Chapter 9 A : Flowering Nights - Painting Flanders Scarlet
Sovereign Floris VI von Hohenzollern, since 5 November 1466
Sovereign Floris VI von Hohenzollern, since 5 November 1466
"It is war! WAR!"
Amsterdam, a chilly January morning in 1484. Wilhelm von Hohenzollern, co-Sovereign of Holland, was startled out of deep concentration by a loud cry, the jolt to his senses causing him to accidentally snap the quill he was holding between his thumb and forefinger, sending ink all over his hand and the page of the military ledger upon which it rested. His prior state of lethargy during work hours had been most uncharacteristic of his usually meticulous self, but it could be explained the odd hours he had been keeping to avoid being accosted by the Bevrijding Partij protestors. The night before, he had avoided returning to the Sovereign's manor to retire to bed, instead choosing to let sleep find him on the featherdown couch which he had in his office in the town hall.
Wilhelm gathered his thoughts, attempting to recollect the owner of that voice and why that person would be allowed within the securely-guarded corridors of the town hall's interior, when the source of that cry flung open the unlocked door and barrelled into the room.
"Ambassador de Boeuf? What is the meaning of this?"
Bent over and panting heavily from his exertions, the russet-haired French ambassador placed his hands over his thighs to steady himself, before shortly after looking up to address Wilhelm.
"I know I gave you permission to contact me directly with great urgency if you had any news of further developments on the matter of Flanders, but this does not permit you to barge through the corridors of Holland's administration yelling your head off! What could be so urgent?"
"War, lord Wilhelm! The bastards in Castille have declared war!"
"Have they, really? Not against Holland, surely, for I would have heard of it from more immediate sources than yourself. Or were they foolish enough to attack France?"
"No, sir," Ross said, still clearly agitated, "They're at war with Portugal. I'm certain that even as we speak, the Portuguese homelands are being completely overrun by Castillian troops."
"Oh? If you're saying that this sounds like an excellent opportunity to strike at Castille, I concur wholeheartedly. But what exactly has got you so worked up about it?"
Wilhelm recalled that mere miles from the Flemish borders lay the Portuguese-controlled port city of Calais, which France dearly desired to claim for itself, but had never got around to doing so on account of their most recent domestic troubles. France had similar claims to Flanders for some time in the recent past, but those claims had evaporated as a result of their rejection by the Flemish-speaking denizens who found little kinship with the French.
"Switzerland and Brittany have joined Castille in their war, and Portugal is being aided by their personal union partners Savoy ... and their ally, Scotland. I've just received news that a whole brigade of Scottish infantrymen have disembarked in Flanders and are laying siege to the fortifications at Bruges and Ypres."
Wilhelm nodded as he considered the situation. Should Holland and France go to war with Castille at this moment, whether for their own claims or to save Portugal from Castillian oppression, Holland would not be able to get its hands on the prize of Flanders. The Scottish expeditionary force would be the first to take advantage of any breach in the Flemish fortifications, and if Holland and France did indeed decisively defeat Castille and turn the war in Portugal's favour, Scotland could demand Flanders for itself, necessitating a new war with a different opponent. And, of course, there was the annoying fact that Scottish and Castillian troops tended to wear nearly-identical colours when in the field...
"I see the difficulty ... and the only thing I can advise at this point is patience, Ambassador. Let's wait for the situation to unfold fully before acting. Perhaps we should discuss our preparations for war rather than hastily jumping into the fray. Do take a seat."
Wilhelm indicated the featherdown couch at the corner of the room, despite knowing full well that it still reeked of his sweat after having spent the last night asleep there in his work clothes, and Ross de Boeuf accepted the offer graciously thanks to his ignorance of that fact.
"Tell me, Ambassador ... are you absolutely certain that the regency council ruling France will accept our call to arms against Castille? Are France's internal difficulties over?"
"It has been difficult over these past couple of years," Ross de Boeuf admitted, wiping the sweat from his brow, "but we have you to thank for helping us keep our country in one piece. I know your brother, Sovereign Floris, had some objections, but we are truly grateful for your willingness to allow Holland's recruits to conduct 'exercises in maintaining public order' on our territory."
"I'd never have thought anyone could possibly be grateful for our assistance in the killing of their own countrymen." Wilhelm shrugged as he stated the facts of the matter. "I can't believe that old crank Maréchal Jean Villeneuve actually consented to such a meaasure."
"Don't look at it that way, sir. Those people are heretics, separatists, and traitors, all of them. They are rebels against king and country, and a patriot like General Villeneuve would have agreed that they deserved little better than being permitted to water France's bountiful earth with their blood."
"Would have? Has he returned to the Lord, then?" Wilhelm's heart skipped a beat as, in that time, he felt the final cog in his machinations click into place. Once the aged General was out of the way, France would once again be his tool, his sledgehammer, with which he would stamp the mark of Holland's greatness into the annals of history.
"Alas, that is so, Lord Wilhelm," affirmed Ambassador de Boeuf. "General Villeneuve died of old age, barely days after finally consenting to the installation of our new king. The other privy councillors had been trying to convince him over this matter for the past year, and it seemed that his heart gave out just days after his resistance did."
"Is that so, Ambassador? I have heard nothing of the controversy surrounding the installation of King Louis XIII's successor," Wilhelm said, his words only half truthful. He knew there had been significant upheaval taking place regarding the search for the successor to a king who had been slain scarce years after his twentieth birthday, but he needed to have more detailed information. Specifically, whether the new king was of the same mould as his predecessor - amenable, earnest, and bearing a certain disdain for tradition which suited Wilhelm's purposes.
"Lord Wilhelm, in truth it's a private matter for the lords of France to decide, but I'll tell you what I know. Our late king was unmarried, but he was known to have ... cavorted, shall we say ... with members of the fairer sex, and the majority of the councillors opted to support the claim of the oldest of the younglings that were sired from these affairs. General Villeneuve was strictly opposed, saying that the young age of the new king would leave him open to manipulation by 'outside forces', and campaigned to elect a new king from among the French nobility. In the end, he was overruled, and the council raised a boy of nine years known to be descended from the late king to the throne, as King Louis XIV de Valois of France. Already, the lad has got a nickname of his own, 'The Sun King' - le Roi-Soleil!"
Aw, who's a cute little tyrant of Europe then? Yes, you is!
"Ah, 'The Sun King'? So I should expect the child has a bright future ahead of him?"
"Well ... not exactly ..." Ross de Boeuf stammered as he nervously related the truth. "They called him that because he likes to sit around in the sun all day, and ... that's really all he does. The servants have to wipe the drool off his face every now and then, take him to the privy or change his undergarments if they didn't get there in time, and take him in and put him to bed when it gets dark. I'm not really sure why the council of France chose him as king but I'm sure they have some inspired reason or another. Well, I hope, at least."
"Disappointing. I'm sorry to hear of this - perhaps General Villeneuve was right," Wilhelm scowled, though behind his knitted brows his brain was determining how to work the situation to Holland's advantage, "but all is well as long as this means that France will now be able to go to war. On our part, we are almost ready - our barracks are teeming with citizens who have enlisted in droves, rallying behind the 'V V V' movement calling for war, and our regiments are fully staffed. All that matters is awaiting the perfect opportunity to strike."
"Truly, you are wise, sir," marvelled Ambassador de Boeuf, not out of sycophantic devotion, but rather out of amazement at how Wilhelm seemed to have everything planned out beforehand. "Then let us discuss the plans for war. With the power invested in me as representative of the French king in Holland, I will relay your instructions to our generals upon your command."
Wilhelm indicated the map he kept pinned near his workdesk, now spotted with markers indicating planned army movements. As he described his strategy to the French Ambassador, he tried his best to quash that niggling thought at the back of his mind ... his brother Floris would never approve of all of this warmongering and militarism. And that was precisely why Floris had left the planning to his twin brother and reconciled himself with honing the art of the blade alongside his fellow soldiers at the barracks on the outskirts of Amsterdam. If nothing else, it was an excellent method of concealing his pacifist sentiments from the savage crowd, baying for the blood of Castillians to flow through the cities of Flanders.
"Very well."
Battle Plan : The Hollander War of Reconquest of Flanders, started July 1484
My third battle map, now with the units indicated by lozenges. Please leave your comments and suggestions!
I prefer the neon highlights myself, as the lozenges block out all of the map behind them and are just too large for my liking.
The text is smaller, but I hope the army sizes are clearer now that they have a solid background also showing their owner's colours.
In case it's not clear, the ghosted arrows/units represent planned future manoeuvres by Hollander forces.
Also note that Castille also controls Tangiers, Apulia, Janina and Larissa, because they're idiots, and they have also wiped out Portugal...
My third battle map, now with the units indicated by lozenges. Please leave your comments and suggestions!
I prefer the neon highlights myself, as the lozenges block out all of the map behind them and are just too large for my liking.
The text is smaller, but I hope the army sizes are clearer now that they have a solid background also showing their owner's colours.
In case it's not clear, the ghosted arrows/units represent planned future manoeuvres by Hollander forces.
Also note that Castille also controls Tangiers, Apulia, Janina and Larissa, because they're idiots, and they have also wiped out Portugal...
A fateful summer's day in July, in the year of our Lord 1484. Wilhelm von Hohenzollern, Co-Sovereign of Holland, rested his back on the cushion of a chair in the guest room, which faced a window overlooking the garden and walls of the Sovereign's manor. If the correspondence the guardhouse had received just last week was to be believed, he was to expect the arrival of a certain special guest that very day. He hoped that its words were true ... he had instructed the guards and servants in the house to make the appropriate preparations to suitably welcome this most important guest.
Wilhelm glanced impatiently at the window, the brilliant light of the summer sun shining through fully illuminating the walls of the lounge. He cast his eyes across the crystal glass panes of the windows - over there, one panel was clearly different from the others, having been replaced in the last few months after being shattered by a stone hurled by one of the protestors who had gathered outside the manor. Another panel had an obvious chink in it after a similar but less successful attempt by a different member of the public - Wilhelm did not consider it worth the expense to pay for a replacement for this minor flaw. In any case, today was a quiet day at the manor, in spite of the excellent weather for being outdoors. The demonstration, led by members of the Bevrijding Partij, had decided to take their protest to a different part of the city for the week, perhaps seeking a change of scenery.
Wilhelm gritted his teeth, his brow furrowed as he considered the events that had led up to this fateful moment.
Floris had called him 'mad'. His own twin brother, whom he loved more than anyone else in the world, but whose heart was filled with such distrust and misgivings towards his noble intentions. Ever since that exchange, they had barely shared more than a few words the times they had met, with Floris preferring to sequester himself in the barracks and spend all of his time training the troops, leaving all matters of state to be handled by Holland's bureaucrats - and Wilhelm himself. It was as if his poor brother was consumed with the primal fear of the unknown and had decided to confine himself to the few customs, traditions, and practices he knew he could trust. If only he knew, Wilhelm thought, if only Floris knew of this real fear - the fear shared by himself, the protestors, and ordinary townsfolk alike, the fear that Holland's star would dim forever in the face of such blatant and unrestrained oppression by those who considered the nation little more than another stain on the map. There, there was true madness!
Again, these disturbing thoughts continued to plague his mind. Perhaps it was the work of the devil, turning brother against brother by inciting mutual suspicion between them. As if seeking some sort of charm or holy symbol, Wilhelm reached for one of the letters he had received that day - this one, a memorandum from his Court Chaplain. Strange that the man hadn't chosen to approach him directly over this matter. What was his name again? Jean ... Jean something. Knox? Nocks?
A knock on the door, the dull thud of a gauntleted fist striking polished wood, shook Wilhelm from his thoughts. Leaping up with a start, Wilhelm threw down the letter and headed for the door.
"My lord ... the Ambassador has arrived."
Wilhelm opened the door, and after exchanging a quick, knowing glance with the guardsman who stood there, he headed out into the corridor to the anteroom to meet his guest. Escorted by the faithful and compliant old advsior Joost Schönebeck, this man was a powerfully-built figure of Wilhelm's height or perhaps taller, his imposing appearance perhaps accentuated by the heavy brown hooded cloak he wore to conceal his appearance from members of the public who would too easily guess his identity. As the hood fell to the man's shoulders, Wilhelm ventured to break the silence, with words he had been waiting for the longest time to say.
"Don Juan Abbalonia of Castille, I presume. Welcome to the manor of the Sovereign of Holland."
The man was known for his gentle and reserved nature, perhaps one of the more dignified individuals who had the honour of serving as an ambassador in Amsterdam, but the harrowed expression the Moorish ambassador now wore spoke volumes of the calamities he only recently had to endure.
"Lord Wilhelm, I thank you for your kind hospitality for putting up with me in these dark times, and I beg you to right the injustice which has befallen myself and my fellow Castillians," spoke Don Juan in a voice that was deep, yet resounding. "At this very moment my embassy is under siege by hordes of these ravening protestors, and the town guard warn that they may not be able to hold them off for much longer. The threat to our security has grown to the point where I have instructed my staff to destroy all confidential documents and prepare to flee the embassy office. Truly, I am frightened even of returning to my own residence, for fear that more of these troublemakers may be awaiting me there. No diplomatic mission in a civilised country should ever have to bear this sort of indignity!"
"I am truly sorry to hear of this, my friend, and rest assured that the security detail we have assigned is doing our best to protect your associates and deliver them to safety," replied Wilhelm, before raising a hand to indicate the door of a room located a short distance down the corridor. "We have prepared a guest suite in the Sovereign's manor where you may reside for the time being, and conduct your duties as ambassador to Holland. My domestic staff will ensure that your needs will be provided for on my expense, and your security will be assured by the same troops who guard my person."
Wilhelm knew well the shift in the public mood which had led to the flight of the Castillian ambassador to the steps of the Sovereign's manor in Amsterdam. It followed the arrival of a full division of Castille's finest troops in Flanders, led by the King of Castille himself. The King's troops outnumbered and routed the invading Scots, with the defeat of their elite expeditionary force compelling Scotland to agree to a truce.
Reports of atrocities which had ostensibly occurred, such as Castillian soldiers forcing Flemish citizens to serve as human shields in their bloody confrontation against Scottish troops, and the relentless and indiscrimate purge of traitorous local elements which followed the defeat of that force, had filled the pages of Holland's journals and periodicals. And it just so happened that the articles detailing these supposed atrocities was shortly after accompanied by the publication of the address of the Castillian embassy in Amsterdam, as provided by a 'helpful' member of the public. These events were sufficient to account for the much quieter days the staff at the Sovereign's manor now enjoyed.
"Once again, I thank you for having taken these steps to ensure my safety," said Don Juan, as Wilhelm escorted him to the ground-floor suite, whose heavy wooden door was flanked by two guards in metal armour, "but I implore you not to forget that there is still more to be done. Measures must be taken to ensure that Castillian citizens in Holland are no longer subject to attacks by this 'Liberationist' political movement."
"Indeed, I am taking such measures, at this very moment," said Wilhelm, smiling wryly as he drew open the door of the guest suite and ushering the ambassador in. "But I trust you will find all you need for a comfortable and pleasant stay within."
The room was lavishly furnished, with a plush double bed, and furniture made of exotic hardwood imported from traders in the Mediterranean. Bright patterns on the exotic rugs of Ottoman craft laid on the floor, as the July sun shone in through the clear but thick panes of the crystal glass windows, with curtains made of finest Antwerp linen and dyed a deep red. Although it had to be admitted - since it was only a ground-floor suite, the view was not especially spectacular, overlooking nothing more interesting than the corner of the guardhouse and trunk of a wild cherry tree.
"I ... I am awestruck, sir. Please pardon me for repeating myself, but I cannot thank you enough," said Don Juan, givng a small bow as Wilhelm stood in the doorway of the room. "If there is anything I could do to repay you for your kindness, please, tell me, and I shall do it forthwith."
"There is something you can do, Don Juan," replied Wilhelm as he reached within his coat and drew out a small hand-written memorandum, which he handed, still folded, to the Castillian ambassador. "Read this, and write a message informing your superiors of the change in the situation. When you are done, simply knock on the door, and a member of my staff will ensure that your communication is delivered forthwith. That is all. Have a pleasant day."
Don Juan received the letter, but Wilhelm turned to leave before he could reply. Stepping out into the corridor, the Co-Sovereign of Holland exchanged a few short words with the guards outside, and Don Juan could swear he could see the corners of Wilhelm's lips twist into a cruel smirk of sorts. Could he have been mistaken? Fatigued, Don Juan fumbled with the letter with one hand as he rubbed his forehead with the other, only to be startled by the slam of the door being yanked shut before him ... and the metallic clink of a key turning in its lock.
Alone in the now eerily silent room, Don Juan let out an audible gasp as he realised, all too late, that he had foolishly and willingly walked into a trap. Having experienced the shock of this understanding, his response to the contents of the memorandum Wilhelm had handed him was now much more muted.
"A state of war now exists between the nation of Holland, and her allies, and the nation of Castille and her allies. As a citizen of an enemy nation, you have been placed under house arrest for your own safety and in the interests of national security..."
Crumpling the letter in his hand without reading the rest of it, Don Juan felt an immense surge of emotion welling up within him. Letting out a primal roar of rage and anguish, the former soldier now flung himself against the door of his room with all the strength of his heritage.
The troops numbers are misleading - many of the soldiers from landlocked countries will never see any action. And France's stability problems never end...
Also note how Switzerland dishonoured Castille's call to arms. And Brittany accepted, for some reason, despite having absolutely 0 troops.
A thundering crash echoed throughout the main hallway of the Sovereign's manor, followed by the heavy thuds of something pounding, repeatedly, against a firm and unrelenting wooden surface.
"Will he be all right, sire?" asked the elderly Marshal of the Mint Joost Schönebeck, as he followed his lord towards the main door of the manor.
"He'll be fine. He is a sensible man - he'll get over it eventually, once he understands that these precautions are for his own good," replied Wilhelm nonchalantly, as the pair stepped outdoors into the light of the summer sun. As if on command, the French Ambassador was already there, exchanging pleasantries with the guardsmen. "Now send word with all haste to my brother in Antwerp - proceed with the plan as instructed. The Castillian troops now pillaging Flanders and Calais will be wholly unprepared for the retribution that is about to befall them."
"Yes, my lord!"
As Marshal Schönebeck darted for the gatehouse with surprising alacrity despite his advanced age, Wilhelm continued at a more leisurely pace, knitting his brows and gently chewing at his lip as he considered the words he would share with Ambassador Ross de Boeuf regarding the culminating moment of their great plan.
"For too long, far too long, have we waited for this moment. The ungodly tyranny Castille has imposed over the free men of the Low Counties shall now come to an end. The streets of Flanders shall run scarlet with the blood of the oppressor, and Hollander and Flemish alike shall savour its sweetness and bathe in its warmth. All, for Holland's glory."
First blood.
To be continued in the next part, Chapter 9 B : Flowering Nights - A Soul Red as a Bloodied Poppy (1484-1487)
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