Hi @bsmithers333 ! I am greatly enjoying you tale of family and politics surrounding the Count of Wien and want to let you know I have nominated you as the weekly Best Character Writer of the Week ! Congratulations!
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Chapter 7: The Yoke of the Saxons
Chapter 7: The Yoke of the Saxons
March, 1068—Ortenburg, Bavaria
March, 1068—Ortenburg, Bavaria
Ernst slowed his horse and shaded his eyes from the mid-day sun. Before him stood a sturdy oaken drawbridge, crisscrossed with iron braces and recessed into a low curtain wall. It was his first visit to Ortenburg, and he found the castle matched its master’s reputation: a squat testament to the virtues of function over aesthetics. The castle’s Lord, Count Markward, had been gathering support for his faction against the Duke. Ernst wished to avoid another war—the previous one had just concluded—but Markward sealed their alliance earlier that spring when he married Oda von Babenberg. Furthermore, he acted in good faith, offering to march against Sankt Pölten even before the wedding. Ernst shook his head; had no choice but to agree to the current meeting. He craned his neck and looked up, spotting a mailed sentry peering down from a tower.
“Who goes there?” the man said.
Ernst looked to Vilhelm, who shifted the banner in his grip and cleared his throat. “Presenting Ernst von Babenberg, Count of Wein, Count of Sankt Pölton and Hohenau, and Lord of Florisdorf.”
The sentry disappeared behind the tower’s crenelated teeth, and minutes later the iron chains of the drawbridge rattled to life. Ernst, Vilhelm, and their entourage trotted across the moat and dismounted in the central courtyard. Ernst beckoned to Vilhelm and leaned in no one else could hear.
“Chancellor, would you kindly recite the troop tallies once more?”
The Count of Ortenburg did not keep his guests waiting for long. He emerged from the main keep with an entourage of servants and two distinguished guests.
“Ernst!” Markward said, extending his hand. “Good to see you. I take it you had a pleasant journey?”
“Quite so. The spring thaw has done wonders for the countryside, not to mention the roads.”
“Why, I haven’t seen you since the war finished. I heard this one”—he nodded to Vilhelm—“took Sankt Pölten with the walls intact.”
Vilhelm acknowledged the compliment with a half bow. Indeed, taking Sankt Pölten whole was a remarkable stroke of luck. Ernst cared less about the walls than he did about popular opinion and the loyalty of local officials; the town and the surrounding villages had not starved, which bought him much goodwill. Of course, given this remarkable fortune, Markward may expect that the levy was available right away. Ernst thought it best to let the subject drop.
Markward turned towards the two men next to him. “I am sure you know Count Otto of München. And this is Gottfried Rapotonen, the heir of Count Ulrich of Friedstadt.”
Ernst hoped his smile concealed his displeasure. Count Otto’s stiffness suggested that Markward had not forgotten their rivalry, nor the perceived slight in Otto being named Marshal. That was regrettable but expected. Now, Gottfried… that was unexpected. Of all the conspirators, Ulrich intrigued Ernst the most. Adelheid, acting on one of her famous hunches, had discovered that talk of factionalism had actually originated in Ulrich’s court. But now the Count of Friedstadt had failed to show and had sent his son in his stead.
“A pleasure.” Ernst paused before wrinkling his brow. “Forgive my asking, but I hope your presence does not preclude your father’s good health?”
“My father is well,” Gottfried said. “Although he cannot be here, I am acting with his full authority as his heir and chancellor. And my commitment to our cause runs as deep as his own.”
The Count of Wein was not reassured in the slightest. Ulrich was either a fool for letting an untested amateur handle such sensitive business, or else his loyalty was false. Both possibilities were equally alarming. Nevertheless, the meeting could be salvaged from an inauspicious start. Ulrich’s forces were an impediment to the Ernst’s long-term designs, and they would not tilt the scales if the situation escalated into open rebellion.
Markward broke the tension by ushering the group into the keep. Once inside, Vilhelm and the remaining knights seated themselves in the grand hall where they enjoyed the hospitality of their host. The more distinguished nobles were escorted to the council chambers on the upper floor. Despite his misgivings, Ernst found himself buoyed by an uncharacteristic optimism. If Markward could navigate the personalities involved—a sizeable task—then the group could achieve something that had not been realized in a generation.
They would force the Duke of Bavaria to bend to his vassals.
Markward stood at the head of the table, picking at a splinter in wood while the other counts took their seats. He looked up and forced a smile.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I know what you’re all thinking—it’s no secret that Duke Otto and I don’t get along.”
There was a smattering of nervous laughter.
“I want you to know that this isn’t personal. My whole life has been defined by duty, both as a soldier and a noble. When a solider disobeys orders, he risks the lives of everyone around him—”
“Yet you suggest treason,” Count Otto said.
Markward clenched his jaw and glared across the table at his interrupter. Ernst opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it. His first instinct was to rush to his friend’s—to Markward’s defense. Cooler logic prevailed at the last moment; he was here to observe, not put his thumb on the scale right away. He closed his eyes and imagined the group standing in front of the court in Bentheim. They would need thicker skins to resist the verbal barbs from the Duke and his lackeys.
“No,” Markward said, recovering. “What I’m suggesting is not treason. Duke Otto has no right. He has NO RIGHT.” He squeezed his hands against the edges of the table until his knuckles were white.
“Well said, Sir.” Gottfried clapped his hands softly. “Indeed, the Duke has trampled the inalienable rights of his vassals. A cry for justice can never be treasonous.”
Ernst leaned forward in his chair, thankful that he held his tongue. He had expected animosity between Count Otto and Markward—the only unknown was the span of the chasm between them. But there was something else, too; a silvered thread between the Markward and Gottfried. Acquaintance? Cordiality?
The Count of Ortenburg relaxed his grip and nodded. “Right. Yeah, that’s right! Duke Otto has trampled our… our inalienable rights. The ones given to our fathers, and their fathers before them!” The remark landed with nods of agreement around the room. “It’s disrespectful. We weren’t summoned when the letter went out. We weren’t consulted!”
“Hear, hear!” Gottfried said. “The Duke breaches your right to consilia. A formal legal opinion was neither requested nor given.”
“Then, there’s the issue of taxes. Last fall, those Saxon PRICKS took more from us than ever before. No explanation.”
Ernst broke his feigned neutrality by grunting in agreement. Otto’s tax collectors had annoyed him by taking too much grain in the fall. He recalled the shortages in the supply lines to the siege camp at Sankt Pölten—shortages which persisted during the relief effort after the city fell.
“You can dress it up however you like,” Count Otto said. “Treason or no, we will not blindly march on the Duke’s capital like a rabble of common peasants.”
“Shut UP, Otto!”
“Gentleman!” Gottfried stood up. “Please. Count Markward is a chivalrous knight and a fine noble. As are you, Otto. Had I no inkling of your character, I might misconstrue your concerns as a grave insult to our host.”
Count Otto folded his arms but made no further reply. The tension in the room receded as the young man resumed his seat and politely inclined his head towards Markward. Beneath Gottfried’s practiced manners lay a steady hand guiding the conversation like the wheel of a great ship. He was subtle, but not quite subtle enough to mask his true competence. An idea formed in Ernst’s mind: that Ulrich’s absence was not negligence, but cover for a much more dangerous player to enter the game.
Markward swallowed. “I hear your concerns, Otto. Yeah, I hate the Duke, but he is our liege lord. There are procedures”—he glanced at Gottfried—“precedents? Yes, there are precedents for these disputes. We will draft a declaration of grievances to present before the entire ducal court.”
“And what if he refuses our demands?” Count Otto asked.
“Then we will take up arms as a last resort.”
“God’s teeth, man. I expected better than a flimsy excuse for a fight.”
Markward slammed his fist on the table, and everyone bolted to their feet. Gottfried interposed himself as the two rivals stalked towards one another, snarling like dogs straining on their leashes. Ernst cursed under his breath. He hoped to play for time, but the choice was upon him: either help smooth things over, or else flee the sinking ship. Markward and Count Otto stood a hand’s breath away from one another, neck veins bulging and spittle flying. Just when Gottfried could no longer keep the two knights apart, Ernst made his choice. He strode towards the door, opened it, and then slammed it with as much force as he could muster.
Ernst concentrated on the sound of his footfalls echoing down the spiral staircase. He promised himself he would observe, not intervene, because acting openly would prevent the others from divulging information. But now it was too late; whatever pieces were still hidden would remain so. Whether Markward acted out of spite or nobility, his commitment was sincere enough. Count Otto of Munchen saw an opportunity, too, or else he wouldn’t be here. Gottfried… what a damn shame. The young man was playing at something—all too skillfully for Ernst’s liking—but now there was little hope of uncovering his motive.
The Count of Wein stepped into the main hall, only to find all eyes fixed on him. His stomach lurched slightly at the sight of the crowd. Vilhelm grabbed him by the arm and led him off to the side.
“My Lord, what is the matter?”
“Get your riding gloves.” Ernst said. “We must make a show of leaving.”
The two men were still dressing themselves for departure when Markward arrived. His neck veins had receded, and his face was no longer shaded like a beet.
“Ernst! I’m sorry. Please don’t leave just yet.”
The Count of Wein bowed his head theatrically, and after some coaxing, allowed Markward to lead him back into the council chamber. Apparently, his antics had the desired effect; Count Otto and Gottfried were seated in shocked silence. He had a captive audience, and it was time to nail the follow-up performance. Ernst sat down and sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Gentleman, I must apologize for my outburst. I have no excuse… except that I won’t stand for such a waste.”
Markward furrowed his brow. “A waste?”
“Indeed, although it’s hardly surprising.” Ernst pushed his chair out and stood, ambling towards the head of the table. “My father once told me that two blacksmiths could be friends so long as their fame spread throughout the city, maybe even the county. But two blacksmiths renowned throughout the kingdom can only be sworn enemies.”
He drummed his fingers on the table and scanned the room. Gottfried nodded, setting his great beard wagging above the table.
“Count Otto, why are you here?” Ernst asked.
“Well, someone has to check our host’s… impulses.”
“And our host”—he shot a look at Markward—”recognizes the value of a dissenting opinion. After all, we are meeting as peers, not soldiers in a chain of command. But let me rephrase my question: are you here because some aspect of our venture appeals to you?”
“Yes.”
“And you think we can succeed?”
“Yes.” Otto hesitated. “Under the right conditions.”
“Well, let me lay out those conditions as I see them. At this table, we have the two finest commanders in the realm. If you lined up your armies on an even field, the winner would be chosen by the tilt of the sun, or the direction of the breeze. But unless you both commit fully, Otto will summon one of you to command his forces. And I will not risk my titles—nay, my head—on such a gamble.” He sat down so that he drew eye-level with his audience. “What say you, Otto? Would you pit us against Markward if he were backed by the Duke’s best men? And Markward, would you risk widowing my niece if the situation were reversed?”
Neither Count looked Ernst in the eye.
“A waste, then. If you could work together, I would commit my forces to yours. We would outnumber Duke Otto three-to-one. We would have his best commanders, his Marshal, his Steward… and his Spymaster. And spymasters never play games of pure chance, gentlemen. We cheat. We load the dice in our favor. Without the three of us, Otto’s troops are blind, undisciplined, and unpaid. We will not get another opportunity like this.”
His performance finished, Ernst held his breath and waited. Gottfried smiled and unrolled a blank parchment.
“A most succinct summary, my Lord. If there is nothing else to add, I believe we are ready to draft a formal declaration of grievances. I offer my humble services to take dictation.”
The din of normal conversation returned to the room. Ernst slumped into his chair and listened as the others hammered out an impressive-sounding list of demands. His one-man play had not healed the rift between Markward and Otto, but it plastered over the cracks—perhaps enough to hide them from the Duke. Gottfried continued to impress with his wordplay, always deflecting credit to hide the extent of his revisions. After two hours, Markward announced it was time for a break. When the group re-convened, Ernst was the last to arrive back at the council chambers.
“It is done, my Lords.” Gottfried said. He recited the contents in his best speaking voice, which was both melodic and forceful. When he finished, all eyes were upon Ernst.
“Masterful,” he said. “I expected nothing less from such distinguished colleagues.”
The men traded approving nods once more. But Markward had more to say.
“Ernst… about earlier. Thank you. I get carried away sometimes.” He shook his head and laughed. “Okay, maybe I get carried away a lot. Point is, I’m not the right guy to present our petition to Duke Otto.” He cleared his throat and looked at Gottfried, who reassured him with a smile.
“I agree,” Ernst said. “Gottfried has done more than take dictation—”
“Actually… we agreed you should present the letter.”
The Count of Wein felt as if he would sink into his chair and straight through the floor. The thought of speaking… to… to the entire ducal court. He felt ill. Ernst turned his head and met the gaze of each man as they awaited his response. Finally, his eyes fell on Gottfried. He sat with a polite, almost vapid smile on his face, and tilted his head as he awaited a response.
Player's notes:
-I really could not figure an in-story explanation for why Ulrich, a trusting man with a whopping 1 intrigue, would join this faction. So I thought it made more sense that someone else was pulling the strings here. Now we have to figure out whether Gottfried can be trusted...
-Not sure if this is just the 1.4 update or a contribution of the mods, but Otto has a lot of pikemen and heavy infantry ~2 years from game start. If I was a player in his position, I'd be tempted to fight this faction even at two-to-one odds.
-I really go back and forth on how to write the 'shy' trait. On the one hand, I love trying to write around the 3 personality traits CK3 gives you—it's usually a solid guide for how a character will react in a given situation, or when they will be out of their depth/comfort zone. But 'shy' can be very crippling in game terms, and so I've gone for shades of gray. Ernst is a competent (if unexceptional) diplomat, but being the center of attention wears him out, and he loathes public speaking. I may have stretched his abilities here, but I needed an in-story explanation for becoming the faction leader after joining.
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Chapter 8: The Heir of Hohenau
Chapter 8: The Heir of Hohenau
May, 1068—Wien, Austria
May, 1068—Wien, Austria
“I don’t want to balance ledgers today,” Adalbert said. “The fair is in town!”
Ragnhild sighed and looked out the window. The colorful banners and makeshift stalls, barely visible from the keep, had sprung up along the banks of the Danube.
Adalbert stood on his toes and peeked out of an arrow slit. “Do you think they have jogglers?”
It was hopeless. Adalbert seldom made trouble; he sat still through his lessons, never flouted his rank in front of the servants, and attended chapel on Wednesdays and Sundays. But Ragnhild knew all children bore the seeds of mischief, waiting for the right opportunity to sprout. The summer fair had watered those seeds into a kudzu vine that strangled her carefully maintained lesson plan. She knew she had lost a skirmish, but she vowed to win the larger war. Her ward would learn something today, whether or not they attended the fair.
“Adalbert... go ask your mother—”
The Count’s son yelped like a puppy and took two steps before Ragnhild reached out and cuffed his collar.
“But we will follow my instructions, and we will not debase ourselves with jogglers or other filth.”
He raced out the door and down the hallway. There was no use in waiting—the Countess would agree to his request—so Ragnhild sent for the knights and maids straight away. Adalbert returned just as the entourage assembled outside the door. The maids picked a lordly outfit and befitted him with a tiny signet ring on his right hand; at his age, any public appearance was official court business. Ragnhild looked him over, satisfied, before they ambled out of the castle and down towards the river.
Adalbert gawked, his senses overwhelmed by marketplace: the clop of horse-drawn carts, the smell of fresh sturgeon from the Danube, and the thump of the butcher’s blade. Ragnhild smiled, satisfied her little field expedition had the intended effect. She admitted to herself that the fair was more vibrant than she expected. It lacked the manic energy—or rather, the heathen excesses—she had seen in the Maghrebi markets during her travels, but it held promise. Countess Adelheid must have sensed an opportunity, too, judging by the pouch hanging from Adalbert’s belt.
“Adalbert, my countling, whatever shall we do with this money?”
The boy hesitated. “I want to buy something pretty. Something for mother.”
Ragnhild said a small prayer, thanking God that Adalbert kept the Lord’s commandments: honor thy mother and father. When she finished, her gaze wandered down towards the river where she spied what she was looking for.
“There,” she said. “See the masts and rigging? The smaller crafts navigate the river, but the larger ships are seaworthy. We will find our prize among the foreign merchants.”
One ship, freshly moored, set out wooden gangplank. A cavalcade of rough-looking sailors descended and assembled an improvised stall from two crates and a drab cloth. The merchant manning the booth barely acknowledged the party as they approached.
“God’s blessings upon you,” Ragnhild said, lifting her nose. “This is Adalbert von Babenberg, son of Count Ernst of Wien and heir to Hohenau. The little countling has taken an interest in your wares.”
The merchant scratched his beard. “The little Lord has a keen eye. Sadly, I’m just passing through—most of my goods are marked for other shores.”
Ragnhild appraised the wares; the table was barren except for a silver pendant and a pair of finger-sized gold bars with rounded edges. She picked up the pendant, eying it as it turned idly about its chain. The front was filigreed with floral patterns—made with skill, but unexceptional—but the back was marred by black and green tints. She frowned; silver shouldn’t tarnish unless it had been cut with copper or other lesser metals. Adalbert tugged on her dress, oblivious to the piece's shortcomings.
“It’s beautiful!” he said. “Mother will love it.”
The governess placed a hand on his shoulder and admonished him with a slight squeeze. They needed to walk the middle path: too eager, and the merchant would hawk his lesser trinkets, but too cold and he would dismiss them. Ragnhild picked up the gold bars, turning them over in her hands, and inspecting the stamp on the backside. She couldn’t place the man’s accent, but she wagered she knew where the gold was from.
“Look, Adalbert—Bohemian gold, fit for a prince.” She turned back to the merchant. “From the mines in Čáslav?”
The merchant bowed. “Indeed. Would you like to test it?”
Ragnhild bit into the end of one bar, and her teeth sank halfway in before she tasted the tang of metal. Adalbert looked at her with a quizzical expression.
“Gold is soft in pure form,” she said. “A dishonest man might use something impure or pass off a lesser metal. But there’s no need when the gold is this good.”
A smile crossed the merchant’s face, and he returned the compliment in kind. Soon he was chatting with Ragnhild like an old friend, and she plied him for information: their wares; the size of the crew; and finally, their destination.
“Tell me, where’s the buyer?”
The merchant scratched the back of his neck. “Thessalonica. A far sight from home, but the local markets are saturated.”
“The Greeks?” Ragnhild wrinkled her nose. “I suppose those effete heathens need to gild their heretical churches.”
“Indeed, but they pay well.”
“What about ice on the river?” she asked. “It has ruined many a ship. Your venture entails great personal and professional risk.”
“We travel in the summer between the thaw and the first freeze.” He folded his hands and sighed. “But we cannot always avoid it. Once we hit the open seas, our schedule shifts at the mercy of the winds.”
“A pity, then, that there is nowhere partway to Greece that splits both profit and risk. Surely it would be wise to unload part of your product here? Enough to break even if the rest of the shipment is lost?”
The merchant eyed her. “Indeed, that would be ideal.”
Ragnhild smoothed the folds of her dress. “Young Adalbert is looking for something to gift to his mother, the Countess. I can make no formal promise, but if she is pleased, I imagine your ship would always be a welcome sight in these parts.”
She felt a tug on her dress, more insistent than before. “Can we get the pendant? For mother?”
“We’ll take the bars,” Ragnhild said.
Adalbert sulked all the way from the docks back into the city. It broke Ragnhild’s heart to see him this way, but she endured his pouting. They had made it halfway to the castle when he could stand it no longer.
“I wanted the pendant,” he said. “The gold bars are pretty, but mother cannot wear them.”
“She cannot wear them yet, my little countling.”
They rounded the corner onto a street full of artisans and two-story shops with sloping roofs. The summer fair had been a cacophony of unfamiliar noises, but the avenue hummed with muted tones, punctuated by the plunk of hammers and the whoosh of air through the smiths’ bellows. Ragnhild led the small party through one block, then another, until they arrived at a cozy jeweler’s shop. The apprentice behind the counter gaped, dropped into a clumsy bow, and ran to fetch the owner. A wizened jeweler emerged a few moments later.
“Welcome, milord,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I would like an appraisal.” Ragnhild threw the gold bars onto the counter where they landed with a thud.
The jeweler picked up the bars, hefted them, then bit into one opposite where Ragnhild had done so. “Very high quality—clearly not local. Where did you find this?”
She sniffed. “There is a merchant down by the river in the southeastern quarter. Bohemian. He is passing through with a sizeable shipment of gold on his way to the Empire of the Greeks.”
The man nodded and turned back to the bar. Ragnhild sighed—yet another self-styled businessman that wouldn’t know a good lead if it hit him over the head.
“Such a shame that there’s no local buyer for him here in Wien. The merchant tires of risking his neck and his ship on the open seas. You might convince him to offload some of his stock here next year as a precaution.”
The jeweler’s eyes widened. “A fine idea! Thank you, mistress.”
“Don’t thank me, just find the merchant and tell him Adalbert von Babenberg sent you.” She paused for effect. “Also, the little countling would like to commission something for his mother—a golden pendant. Filigreed in the local style.”
“Of course. A fine choice, milord.” The jeweler stroked his grey mustache, his gaze never straying from the bars. “This is enough raw material, but I’ll have to keep the rest to cover the labor.”
“You will do no such thing!"—she snatched the bars—"The little countling has already given you a lead for the deal of your life, and an opportunity to ingratiate yourself to his parents.” She leaned down and pretended that Adalbert had whispered something in her ear. “I’d say you are in his debt, but he says he’s willing to call it even.”
“You drive a hard bargain.” He hesitated, then turned to Adalbert. “But a fair one, milord.”
“Excellent,” she said. “We will return within the month.”
“I... suppose I must return to my lessons now,” Adalbert said.
The governess crouched and drew eye level with him. “We still have one more deal to make today, Adalbert. I will give you the day off if you can tell me what you learned.”
His eyes widened. “Oh, ok! Um, we went to the fair to get something for mother.”
“Yes, my countling. Honor thy mother and father.” She brushed a stray lock of hair from his brow. “But one day God will grant you lordship, and that means you must care for everything in your dominion: your family, the burghers, the beasts of the land, and the crops in the fields.”
“So you weren’t just being nice to the merchant?” Adalbert bit his lip. “He liked talking to you. Will we see him next year?”
“I think we will. And do you think he will keep selling God’s gold to the Greeks?”
“No, not if the smith can give him a better deal. You—I mean, we did them both a service. They will tell their friends, and next summer there will be more merchants and smiths.”
She smiled. “Yes, my little countling.” She plucked a rose from a nearby bush and broke the thorns between her fingers. “A freshly picked flower is pleasant, but fleeting. But a gardener sows seed and nurtures them with water and patience until, in the fullness of time, they brings lasting beauty.”
“Oh,” Adalbert said. He took the rose and began peeling the petals. “A lord is… like a gardener, then? The pendant is the flower, but the gold is the seed—something small that grows.”
“Yes, exactly!” She leaned in and hugged him. “Today’s lesson has finished. Go play with your sister. I will summon you when it’s time for evening prayers.”
Adalbert scampered off, leaving Ragnhild with a rare moment of solitude. He really was such a sweet boy—not at all like his brother. She often wondered who tutored Leopold in his boyhood, and whether they had recognized the Devil’s handiwork in him. She shivered, recalling that he had beat her husband, the knight Udo, until he was nearly senseless, then passed it off as a training accident. Ragnhild feared Wein would suffer under his rule—but God willing, Adalbert’s domain in Hohenau would be ruled by a righteous man.
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A slower-paced mid-week update. You've met the heir, now meet the spare! Seriously, though... does anyone have tips for writing children? I'm all ears.
And thanks again @Dunaden for nominating me last week! Not sure if I mentioned it on the main thread, but it's an honor, doubly so since the nomination comes from someone with so many successful AARS in CK2 and CK3 (which I am still catching up on!)
And thanks again @Dunaden for nominating me last week! Not sure if I mentioned it on the main thread, but it's an honor, doubly so since the nomination comes from someone with so many successful AARS in CK2 and CK3 (which I am still catching up on!)
Chapter 9: Diplomacy and Double Dealing
Chapter 9: Diplomacy and Double Dealing
September, 1068—Sankt Pölten, Austria and Bentheim, Saxony
September, 1068—Sankt Pölten, Austria and Bentheim, Saxony
Sunlight flitted through a stained-glass window, bathing the cathedral in its glow. Adelheid traced the beam from the rafters down to the central dais, where it fell upon the altar. Behind her, Bishop Amalrich slowed his stride as he caught up. They had travelled to Sankt Pölten to meet with city leaders and to shake out any cobwebs from Wernher’s tenure as Count. Along the way, Amalrich lectured her about the cathedral: its history, its construction, and its subtle aesthetics. But he didn’t convey the building’s arresting presence, which now threatened to supersede their diplomatic agenda. Adelheid tried to leave, but her legs disobeyed. Instead, she stood stone-still, struggling to regain her autonomy.
“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” Amalrich asked.
“No.”
“It has no peers,” he said, clasping his hands. “And its only superiors are the Roman Basilicas.”
Adelheid took a deep breath and mastered herself before pressing deeper into the cathedral. They entered the central transept, approaching the altar where a gilded bible lay. Amalrich picked up the book and cradled it like a newborn. He ran his fingers over the cover, then cracked it open to reveal an illuminated page with red and violet pigments.
“Made by the old Benedictines,” he said. “They were master artisans.”
“What scene is this?”
“It’s from the book of Genesis, I believe." The bishop scanned the text, his beard wagging as he struggled through the Latin. "Do you recall the story of Cain and Abel, my Lady?”
She hesitated. “It would be best if you summarized it for me.”
“Cain and Abel were brothers—sons of Adam and Eve. They offered two sacrifices to God: Cain, the firstborn, offered meat while Abel offered grain. When Abel's sacrifice pleased God more, Cain killed his brother out of jealousy. God discovered his treachery and cursed him to wander the Earth, branded with a mark of vengeance.”
The story shook Adelheid loose from the cathedral's spell. “Where is my husband? We must meet with the priest to finalize our donation.”
On cue, the doors lurched open. Count Ernst strode into the narthex alongside two children and a smattering of clergymen. A monk closed the doors behind them, shutting out the last wisps of an autumn breeze. The Countess studied her husband’s entourage as they ambled towards her. Ernst chattered away with the cathedral’s priest, a humble custodian named Altmann, while the two children, Adalbert and little Addie, followed at a respectable distance. Adelheid was impressed. A stranger might mistake them for the very image of a pious noble family.
The bishop gave a half-bow. “It was a pleasure, my Lord. I seldom let children see the reliquaries, but these two were so respectful I made an exception.”
The Countess saw a crack in her husband’s facade. The children’s governess, Ragnhild, demanded strict attendance at the keep’s chapel services, and apparently her lessons had taken root. Respectable parents taught their children to revere the church, but Ernst worried it had gone too far. Adelheid agreed—a noble’s piety should make the clergy more pliable, not the other way around. She hoped the children would grow out of it.
Addie tugged on the hem of Ragnhild’s dress. The woman leaned down and smiled as the child whispered in her ear.
“Bishop Altmann,” Ragnhild said, “the children would like to see the statue of the Blessed Virgin. Do you have any candles they could light for Our Lady?”
The priest dispatched a monk to fetch the candles, and Alarich and the children followed them. The Count and Countess exchanged more pleasantries with the clergymen for before retiring to a secluded alcove.
“I appreciate your effort,” Adelheid said, scooping the Count’s hand into her own. “Altmann is well-liked among the peasants and burghers here.”
“So I’ve heard,” Ernst said.
“Oh, don’t sulk. He knows his parish doesn't subsist on bread alone. Bishop Amalrich and I filled him in regarding our arrangements back in Wien. The people of Sankt Pölten are under our protection now, so the local church can expect similar support.”
“And he was receptive?”
She laughed. “Dear, you know our children are not that well behaved. He would not have let them see the reliquaries if we offered a pittance.”
“It’s a stroke of luck, then. If Altmann feeds the poor in our name, the peasants won’t miss Wernher one bit.”
Adelheid straightened the circlet on his brow. “We have made our own luck, dear.”
They heard hushed voices just out of view, and soon the children rounded the corner. Adelheid beckoned them over to the alcove. Ernst reached out to Addie but stopped short—his daughter was too old to sit in his lap anymore. Addie did not respond, instead standing with her hands clasped in front of her, waiting to be addressed.
“Did you see the statue?” Ernst asked.
Both children nodded.
Adelheid smiled. “And what did you ask of the Blessed Virgin?”
“Nothing,” Addie said. “We thanked God for our brother’s good health.”
Adelheid felt Ernst squeeze her hand. Leopold had indeed recovered from his injury. Even now, he was holding court, taking on the ruler’s duties in his father’s absence. It was a momentous occasion in the life of an heir.
Adalbert stepped forward. “We left candles for the Virgin, but we have something for you too, mother.” Adelheid stifled a gasp as her son produced a cross-shaped pendant made of pure gold and filigreed with floral patterns. “Ragnhild and I got it from the fair this summer.” He bit his lip. “I hope it’s not an excess.”
Truthfully, it was a bit excessive. Adelheid wondered how Ragnhild could afford such an expensive piece. But the thought perished as she basked in the gift from her sweet boy. She slipped the pendant over her head, beaming with pride as the family stood up to leave.
Later that evening, Adelheid sat in a half-empty room in Sankt Pölten’s keep. Wernher had taken nothing with him, and the castellan was still re-decorating the upper floors. Her thoughts wandered as she swirled a goblet of wine. Was this the room where Wernher plotted his dark deeds? Where he plotted to kill her son?
Ragnhild roused the Countess from her trance. “My Lady! You are wearing Adalbert’s locket. The children must be thrilled.”
“It’s lovely.” Adelheid tilted her head to one side. “Though I don't know how Adalbert afforded it on the sum I gave him.”
“Oh.” The governess smoothed her dress. “I gave Adalbert a lesson in bartering. We bought the gold from a foreign merchant, then we commissioned a jeweler to fashion the pendant. No charge—we traded him for the name of the dealer.”
“I see.”
Adelheid sat up in her chair and leaned forward. Emboldened, Ragnhild continued:
“Well, the merchants wouldn’t like the shipping tax—not at first. But we could offer overland trade to the rest of Bavaria. If you wear Bohemian gold, it will become fashionable among the lesser nobles overnight. And if Markward commissioned a piece for Oda, we’d have influence across six counties. The merchants can unload some gold in Wien, turning more than enough profit to cover the tax. They'd be in the same spot as before”—her face broke into a grin—“except now we get a cut.”
The Countess smiled. Ragnhild was precocious, and she probably didn’t grasp the depth of Ernst and Adelheid’s ambitions. Nevertheless, she was correct. Any plan—any ruler—could benefit from more money. And her plan had the most important quality of all: longevity. It would provide for not only their current needs, but their children's needs as well.
The door opened and Ernst poked his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but I must speak to my wife in private.”
The governess bowed and turned to leave. “Ragnhild?” Adelheid said. “I enjoyed our chat. Ernst and I will call on you for dinner later this week.” The Count raised an eyebrow but said nothing as the door closed behind him.
“I have news from Wien,” he said. “Justizia says all is well. Leopold has held court every day in our absence—he still struggles with the finer points of ruling, but he looks and acts the part.”
Adelheid yawned and laid her head on her husband’s shoulder. “I expect nothing less. He is our son, after all.”
Ernst lifted the goblet from her hands and took a sip. “I have reached a decision about the business with Otto. If it comes to war, I want Leopold to rule in my stead.”
“But that means…”
“That I will go in his place, yes. I’d still leave the actual fighting to Vilhelm...” He kissed the top of her head. “But it won’t come to that. We outnumber Otto three-to-one. He has no choice but to fold to our demands.”
A rider approached Schloss Bentheim just after midnight. The starless sky swallowed the castle’s towers and hid its curtain walls, leaving only a dimly lit gatehouse. A sudden gust of wind sent the torches sputtering. The rider spurred his horse forward and cursed the fall chill harrying his journey at every step. Blanketed by an early snowfall, Schloss Bentheim cut a more imposing figure than the southern fortifications in Friedstadt and Ortenburg—a comparison that would please the castle’s master. Upon arriving at the gate, the rider dismounted and pulled his cloak tight around him. Soon he heard a sentry’s chain mail rustling atop the wall:
“Who goes there?”
“Gottfried Rapotonen,” the rider said. “Your Lord expects me.”
There was no reply except more rustling from the chain links. A few minutes later, the iron portcullis rumbled, and a party of guardsmen emerged from the courtyard. Gottfried removed his riding gloves and presented his signet ring for inspection. One guardsman, the sergeant on duty, signaled the others to relieve Gottfried of his mount and arming sword. The chief guardsman led Gottfried into the main keep, whisked him away to a private room, and motioned for him to sit by the fire. The weary rider was happy to comply, and even happier to find that the down cushions had been freshly fluffed.
“Wait here,” the guard said. “His grace will see you soon.”
Gottfried set about working out the knots in his muscles. He surveyed the room, noting the subtle sculpting on the wooden braces—traditional Saxon designs—and the immaculate needlework on the floor-length tapestries. The decor straddled a fine line between taste and extravagance. Gottfried knew vanity was a sin, but he was impressed nonetheless by such a concentrated display of wealth.
The door opened, revealing a stocky man wearing an embroidered indigo robe. Despite the late hour, his shoulder-length hair was tucked back behind his ears and fixed beneath a golden coronet. Gottfried half-wondered if the man slept with that damned crown on his head. Duke Otto’s face split into a grin, and his ruddy cheeks balled up and jutted out over his goatee.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, my boy. The duchy doesn’t sleep, and neither do I”
Gottfried scrambled to one knee and kissed an outstretched ring. “My liege.”
Without bending over, the Duke offered his palm to his guest. Gottfried pulled himself up and waited for his host to sit. Otto snapped his fingers and snuggled himself into a chair that was too tight for his frame. Servants sprang into motion outside the door, and soon they returned carrying a jug of wine and an entire roast duck. Gottfried raised an eyebrow—had the Duke been expecting him, or did he always order succulent dishes at odd hours?
“So,” Otto said. “Our traitorous sparrows have left the nest, have they?”
“Yes, your Grace. With some prodding, I replaced my father at their meeting. I even took dictation for their grievances.” Gottfried produced a scroll, a discarded copy he had filched after the meeting adjourned.
“Good, good.” Otto chuckled and eyed the parchment. “You’ll make a fine Count once I deal with the traitors.”
“And my father?”
“I will allow him to abdicate, unharmed, as per our agreement.”
Gottfried smiled. He loved his father—bungling, thriftless wastrel that he was—but Friedstadt had suffered long enough under lackluster leadership. Worse still, his father did not comprehend the threat posed by the Count of Wien; Ernst was too ambition to end his conquests with Sankt Pölten. Gottfried sighed inwardly. He took no pleasure in manipulating Markward, but what choice did he have? His inheritance was at stake.
“Who is the leader of this ragtag band?” Otto asked.
“Count Ernst of Wein, my Lord. It was simple enough to get him elected—the conspirators needed little prompting.”
“Forgive my asking, your Grace. But why do you want Ernst to present the demands? He lacks your speechcraft, but he is clever—maybe too clever. The others are blunt instruments, but they could be deadly in the wrong hands.”
The Duke set down his utensils and assumed a scholarly bearing. “Perceptive of you, my boy. Do you read Latin? Our answer lies in the wisdom of the Roman statesmen. Divide et impera—divide and conquer. If we remove the head from the snake, the body will wither.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Gottfried tilted his head. “Count Otto and Count Markward despise one another. Yet you ordered me to make them work together—with or without Ernst’s help.”
“They need the illusion of strength. Too strong, and they overwhelm us. Too brittle, and they hide in the shadows. I need them to slither out into the open where I can stamp them out.”
“I see. And what if Ernst can hold them together?”
“Leave that to me.” A green-clad figure strode into the room and dropped into a bow. “Wernher Zelking, Count of Sankt Pölton.”
“Former Count,” Otto said. “I take it your poor manners mean you found something to use against Ernst?”
“Oh yes.” The insult slid off Wernher's grin like water off a duck's back. “I have learned some very interesting things about Ernst. And when we reveal them to the court, the traitors will flee him like leaves scattering to the wind.”
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Chapter 10: Give Me Liberty!
Chapter 10: Give Me Liberty!
December, 1068— Bentheim, Saxony
December, 1068— Bentheim, Saxony
“You look tense. Can I offer you a grape in this trying time?”
Ernst stopped massaging the bridge of his nose long enough to glare at Ulrich. Of course he was tense! They stood outside the main entrance to Bentheim, bearing articles of treason. By the end of the day, they would all suffer one of three fates: they would be celebrated, exiled, or hanged. Ernst wished he could contemplate these dark thoughts in peace without having to listen to fruit-based trivia.
“They’re sweet,” Ulrich said, wiping his chin. “Probably Gewürztraminer from the Alsace region. Otto must have paid a fortune to preserve them out of season.”
Ernst was about to box Ulrich’s brain straight out of his skull when Gottfried interrupted. “Father, why don’t you go talk to Markward for a bit?” The Count of Friedstadt wandered off, still chattering on about the virtues of grapes.
“Breathe,” Gottfried said. “Our superior legal argument will carry the day. The duke has violated your council rights. I would phrase it as concilia, from the Latin. Otto often draws upon the law of the Romans in his arguments. You should do likewise.”
“Right,” Ernst said, nodding. He practiced the phrase aloud. “Concilia. Concilia.”
Gottfried placed a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck in there. I will wait here for news of your success. Then maybe we can share some grapes and wine in celebration?”
Now that was something Ernst could get behind. The flutter in his stomach died down. Gottfried was right: they had a better argument, and more troops. They would celebrate within the hour. Markward wandered over a few minutes later, unable to tolerate more obscure facts about grapes.
“You feeling okay?” he asked.
Before Ernst could reply, an unseen servant cracked the door cracked open and whispered to a guard. “His Grace Duke Otto of Bavaria will see you now.”
Markward leaned in. “It’s showtime. Remember that no matter what happens in there, we’re behind you every step of the way.”
Ernst hoped against all reason that their conspiracy had remained secret. That hope died when they stepped beyond the threshold. The great hall of Bentheim was packed with spectators from all walks of life: counts and barons, clerks and knights, flocks of burghers, and every landless twit who claimed a drop of noble blood. Ernst felt his stomach knot up as he took his first step toward the dais. By the halfway point, he was sure he would vomit. The crowd was so large that it filled the side galleries and spilled out into the corridors beyond. He stumbled momentarily as his legs faltered, but Markward reached out to steady him. They pressed on.
Duke Otto stood atop the dais, towering above the conspirators. On his broad shoulders rested a crimson cloak, trimmed with silver and bound by a gold clasp. Ernst recalled the day five years prior when Agnes de Poitou, the dowager Empress, gifted the cloak to Otto at the palace in Aachen. The Duke was thinner back then, sun-kissed and fresh from his victories against Bela I of Hungary. Otto had since retired from his role as a commander and settled into the role of a well-fed, fork-tongued creature of the Imperial court. But the cloak was a relic of simpler times—and a rebuke to those who would oppose him.
A hush settled over the room as the Counts kneeled at the foot of the dais. A minute passed, then two. Then five. Finally, Ulrich flinched as his knee wobbled. Satisfied, Otto motioned for them to rise.
“I am pleased to see my vassals enjoying my hospitality.” The Duke’s eyes flitted to Ulrich, who hung his head as he hid the bundle of grapes behind his back. Ernst cursed him silently for his complete lack of manners. Not even a minute in and his idiocy had damaged their cause.
“Ernst von Babenberg,” Otto said. “Count of Wien and Hohenau, newly endowed Count of Sankt Pölton. And Lord of… Florisdorf.” He paused at the last word. “Why have you come before me today?”
“Your Grace,” Ernst said. “I… We come before you with a request. You must repeal this,”—he held up a missive with the Duke’s seal—“this unjust overreach of ducal authority.”
Otto pressed his lips into an inscrutable line, letting the request linger. A low murmur rippled throughout the crowd. Ernst heard a lone peal of laughter ring out from one of the side halls: no doubt Otto had sprinkled paid supporters throughout the audience.
“I have considered your request. My answer is no.” There was another pause at the response of the crowd. “Now, if you have no further business to discuss, you are free to leave.”
The knot in Ernst’s stomach disappeared, replaced by a warmth spreading across his forehead and the tips of his ears. His grip tightened around the missive.
“No, Otto. We will not be dismissed like dogs. Half your council is here”—he gestured to the others—“and not one of was consulted. Even if your law was just, you have violated our right to concilia. Your arrogance undermines the very foundations of the realm!”
There was no murmur from the crowd this time. Ernst stood for what felt like minutes, watching the rise and fall of Otto’s chest.
“There is no threat to the realm… unless my vassals are in rebellion.” Duke Otto stepped down from the dais and stood a hand’s breadth away from Ernst. “Do you raise your sword against me, Count Ernst?”
Ernst held Otto’s gaze. “You have broken the feudal contract. And you will repeal the law. We offer you a chance to do so willingly, but we are prepared to use force if necessary.” The letter fell from his hand and fluttered to the floor. Ernst placed his heel upon it and pressed down until the wax from the Duke’s seal oozed out from under his boot.
“Wernher?” Ernst said, unaware he had spoken out loud.
The former Count of Sankt Pölton flashed Ernst a wicked grin. Ernst had lost track of his whereabouts in the months after his surrender. Adelheid suspected Wernher had found a position in some foreign court, perhaps hoping an ambitious duke would press his claim against Otto. What was he doing here in Bentheim? Wernher leaned in and whispered something to Otto. His manner was familiar—even irreverent—suggesting he had been a member of the court for some time. Wernher slithered back into the crowd just as the cacophony reached a crescendo.
“Silence!”
The Duke had not yelled so much as projected his voice, which boomed across the stone walls and shot down the side corridors. The crowd quieted as they sucked breath through their collective teeth.
“Very well, Count Ernst. You have raised your flag in rebellion against me. But before the others make their decision,”—he glowered at the conspirators—”I will explain myself. You claim I have violated your right to concilia. You claim you gave no legal judgement on my new laws. But I say that you have.”
Another figure stepped forward, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd. Was that?—oh no.
No, no, no.
Ernst panicked. He felt the hunter’s snare closing around him, but it was too late.
“Former Lord of Florisdorf,” the man said, sneering. “I was a baron until a year ago when Count Ernst declared my feudal contract null.”
The crowd gasped. Otto did not stop to gloat, but instead threw hismelf into his role and pretended he had not premeditated the entire exchange. “Are you saying Count Ernst revoked your title?”
“Yes, your Grace.”
The crowd continued to titter, but all Ernst could hear laughter echoing from the side halls. He recognized it as Wernher’s. He wished he were a spectator in the crowd, admiring the scene from afar. A small, perverse part of him admired the skillful trap he had blundered into. Otto raised his hand for silence.
“Count Ernst, are you familiar with the laws of the old Romans? The laws by which all good people are governed?” Otto cleared his throat. “There is a phrase in Latin: ‘Nemo plus iuris ad alium transferre potest quam ipse habet.’ It means, ‘one cannot transfer to another more rights than they have.’ By exercising your authority to revoke titles, you have affirmed my right to do so.”
The air went out of Ernst’s lungs. He imagined he must have looked like a fish gasping and flopping on the deck of a boat. Otto moved to put him out of his misery.
“You appear before me, threatening rebellion because my laws are unjust. But your actions show you have argued in bad faith.”
It was over. Otto had beaten him. Ernst dared not look at the other Counts—they would be fools to stand by him now. He had spent so many sleepless nights thinking of every potential weakness, patching every hole that the Duke could exploit. He had done his best to soothe the egos of Markward and Count Otto, and he had coached Ulrich into silence so his stupidity would not ruin them.
But there was one weak link he had not considered: himself.
Minutes passed before Otto spoke again. He did not address Ernst, sparing no words for the condemned, but instead threw a lifeline to the other conspirators.
“I am not without mercy. Your colleague has deceived you into raising your flags in rebellion. But if you walk away right now, I give the rest of you the kiss of peace.”
Otto held his hand out and waited for his remaining vassals to kiss his signet ring. Ernst felt his mind racing. He would be stripped of Sankt Pölton—that much was sure. Would Otto award it back to Wernher for his role in this little game, or would he double-cross the former Count and add the county to his personal holdings? Then there was the matter of Ernst’s own fate. The headman’s axe was unlikely, as was the dungeon. But little Adalbert—the Duke would certainly keep him in Bentheim as a promise of good behavior. Ernst closed his eyes and forced back tears.
“Fuck you.”
The Count of Wien spun around. Markward stood behind him, huffing like a blacksmith’s bellows, while Ulrich clawed at the bundle of grapes Markward had ripped from his grasp.
“Fuck you, Otto. We asked for an EXPLANATION” Another projectile burst against a tapestry. “We asked for JUSTICE. You don't deny that you ignored your council. Instead, you… you trot out this CIRCUS. Do you think we’re pigs ready to eat whatever shit you’re serving?”
Otto blinked. “Count Markward—”
“Sit on a halberd and spin, Otto. I’m not all court-like and dignified like Ernst. So let me spell it out for you: recognize the rights of your vassals or prepare for WAR.”
Ernst exhaled, unaware he had been holding his breath. Otto was a damn good Duke. Unlike most in the realm, Otto recognized the power of political theater, and his performance had been nothing short of a virtuoso’s. He stood his ground against superior military might and responded with cunning and guile. Ernst respected that. He admitted that Otto, one of the largest vipers in the Imperial nest, was more than a match for him. But for all his strengths, Otto had failed to recognize two truths: first, that all politics are personal, and second, that he was a prick. He had offhandedly slighted Markward years ago in naming him Steward instead of Marshal. A more reasonable man might have forgiven this transgression long ago. But not Markward.
Ernst permitted himself a smile. “Well?”
The conspirators waited for Otto’s facade to crack, but it did not. Ernst’s throat tightened as he realized their miscalculation. Had they met in private, the whole matter would have been resolved peacefully. But the Duke had wagered in public using every shred of his credibility: the red cloak, almost royal in its opulence; the law of the Romans, on which his authority rested; and, most of all, an assembly that was larger than anyone had seen in a generation. And now Markward had insulted him in front of the entire court. They had backed Otto into a corner. Compromise was impossible. Surrender was unthinkable.
“So,” the Duke said. “It’s treason, then.”
End of Book I
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It's always a pleasure to read your writing. Moreover now that the things are spicing up
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It's always a pleasure to read your writing. Moreover now that the things are spicing up
Thanks @Silverio90! This really means a lot to me because this story arc has been both fun and challenging to write. Otto absolutely blindsided me by refusing that 350% faction demand. But I later found out that was a blessing for me as a writer. It gave me a very specific set of questions I had to answer about plot/character connections. Otto is arrogant, so how did this trait lead him to handle this faction poorly? Markward is wrathful, but what event(s) in his past put him on a collision course with Otto? Etc, etc.
I got very lucky in that the game handed me some interesting events and characters. And the stats and traits make a handy "cheat sheet" that keeps me honest. Ernst is shy and honest with 11 diplomacy; Otto is august and arrogant with 15 diplomacy. There should be no contest in a battle of courtly wit—Otto will wipe the floor with Ernst as he has done here. Sure, gameplay dictates if Ernst "succeeds" or not, but the stats and traits suggest he succeeded despite himself, not because he was in his element here. In the end, I decided it would be most realistic to serve Ernst a slice of humble pie and let another character step in to save him.
Thanks, @Bannerman21! I meant to take two weeks off to plan the next 10 chapters or so, but that stretched into a month in the blink of an eye. But the next chapter (out today or tomorrow) should mean the return of weekly updates.
Chapter 11: Homecoming
Chapter 11: Homecoming
January, 1069— Vien, Austria
January, 1069— Vien, Austria
Ernst slowed his horse and haltd his entourage at the crest of the hill. The city of Vien, dusted with a light snow when he left, now lay within winter’s grasp. Yellow straw and red tiles dotted an otherwise colorless landscape, peeking out where snow had avalanched down sloping roofs. Smoke wafted from hidden hearths and lingered at the horizon. At the tolling of a church bell, common folk trickled into the streets where they kept warm with thick cloaks and quickened strides. The Count shifted in his saddle. He was glad to be home, but he felt a pang of guilt—after all, he brought war with him.
Ernst and the other rebels had departed in haste after the debacle in Bentheim. Duke Otto did not attempt to arrest them, although his clemency ended at the city gates. Ernst’s hopes for an impromptu war council were dashed by sullen moods on the road home. Count Markward of Ortenburg and Count Otto of München disagreed on strategy, while the Rapotonens, Ulrich and his son Gottfried, kept to themselves. The Count of Vien knew his political capital was gone, and he could no longer bridge divides. They had achieved no consensus when they parted, so Ernst committed to reinforcing Markward and hoped the others would see strength in combined arms.
If the constant bickering was not enough, something else bothered Ernst. Every night, he lay awake and ruminated on the events in Bentheim. He pitied himself at first, but after a fortnight he noticed the telltale fragments of a plot. Otto knew they were coming. Otto knew their purpose, and he knew their arguments in advance. Such an intricate trap was beyond even the Duke’s considerable skills. Not even Wernher could manage such a trick without help. The plot needed something else. It needed a traitor in their ranks.
Ernst spurred his palfrey and led his party down the hill. Far from being imposing, the grey walls of the keep beckoned to the weary Count. Soon the gate shuddered open, and Leopold and Vilhem, fresh from the morning joust, galloped towards him atop armored destriers.
“Welcome home, my Lord,” Vilhelm said. “What news?”
“Madness. The Duke rejected our petition, and now we prepare for war.”
Neither man betrayed any surprise. “The council has been summoned to Vien,” Leopold said. “We will convene at your command.”
Ernst smiled. His son cut quite the regal figure. The boy’s face, which had less fuzz than a peach until two summers ago, now sported a thick goatee. Leopold had also tamed his wavy hair, shearing it above the shoulders and combing it back. The Count surmised that it was a handsome look if whispers and giggles from the courtiers were anything to go by. The only contentious element was a pink scar below the left eye. Ernst thought it was a distinguished mark, but he often caught Leopold running his fingers over it when no one else was looking.
“My Lord,” Vilhelm said. “You have ridden far. We can convene tomorrow if you wish.”
“No. Otto will not delay, and neither shall we.”
An hour later, Ernst warmed by the fire while Vilhelm assembled the council. Bishop Amalrich sat next to him, prodding the embers with a poker. They exchanged pleasantries, but soon they turned to matters of state. Ernst recounted his embarrassment at Bentheim, his subsequent rescue by Markward, and the difficulties on the road home.
“Humility is a rare virtue among nobles,” Amalrich said. “You are wise to commit your troops to Markward's command. I hope the others follow your example.”
“No, I am not humble.” Ernst sighed. “I focused so much on others’ flaws that I could not see my own. I was a hypocrite in my treatment of Poppo, and it was nearly my undoing.”
A wry smile crept across Amalrich’s face. “Is this a confession, my Lord?”
“God’s bones, the one time you are a proper priest…”
“A proper priest would suggest we reconvene in the chapel. But a less… committed priest might be dissuaded by the draft in said chapel.”
Ernst chuckled. “I suppose I should be thankful for others’ flaws. I’m thankful you want to stay by the fire. And I’m thankful Markward has an irrational hatred for Otto.”
“My Lord, you are a rational man.” Amalrich drew his chair closer to Ernst. “That is another virtue, at least in my eyes. Markward is… not rational, but he has virtues, too. He is a loyal man. And a loyal man cannot tolerate slander towards his friends. Perhaps Markward meant to help you as much as he meant to hurt Otto?”
The Count watched the flames for a long time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bishop’s twig-like fingers stretch out, trembling, toward the poker. Amalrich’s health had taken another poor turn, and the junior clergy whispered he could no longer lead mass without aid. Ernst realized the old priest might not be with him much longer. In years past, Ernst would have given anything to be rid of the Bishop. But now… He shook his head. Perhaps God was punishing him. Perhaps the Lord had a wicked sense of humor. Why else would He give Ernst these two friends: a curmudgeonly old soldier and the worst priest he had ever known?
“Vilhelm and Alarich,” he said. “What are the troop totals?”
The two men looked at each other, but Justizia cut in.
“Uncle, I have two pieces of news pertaining to our council.” She waited for the Count to acknowledge her, then continued. “The first is that Duke Otto has allied himself to Duke Bertrand of Provence through a marriage of their houses.”
“Hrmph. And how many troops does Bertrand command?”
“Nearly a thousand,” said Vilhelm.
Ernst drummed his fingers on the table. “It’s neither the best nor the worst match Otto could have made.”
“He’s desperate,” Leopold said. “Your meeting has forced himto act in haste.”
The Count appreciated the sentiment, but he doubted it was true. Otto had been too well prepared—the made the match beforehand. Ernst sighed. He did not blame Justizia for Otto’s ambush at Bentheim. Their network of spies and contacts had been compromised the moment Wernher got involved. But Provence was further afield...
Justizia read the expression on her uncle’s face and smiled. “Ah, but there’s a slight rub. The court gossip in Provence is that there’s unrest among the peasants. Bertrand may be loath to commit armies abroad with trouble on his doorstep. In fact, he may call on Otto to honor their alliance rather than the other way ‘round.”
Erst smiled back at her. “What a pity. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this?”
“Uncle!” she said, feigning surprise. “Why, I have done nothing but dote on my handsome husband here in Vien. I have neither forged Bertrand’s signature on tax decrees, nor have I falsified documents allowing tax assessors onto church lands. Isn’t that right, Vilhelm?”
The council laughed, and despite himself, Ernst did too. The ordeal at Bentheim had shaken him to his core: he had been saved by luck, rather than planning. But Justizia had not lucked into the situation in Provence. She outmaneuvered Otto. The Duke was formidable in Bentheim, but beyond his walls, he was outmanned two-to-one. The war was theirs to win—or lose.
Ernst straightened his back and set to work and set to work on the council. Within an hour, they laid the groundwork for a plan.
“It’s settled,” Ernst said. “Alarich, call up the levies. Vilhelm, I want you to recruit new knights to join our forces. Justizia will ensure that none of our recruits are spies. As soon as the levies assemble, we will march to Ortenburg to join up with Markward. We must reinforce in case Provence arrives from the south and encircles them.”
After a unanimous vote, the council shuffled out. Ernst motioned to Leopold to stay behind.
“Son, I have saved an important task for you. The most important one, in fact.”
The youth lifted his chin. “Am I to take command of our armies?”
“No, I…” He sighed. “I am naming you regent. Now, I expect you will heed your mother’s counsel and defer to her experience. But you will have the final say in all that transpires while I am gone.”
“But… you will lead, then? Why?”
Ernst looked out the window. “You were not there in Bentheim. There will be no clemency for those Otto captures. If our rebellion fails, its leader will not come home.”
“Father…”
“Better me than you, son.”
Leopold opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stared at his father, unblinking. Ernst wondered what he was thinking. Was he disappointed? Angry? Afraid they would never see one another again? Finally, Leopold spoke:
“As you wish, father.”
Adelheid steadied the cloth and pulled the thread the half-finished banner. Her needlework was passable—her mother’s favorite phrase—but her craftsmanship always suffered from her lack of interest. Sewing was so boring. But over the past few weeks, Adelheid found the proper motivation for her stitching. It was simple, really: she had a mind for politics, and banners were politics rendered into cloth. Men lived for banners. Men died for banners. One banner brought cheers while another brought curses. But most of all, banners had messages hidden in plain sight. For woven into every banner was some hint about the bearer’s aspirations and motives.
The door opened, and Adelheid saw her husband for the first time in a fortnight.
“What’s this? My wife doing needlework?” He chuckled. “The priests will say declare it a sign of the end times!”
Adelheid set the banner aside and stretched out like a cat. “Is this how you greet your beloved? I suppose I am relieved your manners are too poor to take a mistress.”
Ernst opened his mouth, but no witty reply followed. Not for the first time, Adelheid saw the beginnings of worry-lines and crow’s feet on his once youthful face.
“My love… the meeting in Bentheim went worse than expected. We are at war with Otto.”
So that was it, then. Adelheid’s intuition told her that Markward’s faction was rotten from the start, so she was not surprised it ended poorly. Ernst continued:
“We… we had a solid case, I thought. But Otto sprung a trap on us…” He sighed. “Well, on me. Wernher and Poppo were there, so they had a hand in it. Otto knew we were coming. We were betrayed.”
Adelheid set the banner aside and folded her hands in her lap. She and Justizia always suspected someone in Ulrich’s court was pulling the strings, although Ulrich himself had little aptitude for politics. It could be Gottfried… but he was a complete unknown. Justizia’s spies had uncovered little regarding him, even though he bedded at least one. And people with boring pillow talk fell into two camps: those with no secrets, and those smart enough to hide them. Adelheid wondered if Gottfried was among the latter.
“Who assembled your legal arguments?” she asked.
“Gottfried, mostly. He is quite the diplomat and scholar.” Ernst narrowed his eyes. “He repeated those damn Latin phrases over and over… and Otto replied with his own.”
Adelheid pursed her lips together.
“That rat!” Ernst rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It was right under my nose. When Markward came here, I knew someone wrote his speech for him. And when we met in Ortenburg, Markward kept glancing at Gottfried. The boy has the right skills, and he has no landed title to lose…”
“Nothing to lose and everything to gain, dear. If Otto arrested you, Gottfried would have one less claimant to his inheritance. And if his father rebelled, Otto could force him to abdicate. Gottfried would simply receive his inheritance early.”
The Count was silent for a moment as he stared out the window. She watched the veins in his neck bulge and then subside. His eyes flicked back and forth. That meant he was thinking. Calculating.
“I hate having a spy in our ranks, but maybe we can use him. We could feed him useless information to pass back to Otto.”
“Yes,” Adelheid said, tilting her head. “But it will only work once or twice before Otto gets suspicious.”
Ernst turned away from the window. “I appointed Leopold regent.”
“Then you still intend to go with the army yourself?”
“Yes, dear.” He crossed the room and opened the door. “He will defer to you, of course. I told him… I told him it’s for the best.”
Adelheid set the banner aside a final time and pushed the door closed. “I don’t understand why you would risk yourself. But if you insist on dressing up like some fool of a knight”—she kissed him—“you might as well commit to the role. As your beloved, I expect your undivided attention until you leave.”
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Chapter 12, part 1: The Siege of Abensberg
Chapter 12, part 1: The Siege of Abensberg
February, 1069— Wien, Austria and Abensberg, Bavaria
February, 1069— Wien, Austria and Abensberg, Bavaria
Adalbert thrust his hand into the darkness until cool stone grazed his fingertips. Reaching further, he flattened his palm against the wall and ascended the spiral staircase. The chapel in the east tower should be empty—it was after supper, and evening prayers finished hours ago. His heart thumped in rhythm with his footfalls. Adalbert was well-behaved, he told himself, and he shouldn’t sneak through the castle after dark. But Adalbert couldn’t sleep. He tossed in his bed for hours, kept awake by a pit in his stomach.
Still, Adalbert suspected whatever kept him awake was spiritual. When Leopold left, Adalbert believed God would shield brave knights with His hand and bring them home safe. That naïve belief came crashing down when his brother returned, bandaged and half dead. Adalbert spoke to Bishop Amalrich, certain he would have answers, but the old priest smiled and said God’s will was mysterious. Adalbert slowly learned to recognize that smile. Thin and trembling, it appeared when grownups didn’t want to explain something. Or worse, when they couldn’t.
Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Adalbert stretched his arm out again only to find a sliver of orange candlelight illuminating the passage. Who else was awake at this hour? He traced the rays of light back to a gap beneath the chapel door. He bit his lip—everyone from servants to lords deserved privacy when communing with God. Despite himself, Adalbert stole down the hallway. He couldn’t stand to be alone tonight, and he'd rather anger the chapel’s occupant than return to his room. The boy hesitated at the threshold, then pushed the door open.
The creak of the chapel door startled Ragnhild, sending her rosary beads clattered against the floor. She stood with her back to Adalbert and smoothed the folds of her dress before turning to face him. Ragnhild forced a smile—the same thin one Bishop Amalrich gave him years ago. Whatever was bothering her was tricky grownup business. She wiped her sleeve across her reddened cheeks and puffy eyelids.
“Adalbert, dear…. It’s almost midnight! You should be in bed.”
“I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about papa and the knights.”
Ragnhild sighed and picked up the rosary. After a moment, she knelt in front of the altar and patted the floor beside her, inviting Adalbert to join. A breeze blew through the east window, sending candlelight dancing across the altar. The cozy chapel, no larger than a bedroom, paled in comparison to the cathedrals of Wien and Sankt Pölton. Adalbert caught himself—Ragnhild said she traveled the world, and private chapels were a rare display of God’s favor. He closed his eyes and thanked God for the chapel, then the entire castle, and then for Ragnhild. That seemed like a good start. He felt ungrateful asking God for something—even the safety of his family—without first thanking Him for His gifts. Adalbert’s thoughts continued to wander. Perhaps he was still being selfish.
“What were you praying about? Are you worried about the knights, too?”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s... part of why I’m here.”
“Are you praying for Udo?”
Adalbert meant to be polite, but Ragnhild’s lip trembled.
“Oh! I spoke out of turn. Your husband is a brave knight, and a good man. God will bring him home without a scratch!”
Now it was Adalbert’s turn to try a grownup smile. To his chagrin, it felt even worse than being on the receiving end. He tried not to think about Leopold, or about bandages, or about God’s mysterious will. He had not lied—not exactly. It was more like… a wish? Or a prayer spoken aloud? More thoughts flooded his mind. Leopold bragged he was a better fighter than Udo, yet his skill had not saved him. Adalbert shuddered, recalling how his brother reveled in giving vicious beatings to the other knights. His stomach churned. Even if father—and Udo—survived, they might come back different. And not just with scars, like the one under Leopold’s eye. Adalbert was still wrestling with these thoughts when Ragnhild pulled him into a tight embrace.
“Thank you. I… I love my husband, but I must pray for your father. The Count’s safety is more important than anything, even Udo’s life.” Ragnhild sniffled, then stood up and laid a firm hand on Adalbert’s shoulder. “Now, let’s get you back to the keep.”
“Wait! Maybe we can help each other. I can pray for Udo, and you can pray for father. It seems less selfish that way.”
She smiled down at him—a full, warm smile this time. “I’d like that very much, little one.”
The rising sun pierced the clouds and spilled over Abensberg’s flagstone walls. A mile away, Ernst blew into his hands at the edge of a clearing. He understood why they laid siege to the castle—it was the largest loyalist stronghold in northern Bavaria—but Markward should have waited. Instead, Wien’s armies marched themselves ragged to fortify an overextended position. They arrived earlier that morning, exhausted but heartened by cheers from Ortenburg’s camp. With three thousand soldiers, Markward and Ernst comprised most of the rebels’ strength. Their joint forces deprived Otto of an opportunity to engage their armies separately, which was itself a victory.
Ernst squinted at the defenses through the sun’s glare. He half-hoped the garrison would surrender at the sight of Wien’s reinforcements. Yet as silhouettes paced atop the battlements, they executed their turns with a crisp, almost defiant precision. If Wien’s additional forces were alarming, the defenders were too disciplined to show it. Ernst sighed. Once captured, Abensberg and its castle town would provide a strong defensive position for the rest of the war. But the siege camp was vulnerable now. If Otto and Bertrand attacked, they could pin the rebels against the castle’s formidable walls.
The Count turned back toward the camp and pulled his cloak tight about him, catching its fabric against his scabbard. Ernst grunted and struggled to disentangle his sword. He had thought only of his son’s safety when he took command of Vien’s forces, but now his naivete jeopardized the entire campaign. Six weeks of military life was no substitute for a lifetime of experience. His body ached, and every day greeted him with some awful chafing from his armor or saddle. He would have to improve, perhaps dramatically, if they were to succeed. Ernst finished fixing his cloak just as Markward approached him from the edge of the camp.
“Any word from the garrison?”
“Same as before," Markward said. "That piss-headed old castellan still won’t surrender.”
“And Count Heinrich hasn’t sent word to stand down?”
“No, and I think he ordered them to stall us. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
Did Markward just ask for his opinion on strategy? Ernst closed his eyes and tried to think of something insightful. He saw two paths forward: assault the castle or wait out the defenders. An assault risked heavy losses, which might erode their numerical advantage over Otto. Yet starving out the defenders would take too long. Moreover, winter sieges also carried added risks of sickness, weather, and supply problems—the patient approach did not guarantee fewer losses. Ernst remembered his experiences trying to manage the war for Sankt Pölton. Vilhelm’s letters from the siege camp told him the situation was dire before Wernher’s untimely surrender.
“We have little time,” Ernst said. “What are our options for assaulting the castle?”
“When it comes to walls, there's three options.” Markward counted off on his fingers. “You can go over, under, or straight through.”
Over the next hour, Markward explained the basics of siege warfare. Ernst found it nothing less than masterful. First, they examined the shape of the defenses. The curtain walls and towers seemed straight at a glance, but Markward pointed to a subtle taper that made them wider at the base than the top. The simple, yet ingenious design made it more difficult for sappers to collapse the walls from below.
Ernst thought back to the tapered walls of Markward’s own castle in Ortenburg, then contrasted them with Duke Otto’s defenses in Bentheim. He smiled. Bentheim’s walls were perfectly straight. Like everything else, Ernst suspected Otto’s fearsome military reputation was a carefully constructed facade. Even after the imperial regency, Otto was known as a general—and even a kingmaker—who won the crown of Hungary for Heinrich’s brother-in-law. But now another possibility occurred to Ernst. Otto did not march on Hungary alone but called on his vassals, as was his right. Markward would have been in his prime then. Perhaps the real architect of Otto’s victories was here now, a loyal man pushed too far by his liege’s indignities.
They decided against sapping, so there were two options left. Punching through the walls would be difficult with the catapults from Wien—they were few and their crews were hardly expert. But soon Ernst faltered, and he struggled to keep up with his friend's barrage of information. Did the defenders have murder holes or not? How could he tell if they had rocks and boiling oil?
“Come,” Markward said. “Before we go on, we need to talk to the chief woodsman.”
Somewhat deflated, Ernst admitted he was now completely out of his depth. They wandered through the camp, stopping to chat with the knights as they ambled toward the wood line at the other end of the clearing. The soldiers from Wien had already taken a liking to Markward, who projected an easy, unshakeable confidence in the dignity of his command. He told them city would fall. He assured them they would win the war. And when it was over, he promised they would parade Otto through Bentheim in chains. After half an hour, they reached a path that led into wood.
“Have you heard anything from the other Counts?” Ernst asked.
“Count Otto is on his way. He’s come to his senses since Provence joined the war.”
“And Ulrich?”
That was… concerning. Ernst trusted Markward, but he wasn’t ready to share that Ulrich’s son, Gottfried, was a traitor. That secret was too precious to risk having it exposed. They pushed deeper into the forest, watching the underbrush thin until they reached a second clearing. Teams of woodmen were busy hacking bark off felled trees and splitting them into boards. Several makeshift structures had been erected, including one housing a blacksmith’s anvil and bellows. To Ernst’s surprise, the chief blacksmith hammered an iron a dome of iron the size of a man's head.
At the center of the clearing stood two odd-looking houses. Their sloping roofs stretched nearly to the ground, and they were covered in animal hides rather than clay tiles. As Ernst drew closer, he realized they were not houses at all. The structures had no floors, but instead sat on raised frames attached to wooden wheels. Each canopy housed a great log, longer than five men end-to-end, which hung from a series of ropes and harnesses.
“Are those…”
“Battering rams,” Markward said, grinning. “We’ll storm the castle with a two-pronged attack. A small group attacks the gates with rams, and the rest of us scale the walls with ladders.”
“It… sounds risky.”
“Risky? Rebelling against our liege isn’t supposed to be a walk in the garden. Besides, the garrison isn’t big enough to man the entire length of the wall. They can’t be everywhere at once.”
Ernst sighed. “Nothing wagered, nothing gained. My men and I await your command.”
“That’s the spirit! Besides, we need to send a message to Otto and his loyalists. Especially that little prick of a castellan. It'll be worth it just to see the surprise on his face.”
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Not all caught up yet. Fast writer, slow reader. Sorry about that, and sorry for replying to an 'old comment'.
But honestly, the best tip I can think of for writing children, one authAAR to anothAAR, is listening to children. I'm a schoolteacher and a dad, so often I think about what one of my students or one of my own kids might say when I'm writing younger characters.
My experience with kids has taught me several things, though. First: never, ever underestimate a child's intelligence. They are learning machines. They will pick up on a lot of things, including nonverbal cues. Their actions do tend to mirror those of the adults around them, often in surprising ways. Second: even though children are intelligent, emotionally they tend to be fairly straightforward. I don't mean that in the sense that they don't get angry or sad or frightened, but they don't generally start holding grudges or thinking maliciously until the age of about 11 or 12. My second, third graders could be a handful discipline-wise, but they were quick to move on from arguments. When they hit fifth and sixth grade, though.... whoo, boy, the drama. I'll leave it at that. Third: even very young kids like to be taken seriously. They can tell when you're talking down to them and they don't like it. But they do appreciate people who listen to them.
Anyway, just me two cents, here.
Excellent writing so far, just let me say! Do keep it up - I will get caught up eventually!
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That’s exactly the advice I was looking for, @Revan86! I love your insights into intelligence, non-verbal cues, and the fallacy of underestimating children. This campaign is about politics and deception, so I’d like to get better at using non-verbal cues/subtext to let characters (and readers) know when something is off. I think your advice could really help me weave children into the main plot. Maybe some characters who are accustomed to deceiving adults let their mask slip when patronizing children…
Appreciate the read and the feedback. I’m apparently the opposite—a binge reader who can’t manage more than 2,000 words a week. I almost passed out when I saw you started a second AAR for CK3, and here I am wondering if I can even get through Ernst’s life before Royal Court bricks my save.
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Chapter 12, part 2: The Siege of Abensberg
Chapter 12, part 2: The Siege of Abensberg
February, 1069—Abensberg, Bavaria
February, 1069—Abensberg, Bavaria
“What the hell is going on out there?”
Vilhelm scowled at the open tent flaps. More shouts came from outside, split between cheers of triumph and cries of defeat. Only one activity drew such a polarizing response: gambling. Stepping out of the command tent, Vilhelm saw a crowd of armored soldiers idling about in a frost-covered clearing. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their backs turned, obscuring whatever spectacle they beheld. His scowl deepened. As a commander, Vilhelm took a dim view of raucous activities before midday. Such outbursts reflected poorly Wien’s soldiers, especially since their counterparts from Ortenburg displayed exemplary discipline. Alarich, who had been sitting outside the tent, stopped whittling a piece of wood and looked up.
“They’ve been at it for half an hour. It’ll die down soon.”
“What will die down soon?” Vilhelm asked.
“A sparring match, I think.”
Well, at least weapons practice was tolerable. Vilhelm has just talked himself out of intervening when the crowd erupted again. In unison, disgruntled soldiers in the back row groaned and slapped coin pouches into their comrades’ open palms. Vilhelm’s ears burned and his fists trembled, but Alarich shifted his attention back to the half-finished wooden charm in his hand.
“Let them have their fun, Vilhelm. Some of them aren’t coming home.”
Vilhelm sighed. He had heard soldiers whispering to one another about siege rams and ladders hidden in the woods. The question on their lips was not if they would assault the castle, but rather when. Unfortunately, Vilhelm and Alarich scarcely knew more than the common footmen. Ernst and Markward met with the commanders almost every night, yet they could not agree on timing. Vilhelm understood the need for bold action—he often sided with Markward—but relying on siege rams to breach the gates was a massive risk. Unlike most siege operators, the crews inside the rams would comprise knights and soldiers, not specialists. They would also bear the brunt of the assault. Once the gate fell, soldiers in the ram would need to clear the gatehouse and the outer bailey. The fighting would be close quarters—nasty work with short blades and axes.
“Have you selected the rest of your crew?” Vilhelm asked. “For your ram, I mean. You should take Arnolf, as he’s got some experience, and I’ll take Udo—”
Before Alarich could respond, another shout went up and more money changed hands. Unable to stand it any longer, Vilhelm stalked towards the back of the crowd. He worked his way forward, handling soldiers roughly and threating to whip them for their slothfulness. After several minutes, he emerged in the front to find the aftermath of one of the contests. One knight, Udo, stood nursing a swollen eye that was already turning purple. Vilhelm did not recognize the other knight.
“Damn boar,” someone said, obscured by the crowd. “Cost me half a month’s wages.”
Vilhelm examined the newcomer. The knight had a scraggly red beard that was thickest beneath his chin but patchy across his face. More soldiers whispered about the boar, and Vilhelm saw why: the man’s lower jaw protruded slightly, revealing yellowed teeth that pressed against his upper lip like tusks.
“I don’t know you,” Vilhelm said. “And I don’t tolerate wandering rabble-rousers in my camp.”
“Name’s Poppo, milord.”
“I didn’t ask. Tell me why I shouldn’t slap you in the stocks.”
“Apologies, milord.” The knight reached down and scratched the underside of his paunch. “Was just passing through and thought I could make some easy coin.”
“And how much did you make?”
A toothy smile spilt the boar’s face. “Dunno. Can’t count that high, and the coins are all funny lookin. All I know is that the men from Wien are generous, if a bit soft.”
The stockade was too lenient—someone ought to teach this swine manners with the flat end of the blade. In the blink of an eye, Vilhelm drew his sword, and the crowd quieted at the sound of steel sliding out of the scabbard. To his credit, Poppo neither flinched nor slid his hand towards his own hilt. Instead, his eyes drifted over the blade with a swordsman’s practiced gaze. So he knew his way around a sword? Good. Vilhelm lowered his weapon and cut the strings on a small pouch hanging from his belt. The bag landed by his foot, spilling silver coins into the snow.
“Tell you what. I’ll wager you double or nothing.”
“As you wish, milord.” The boar reached for his kite shield.
“No shield. Two-handed grip only.”
Vilhelm blinked in disbelief. His first strike had been deftly parried, and he suddenly found himself out of position. He barely avoided a counterattack to his waist. The exchange ended in a blade lock, and Vilhelm found himself at a disadvantage once again. The boar twisted his sword, fighting for leverage by pressing the base of the blade against weak part of Vilhelm's. With a final shove, the newcomer broke the lock and disengaged. No blows had been struck, but Vilhelm conceded his opponent had acquitted himself well.
After a moment, Vilhelm took the initiative again, but with more caution than before. His strikes probed the boar’s defenses while his eyes followed the man’s feet. He watched in grotesque fascination—Poppo was wide like a boulder, yet he somehow possessed a minstrel's nimble steps. How long had he lectured the knights of Wien on such subtleties? Before him was a flawless example, with all four limbs operating in perfect unison. Suddenly, a loud clang interrupted Vilhelm’s thoughts. The boar’s blade had slid down and clattered off Vilhelm’s crossguard, barely clearing his fingers.
Vilhelm looked down at his hand, then back up at his opponent. Only then did he realize the danger of his predicament. Noble or lowborn, Poppo was the better swordsman.
With a flourish, Vilhelm launched his final assault. He struck with all his might, straining his muscles with each blow. His arms burned, but slowly the boar gave ground. Vilhelm kept on him to deny even the smallest space. When their blades locked, he threw shoulders and elbows to keep the man off balance. Slowly, Vilhelm fought for the better position until he regained leverage with the strong part of his blade. He was the more physical combatant, though not by much, and it presented the only path to victory against Poppo's superior skill. Vilhelm slid his left foot forward to block his opponent from repositioning. The boar recognized it—he was too good to be tripped up—but it left him on his back foot. Sensing his opportunity, Vilhelm abandoned all caution and slammed his entire weight into Poppo.
Both bodies went flying. Vilhelm stumbled, but caught himself. He stood and extended his blade just in time to catch the Poppo on his back, rolling to retrieve his own sword lying in the snow. They locked eyes, and the prone knight grunted.
“I yield. Well, fought, milord.”
Without a word, Poppo stood and dusted snow off his tunic. He turned to leave, but Vilhelm called out.
"Poppo?"He kicked the pouch of silver with his boot. “I'd hate to see a talented swordsman depart so soon. Stick around—there are some very important men who'd like to make your acquaintance."
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Very good, and smart way (with a slick reference), to end the first book. Kudos.
Now realising, when you said there should be some more action, you were serious.
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