - battles and empires turn on such things. But not this day. Today the line advanced like a mill stone, grinding exceeding fine; and at last - it had taken perhaps five minutes of close fighting - the Scots' nerve broke, and the men at the front ceased struggling to break the Norse line, and began struggling to get away through the press of their own comrades.
-------------------------------------------------
June 12th, 1176
Strathclyde, Scotland
Evening
Once again the sullen prisoners stood in line to hear their ransom or their fate. They were being set more harshly now, as befitted an army that would stoop to assassins. One man blanched to hear the price of his freedom set at thirty marks; protesting, he cried out, "Give me back my sword! I'll sooner die in honest fight, than surrender to such greed!"
Oswine smiled grimly. "Don't surrender to me, then. Under that bush lies my father, who defeated you this day. Surrender to him, who died by a woman's treacherous dagger. And then, if you will, complain of greed."
The Scot was silent. Where the line had stood, a vast flock of birds cawed and fought for the finest bits of carrion. No man lifted a hand to prevent them.
[1] I'm aware this is somewhat anachronistic. I think that with Brittany conquering the Isles, though, there could well be any number of "foreign Gaels" running about in Ireland.
[2] Sorry about the confusion, it's not my fault. To be completely clear: The viewpoint character is Count Oswine, in command of the Norwegian army. He is referring to his son, also Count Oswine, in command of his own regiment.
AAR reward: Pregnancy for my wife, please.
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King of Men said:
Does this usage conform to the Breton usage of the term in form treaties, or is it to be interpreted some other way?King of Men said:
Scotland does not accept this vassalisation of York and will take domestic action against remaining norwegians in Scotland and Ireland.
I would like to note that York is some two counties inside the historical English-Scottish border, on the English side of the line.Emperor Ike said:
ulmont said:
The usage is as in Breton treaties. If it is desired, the Norwegian treasury will pay 5 ducats to the Breton Chancellery in compensation for the use of the Breton Standard Treaty.
No compensation is necessary. We merely wished to be sure we understood the language of the treaty.King of Men said:
The Bagratuniad:
Until Death Do Us Part:
Until Death Do Us Part:
Over the 12th Century, the Bagratid clans would evolve into one of Europe's most privileged aristocratic houses, with the Bull of Edessa making concrete the great powers of the Prophetei over their subjects. However, that power came at substantial cost. The Prophetei were not only the mouths of Agsartan's Angel, but also its eyes and hands as well, and they were expected to serve Georgia hand and foot, that Georgia itself might serve The Mission. Such service was not expected to be honourable, profitable, or even survivable.
A good example of the odd results created by this mindset is the marital mores that evolved among the Prophetei during the late 12th Century. Like all reputable strains of Christian thought at the time, the cult of St. Agsartan held that marriage was for life, annulments were viewed with askance, and divorce seen as an outright sin, if the lesser of evils in certain (very) special cases. Yet, not only did the Prophetei divorce prolifically, almost all of the divorces of the time were done on the express orders of the Propheteocrat himself.
For to the Prophetei divorce was no personal indulgence, but rather a part of their sacred duty to make sure there were as many little Prophetei as possible, to insure that the link between the Angel and the Georgian nation was a strong one. In fact, the command to divorce was generally seen as a sign of favour, as the number of divorces given out was limited, the receipt of such a command was direct proof that the Angel favoured the specific bloodline in question.
For the women, the command itself was not so flattering. The vast majority of divorces were commanded on grounds of infertility - either because the woman in question was considered too old, or simply because she had borne no children for several years in a row (usually three). For women, it was what happened after the divorce that was important, for divorcees (along with widows) were granted honoured places among the Pilegeshim, or the half-wives (the less honoured places went to more traditional mistresses).
The Pilegeshim, as well as remaining companions to their ex-husbands (more than a few bastards would result from such ongoing relationships), counted as their main duty the education of the heirs of the Prophetei. As a consequence, the Pilegeshim also administered the educational facilities - which included some of the finest universities in Europe. And because of what they were (among the smartest women the continent had to offer, with years of experience and disproportionate influence on the men who nominally ruled their world), the Pilegeshim would also hold a disproportionate number of the top administrative jobs in the Georgian courts.
Thus divorce among the Bagratids was more of an un-marriage than anything resembling a Western divorce. Invitations would be sent out to all the family, friends and notable holy men, the wife would wear a specially-made dress (usually white), and afterwards everyone would have a jolly good party wherein the wife was showered with gifts.
A Glossary of Terms:
Bull of Edessa - The principal plank of Adarnase III's legal reforms, granting his subject Prophetei and designated agents substantial powers over both church and state, as well establishing the foundations of the famous Georgian examination system (designed to keep said powers out of the hands of the undeserving).
The Bagratid Clans - The Bagratuni and their various sub-dynasties. The major Bagratid families during the 12th Century were the Bagratuni, Arcruni, Gardman-Aghbania, Sefareli, Taronites, Rubenid, Lambron and Seljuk families. Synonymous with "Prophetei" as all Prophetei were members of these families.
Prophetei - Those able to speak on behalf of Agsartan's Angel, though in practice only the Prophetei in the court at Uchimerion would regularly be given licence to do so. Theoretically any one of the Prophetei would be eligible to become Propheteocrat.
The Mission - The mission to ensure the survival of humanity until the Restoration (better known among OTL Westerners as the Second Coming).
Uchimerion - The chief centre of royal power during the reign of Kvirike Aghmashenebeli, the fortress of Uchimerion would become a byword for the Bagratid regime.
Pilegesh - From the Aramaic/Hebrew palga isha, "half a wife", originally denoting a concubine, mistress or common-law wife. Pilegeshim is the plural.
fasquardon
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Sylvester de Lusignan
Heretic of Scotland
What options do i have? I know i'll cut of my brothers heir
Sylvester was sitting in his throne room surrounded by his best spies and thiefs.
"Mi lord, Breton King has sent us an Ultimatum." Francois said. "I am aware of that but i will not bow down to someone that is occupying England!" King Sylvester yelled. "But mi lord they will kill you as Pope has excommunicated you as an heretic, your brother is going to inherit you" Francois explained. "Then kill my brother" Sylvester said. "That wouldn't be helpfull, we need to do something else" Francois said. "Then kill his son if i'm to die he shall die withouth an heir!" Sylvester said. "But lord.." Francoise tried to say. "I said kill his son!" Sylvester stod up. "Yes mi lord" Francois said and marched out from the room followed by his killers and spies.
Capture of the King
Sylvester was riding with his entourage in the country side of Dublin when he was stopped by his nephew Alexander, Oliver of Agnus, Ike of Laigin and their men. "What do you want?" Sylvester said. "You are here by arrested as a traitor of the crown and cathollic faith" Ike said. "What?!" Sylvester said suprised. "I'm the King of Scotland, you can't arrest me!" Sylvester said.
"These are orders given to us by the Pope" Oliver said. "You are lying!" Sylvester yelled. "Uncle please just come with us" Alexander said. One of Sylvesters men was about to draw his sword but stoped when Sylvester made a move with his hand towards him. "I'll come with you to prove that you are wrong" Sylvester said. Ike rode first followed by the rest.
Traitor of Crown and the catholic faith
"Your grace has been accused of herecy towards catholic faith and planning the murder of your own nephew " Ike readed from the pergament. "All lies!" Sylvester said. "This court of high stewards after reviewing the evidence against your grace" Ike said. "Finds your grace guilty of the charges against you" Ike continued. People in the room started talking and whispering to each others. "No" Sylvester said. "And so sentences your grace to death" Ike said. Sylvester was full of fear and anger. "This is your doing!" He yelled to his brother. Robert stod calmly in the corner watching how the guards took hold of his brother and began to drag him away.
"You butcher's dog! It's all your doing!" Sylvester shouted as guards dragged him away from the room.
Execution
Elisabetta watched how the guards dragged her husband to the execution platfrom. "Traitor!" Someone yelled from the crowd. Priest was speaking in latin. "Do you forgive me?" The Executioner asked. Sylvester didn't answer. "Your grace must lay down" the chancelor said. Sylvester refused to lie down and the guards have to push him towards the floor. He tried to strugle against them but was forced to lay down. "When you stretch out your arms i will strike" Executioner said. Alexander move trough the crowd towards the platfrom while the executioner repeated what he was just said. Sylvester raised his to look to the crowd. He saw how Elisabetta was crying and he began to cry himself too. "Cut his head and lets get this done" Someone said.
Alexander jumped infront of Sylvester and grapped his arms. "Come on you coward!" Alexander managed to stretch his uncles arms. "I thought we were friends" Sylvester said. Alexander looked to the executioner who was ready to strike. Sylvester closed his eyes and the axe swung.
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Elisabetta's plan
Elisabetta had just finnished her story that she was telling to her daughter.
"Sleep, my little one" Elisabetta said. "One day when you're beautifull and rich, you will be a queen" she continued.
"Good night" Yolanda said.
"Good night, my little princess." Elisabetta said from the door. "Tomorrow, you shall be send to Norway where your training intensifies." She said and closed the door.
Alfonso and Maria walked towards Elisabetta.
"I've been exiled, persucuted, left alone with no defense" Elisabetta said to them. "When I think of what that brute did, i get a little tense" She said to Alfonso and Maria. "But I dream a dream so pretty, so I don't feel so depressed" Elisabetta continued. "'Cause it soothes my inner demon and well it helps me get some rest" She said and opened the door.
"The sound of Robert's dying gasp, his childrens squealing in my grasp and his wifes mournful cry" Elisabetta said while she took paper out from the box.
"That's our song" She said.
Everyone where quiet for few moments before Alfonso decided to say few things.
"So you found yourself somebody who'd hang Robert up a tree" Alfonso said.
"Oh, the battle may be bloody but that kind of works for me" Elisabetta said to Alfonso. "The melody of angry shouts is the a counterpoint of painful moans" She said to Maria.
"A symphony of death, oh my!" Maria said.
"Silvester is gone... but Elisabetta's still around to love this little girl" Elisabetta said to sleeping Yolanda. "Till she learns to be a killer with a lust for paying back!" She said. "When you get back from Norway and the payback time is nearing then our flag will fly against a blood-red sky" Elisabetta continued and wrote a letter.
VILenin said:Subscribing for future reference.
hey VILenin, I'm reading through your Byzantine AAR atm, very good write. I only hope my little Byzantine chapter can be half as interesting as yours :-(
Thanks! I'm enjoying your account of the Diogenes'; good luck preserving the Empire.Eird said: