Britannia will follow - A Breton AAR

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Nine Tales of Antonine
1. The Antonine Vision

Before him loomed the ancient stones, still and silent.

Reclaim the stones and Britannia will follow.

The words struck the warrior like a blade of light through shadow.

He stood alone at Stonehenge; the wind dead, the stars veiled by cloud. He was hungry and tired after his long journey; his vision blurred at the edges. He had come to pray, to beg for a sign from the Lord.

Instead, the voice had come. It had come from the marrow of the earth; deep, terrible, and holy.

He looked up and saw the stones glow with a pale gold fire, and in the flickering light he beheld three visions: of Bretons kneeling in unity; of Saxon banners burning; of an oaken throne, crowned by the glory of the Lord. And above all three, a red diamond.

The voice came again, urgent and commanding:

Reclaim the stones and Britannia will follow.

The warrior fell to his knees and swore his life, his blood, and the blood of all his sons and daughters to the stones, and to the cause they demanded.

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Welcome to my first ever AAR!

I have been playing CK games for a long time but this is the first time that I have been motivated to write up a save.

The first thing to say is that this game is finished. I have been playing it, and writing about it obsessively, for about three weeks. My plan is to tell the story of the save in about fifty short stories (and some narrative and war reports obviously). I have around twenty written already including the first nine so I will be posting most days at first.

As this is my first attempt at an AAR, all feedback is welcome!

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Nine Tales of Antonine
2. The Breton Uprising

By frost and fog did the warrior pass through Saxon held Wessex, cloaked only in rags. Carrying a staff and a blade, he kept to deer tracks and wooded hollows, guided by stars and prayer. Saxon warbands camped in the wilds, but none knew the name Antoninus, nor guessed that the man hunched by the hedgerows was to set the fire that would soon burn their dominion.

He crossed into Cornwall by night, worn but unbent. There he spoke of the voice, the stones, and the charge from God Himself.

'Reclaim the stones and Britannia will follow', he told them. And the people listened.

Old Brythonic warriors listened; descendants of those who had not fled to Armorica when the Saxons came. Their looks were dulled by time but their blades were kept sharp. In high hills and hollowed dells, bonfires lit the dark and oaths were sworn beneath the stars.

Antoninus led his growing band to Tintagel, where Petty King Dumnarth clung to his throne like a ghost to a grave. Aged and fearful, the naive appeaser dismissed the vision and refused to raise his banner.

“The Saxons are too many,” he said. “Better a Saxon coin than a Breton grave.”

Antoninus looked him in the eye. “You accept Saxon chains. We do not.”

When Dumnarth would not rise, the people did.

Antoninus walked from chapel to forge, from tor to mill, telling his tale. He was spat upon by some, laughed at by others; but in every hamlet, voices cried out for vengeance and restoration.

At Totnes, farmers marched behind him bearing pitchforks and sharpened spades.
At Okehampton, a priest blessed him with stolen chrism and gave his nephew as a squire.
At Heston, smiths reforged rusted Saxon blades into short arming swords and belt-axes.
At Launceston, loyalists set ambushes in the night and vanished like smoke.

He slept in barns and on chapel floors. He fed the hungry from his stores. Wherever he passed, the people remembered...we were once more than this.

By late November, they numbered nearly four hundred; half-trained, poorly armed, but resolute. The women stitched a red diamond upon white cloth and raised the first banner at Mên-an-Tol. There, beneath the stones, the druids came.

Antoninus met the eldest of the last true druids. Though the bishops named them devils, he did not flinch.

“You know this land,” he said. “Tell me what it needs.”

“A father to bind stone and soul,” came the answer.

They anointed him in oak ash and holly sap, and placed upon him a bronze torc, engraved with three spirals.

His host marched west with the winter wind behind them, each village raising a few more blades, a few more oaths. Children ran beside the line with bread; old men wept at the sight of the red diamond passing.

Dumnarth laughed when his steward spoke of it. “A beggar-king with peasants? Let him freeze in the hills.”

But by mid-December, the Breton host stood beneath Tintagel’s cliffs, eight hundred strong. Druids whispered mist upon the waters. Villagers within the keep slipped open side gates and threw down sacks of grain.

1st January 867. Snow fell as Antoninus’s host climbed the cliffs. Dumnarth’s men, few and faithless, offered token resistance. Some surrendered. Others joined them. The gates fell before dawn.

Antoninus strode into the old hall. Dumnarth stood at the high seat, crown in hand, lips trembling.

“I will not die for it,” the petty king whispered.

“Then make way for one who will,” said Antoninus.

On the Feast of Epiphany, 6th of January, 867, the Bretons gathered atop the cliffs, where wind and sea sang in ancient tongues. The stones of Tintagel bore witness as Antoninus was crowned not in gold, but with a circlet of iron and holly.

Priests anointed him. Druids stood in silence. And the warriors raised one voice:

“Hail Antoninus, Petty King of Cornwall!”

So was the House of Grismannus born.
The cross stood once more beside the stone.
The dream of Britannia, long still and silent, had begun to stir.


Antoninus prepares to assault Tintagel

 

[Cora Giantkiller]

Okay, this is interesting.

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Nine Tales of Antonine
3. The Double Trinity

De Trinitate Dupla: On the Double Trinity​

As recorded by order of Lord of the Bretons Antoninus, Anno Domini DCCCLXXXVIII.

Et tres sunt qui regnant in cælis: Pater, Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus; et hi tres unum sunt.
Sed etiam tres sunt qui habitant in terra: Ignis, Petra, et Ventus; et in eis spirat Deus in mysteriis suis.

---

On the Nature of the Double Trinity​

Know, O brethren of Christ, that in our true lands of the west, where the saints walked barefoot and the stones rise like teeth from the plain, there remains among the faithful a teaching both old and true, and not contrary to the Gospel. It is called the Double Trinity, and it speaks thus:

That there is in Heaven a Trinity, holy and unchangeable; the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, consubstantial and coeternal, as taught by the councils and preserved by the Church.

But likewise, God hath written His mystery into the fabric of the world, and this also is threefold, being:

• Ignis, the Flame — which quickens, judges, and consumes;
• Petra, the Stone — which holds, roots, and endures;
• Aura, the Wind — which moves, inspires, and carries breath.

These elements are not gods but the visible signs by which the unseen Lord is known to those who walk the world.

As the three persons of the heavenly Trinity are united in one divinity, so too the Flame, Stone, and Wind are joined in creation; and just as the star, the miracles, and the resurrection revealed the Lord Christ, so too the Sun, the Hill, and the Storm reveal His working still.

The wise men of old saw this pattern and spoke of it long before the name of Christ was known. They erred in part, for they knew not the fullness of grace; yet neither were they wholly astray, for Truth prepares its ground, even in silence.

On Worship and the Balance of Devotion​

Let no man raise a stone and forget the Cross. Let no one light the sacred fire and forsake the Mass. These signs are not to replace the sacraments, but to adorn them; to teach the simple through earth what is true in heaven.

Thus, in the Petty Kingdom of Cornwall, the wise do chant the Psalms beneath oak and ash, and the people kneel at both altar and hill. For Christ is the Lord of creation, and the spiral path is His, so long as it ends at the empty tomb.

On Heresy and Harmony​

There will be those beyond the river, and bishops across the sea, who say this teaching is a corruption. But they do not know our hills, nor our stones, nor the voice that speaks from the deep soil.

So long as the Cross is raised, and the majesty of Christ professed, let no monk quarrel with the breeze that blows in circles.

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Nine Tales of Antonine
4. The Bloodline Flood

“Reclaim the stones, and Britannia will follow.”

So spoke the Lord to Antoninus, first of his line, long before the crown of iron and holly rested on his brow. He was no saint, and the people remembered him not only as rebel and king, but as Antoninus the Lecher. His lust was legendary; not for wine, nor flesh alone, but for sons. Sons to carry the vision. Sons to bear the name Grismannus unto the ends of the isles.

Through Breton contacts on the continent he met and married Benedicta Rimbersdochter van Dithmarschen, a nobleman’s daughter from Northern Germany. Much was made of the Breton leader taking a Saxon wife but she adopted Brythonic culture and together they filled Tintagel’s halls with a brood fit for a saga. Devoted Benedicta bore five children, and Antoninus’s lover, Ourdilic, added another to the line.

First Antoninus mab Antoninus in 868,

Second, Guinoc mab Antoninus in 869,

Third, Tanetbiu verch Antoninus in 870

Fourth, Juliana verch Antoninus in 871 - daughter of Ourdilic

Fitth, Oncum verch Antoninus in 877

Finally, Tibourge verch Antoninus in 881

"Let the bloodline be a flood," Antoninus said often, "that no drought can end it."

Oncum met her fate first. Taken as a bride by the West Saxon Chief, Aethelred, she rebelled against her husband. Oncum had her father’s lust for physical pleasure and commited adultury against Aethelred. Aethelred was a vengeful man and had Oncum executed in 900, the first of Antoninus’s children to die. Aethelred’s wrath was afterwards directed towards the rest of the island and he died in 914 calling himself King of England.

The five other children survived their visionary father, but not all for long…

---

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Nine Tales of Antonine
5. A Reign Consumed

Antoninus died in the frost-bound winter of 905; fevered and wan, but fierce to the last. By his bedside sat his son, steadfast and ready.

“I have not reclaimed them,” the old man rasped. “The stones… Wiltun… they still wait. The voice came to me; Reclaim the stones, and Britannia will follow.”

“Then I shall, Father,” said the son, gripping his hand.

The old king smiled; one last gleam in his failing eyes.

“Good. Let them call me what they will. You shall be the one who redeems it.”

Thus passed Antoninus I the Lecher; founder and father.

But the task was not his son’s to fulfil.

Antoninus II wore the crown scarcely a year. In spring, a great wasting came upon the court; consumption. He became tired, lost his appetite, and then began to cough; first phlegm, then blood. Priests prayed. Druids performed healing rituals in secret. Physicians bled him. Nothing availed. His wife Oreguen was with child, but he would not live to see his son born.

In his final days, with breath rattling in his chest, he summoned his brother Guinoc’s son, a youth named Gurcencor.

The boy was fourteen, broad of shoulder, calm as still water. He had inherited albinism from his mother’s side, and this pale, thoughtful giant was already known as being wise beyond his years. The people wished to follow him, and in time he would be known as ‘the Gentle’, for his quiet word and steady hand.

“Gurcencor,” the dying king murmured, “My father charged me with the stones. I will not reach them. But you may. You are not loud. That is good. The Lord favours those who listen.”

Gurcencor bowed his head.

“Then I shall heed His call.”

And so he did.

He kept the eastern roads watched. He sent riders to Wiltun in secret. He learned the old names of the valleys in Hwicce, and with secret mystic guidance from the druids, his priests unearthed ancient claims of Breton dominion over Saxon lands. He trained, not for defence like his predecessors, but for conquest.

The bloodline surged and the vision endured.

Gurcencor listened.

And Britannia waited.

Gurcencor mab Guinoc, Petty King of Cornwall in 925

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Nine Tales of Antonine
6. The Conquest of the Stones

The following are extracts from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, archived by Gurcencor 'the gentle' himself.

January 910
News from the barbarian lands in the west reports the death of the usurper Antoninus, and soon after, his son. The Bretons are now ruled by an albino youth named Gurcencor, who, though large in frame, is said to be meek and mild of temper. He is not expected to pose a threat. The Bretons shall likely prove an easy people to subdue in the years ahead.

July 913
The Breton lord Gurcencor has raised his banners and marched against us, laying claim, by spurious charters and false priestly writs, to the lands of the Hwicce. His host made south-west and set siege to the barony of Lyme. The fyrd of Wessex is summoned, and the upstart Breton shall soon be broken. His lands will be added to the King’s domain.

May 914
By craft and ill chance, Gurcencor, the so-called Lord of the Bretons, has evaded destruction. The siege of Lyme proved but a feint; when the fyrd came to fight, the cowards melted into the woods. Word has since come that Gurcencor marches upon Sailsbury. The fyrd has been ordered to pursue. A messenger has been sent from the Breton host, offering battle upon the plains of Salisbury. The offer has been accepted, and there the army of Wessex shall bring the Breton rebellion to a swift and final end.

September 914
We are not fighting mere barbarians, but heretics! These Bretons call themselves Christians, yet they came to the plains of Salisbury accompanied by Druids. This is no longer a war for land; it is a battle for our very souls. God then turned His face from us on the field. The heathens broke the fyrd and laid siege to the castle at Salisbury. Our men could not dislodge them, and the fortress fell. The County of Wiltshire has been surrendered, for now, but the Bretons shall pay dearly for this affront. We will look to our sins as well.

January 925
The Lord of the Bretons, Gurcencor, names himself a true Christian and worships openly at the church in Salisbury. Yet his falsehood is plain to all, for waves of Breton heretics now defile the stones at Wiltun with unholy rites and forbidden rituals. The lands are peaceful for now but Gurcencor’s people urge him further west and our Lord Aethelweald is eager to push the Bretons back. War will resume in these lands before long.

October 931
In February of this year, the Breton lord Gurcencor marched again into the west, pressing false claim to the Earldom of Gloucestershire. At midsummer, the fyrd of Wessex met him in battle and cast down his host in the fields of Gloucestershire. Yet the victory was not complete. By autumn, Gurcencor struck again, swift and fierce, and our men were routed at the battle of Bristol. The Bretons advance, though they have taken many losses. It may be that the town of Gloucester will break them completely, for it is there that this war will be decided.

August 932
Gloucester is lost! The townsfolk endured much, but in the end the heretics broke through the defences. The Bretons name their lord Gurcencor the Gentle, but it is a bitterly ironic name. The man stands a head taller than any other, and fights with a fury not of this world. Yet he does not raise his voice, nor boast among his men. He is soft-spoken, and that makes him all the more terrible. Worse still, Gurcencor has taken hostage our noble King’s sister, the Lady Sigrid of Wessex. She is but two years old. It is unthinkable to imagine what horrors the heathens may visit upon her.

January 942
A glorious day! Our kinswoman, the Lady Sigrid of Wessex, has been returned to us. By God’s grace, she appears none the worse for her long captivity; a blessing indeed. She is but twelve years of age and was not expected to be returned until her majority. Why then have the Bretons of the west released so precious a hostage before her time? What plot stirs in their heretic courts?

December 942
Annus horribilis for our noble house! The Breton deceit was made plain in February, when Gurcencor declared his claim upon Oxfordshire; a claim he could not lawfully press while holding the Lady Sigrid. She had been returned in January; now we see why. Our brave King Æthelweald met them in battle in September, but was defeated. Sigrid was seized once more and carried off by the Bretons. Foul rumours speak of a friendship between her and Gurcencor’s daughter and heir, Elwen but such salacious lies are unworthy of attention. Worse still, the Bretons won a second battle near Oxford but three days past. Their red diamond banners are now visible from the walls; I must leave Hwicce; for the safety of myself, and of this chronicle.

November 948
The lands of the Hwicce remain in the hands of the heretic Bretons, and as they grow in strength, it seems this may now be the order of things. Our Lady Sigrid was at last returned to us in January 946, now a woman of sixteen. She spoke with disdain of Elwen of Grismannus; twenty-one years her senior, and by all accounts pompous and high-handed. It is well that such a noble lady as Sigrid does not tarnish her name by futher consorting with the vile westlanders.

Yet the Bretons are here to stay, and we would be naive not to seek terms. Perhaps they might yet be persuaded to cast off their druids, and abandon the dead tongue that drips from their heathen mouths. We cannot know what the future holds.

But this we do know: we will endure. Aye, we will prosper.

The sons of Alfred the Great shall not falter.

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Nine Tales of Antonine
7. 954 - A New Vision?

Before him loomed the ancient stones, still and silent.

“Reclaim the stones and Britannia will follow”.

But this time the words were not spoken from the deep earth but by the visitor himself.

Gurcencor mab Antoninus knew this would be his final pilgrimage. Perhaps, at last, the divine guidance he had long craved would be granted. Yet nothing came. No voice. No flame. No vision. This was Gurcencor’s sixty-third midsummer, and he felt in his bones that it would be his last. The petty kingdoms of Hwicce and Cornwall would pass to his daughter, Elwen. His only son had died aged just four, many years ago.

Still, he resumed his prayers. It was early.
The vision might yet come.

The stones were busier this midsummer than ever before. Each year, more Bretons made pilgrimage to these ancient sites to honour the longest day. Gurcencor watched the crowds and considered the stones. What an achievement they were; the work of ancestors who had built without mortar or iron, yet endured. What marvels, he wondered, might his descendants create?

Druids moved among the gathered, performing rites and passing out small bundles of herbs. No priests came on this day. They had their place; in court, in chapel, in the rhythm of Christian life. Jesus Christ remained the eternal Lord of the Bretons. But midsummer belonged to the old ways.

Darkness fell at last, no vision came, and Gurcencor was helped into a horse cart and driven back to the palace.

He had been right. It was his final midsummer. But the story of the Bretons was only beginning.

Gurcencor had reclaimed the stones. And now, Britannia would follow.

Petty King of Hwicce and Cornwall, Gurcencor mab Antoninus prays for a vision

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Nine Tales of Antonine
8. Vows of the Viper

The banners of Grismannus and Wessex hung side by side from the rafters of the great hall, and every corner of Wiltun Hall had been scoured clean for the wedding of Duchess Sigrid of Wessex to Prince Antoninus mab Elwen. Gold gleamed on the tableware, bards rehearsed their songs, and priests and druids muttered blessings side by side.

But beneath the tranquil veneer, venom festered.

In a chamber off the west wing, heavy with winter-dried herbs, two women stood apart from the pageantry. There was Elwen verch Gurcencor, heir to the thrones of Cornwall and Hwicce; and across from her, Duchess Sigrid of Wessex; young, sturdily built, every inch an Anglo-Saxon warrior queen.

They had been left alone for a moment. A misjudgement by the servants. Or perhaps not.

Sigrid spoke first, her voice light as cream but thick with something sour.

“A strange hall for a wedding, Lady Elwen. I’ve seen cleaner barns in Andover.”

Elwen did not blink.

“Then take comfort, girl. You’re marrying my son, not the stones. Grismannus men are worth ten Saxons.”

Sigrid’s lips curled.

“He’s a dull lad. But once you and your barbaric father are with God for judgement, we’ll rule half the country between us.”

“With a Breton name.”

“With West Saxon iron and blood.”

The air grew still.

Elwen leaned forward, her voice low and sharp.

“Listen well, daughter. You wear white and gold, but your heart’s blacker than your house’s sins. My son may wed you; but in the struggle to come, the Saxons will not win. We have been chosen by God. Your blood counts for naught.”

Sigrid smiled, sweet as rot.

“Is that so? How your son beamed when I promised him a Wessex heir. One with cleaner blood than your moor-born, mist-fed kin. Who celebrates a wedding on the feast day of Finian the Leper? Maybe it’s fitting for you cliff-dwellers.”

Elwen’s hand moved swiftly. Not a strike but a grip, firm as iron, catching Sigrid by the wrist.

“Speak once more of your blood being clean, and I’ll see it spilled.”

Silence followed, as taut as wire.

A knock came at the chamber door. Elwen let go. A steward’s voice followed, soft but urgent:

“The wedding waits.”

Sigrid turned, smoothing her dress with poisoned grace.

“You know I’m right, Elwen. You’ve tried to poison your son against me, but I always win in the end. Antoninus can think what he likes now but he’ll learn to love a queen with a spine.”

 

[dmurgell]

Nice story. Putting Stonehenge in the center of it certainly adds a mistical touch. The stones are the 'excalibur' for the Bretons new realm. Nice one. And no Breton would ever revolt against the Stones.

Intrigued to see what comes next with the dynastical union with Wessex.

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Nice story. Putting Stonehenge in the center of it certainly adds a mistical touch. The stones are the 'excalibur' for the Bretons new realm. Nice one. And no Breton would ever revolt against the Stones.

Intrigued to see what comes next with the dynastical union with Wessex.

Yeah, Stonehenge is like a cultural anchor for my Bretons. They got close to being completely displaced but feel like the stones give them some sort or protection against to Anglo-Saxons.

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Nine Tales of Antonine
9. The Last Word

17th January 974 - Sailsbury

The chamber was dim, the shutters drawn against the wind from the plain. The fire snapped lazily, casting flickers on the worn stone walls and the grey face of Elwen verch Gurcencor, Petty Queen of Hwicce and Cornwall, who lay beneath heavy furs, her breath shallow, her eyes sharp in their fading light.

By her side sat Sigrid of Wessex, the scent of wine clinging to her like rot to fruit. She held a goblet in one hand, half-full and trembling slightly, though whether from grief or age none could say.

They had not spoken in years, yet now, at the near end of one life and the slow ruin of another, the air hung thick with all that was left unsaid.

Elwen spoke first, voice dry as autumn leaves.

“I thought you’d be too drunk to come.”

Sigrid smirked faintly.

“And I thought you’d be dead already.”

A pause. The fire crackled.

Elwen gave a ragged breath that might’ve been a laugh.

“We’ve traded insults long enough. Come, Sigrid. Let us speak plain. One last time.”

The Queen of England, once, sipped her wine and leaned back, her eyes glassy with more than drink.

“Then speak it. You’ve outlived your husband, your council, your enemies, you defeated me in battle and locked me away. Tell me, was it worth it?”

Elwen’s eyes glinted.

“I saw you crowned Queen of England in 948. You shook like a girl with a dagger at her back. I vowed to be the one with the hilt in my hand.”

Sigrid flinched, but smiled coldly.

“The faction chose me. I didn’t beg.”

“No. But you played the whore well enough for their blessing.”

Sigrid’s hand tensed on the goblet.

“And you became Petty Queen of two backward provinces six years later, parading around this pathetic town like it meant something. Tell me, Elwen… when the wind howled through Stonehenge, did you hear God or your own ghosts?”

Elwen did not reply at once. She looked to the hearth, as if the flames held the answer.

“I heard my father,” she said softly. “And my grandfather. I heard the stones. And they told me: hold fast, judgment will come for your enemies and it did; God sent his judgment to you when your first two children died as babes.”

Sigrid blinked slowly. Her voice cracked.

“Like he judged you when your son died at 23.”

“At…..your…..hand!” Elwen spat, bitterness thick in each word.

Silence.

Sigrid drained the goblet in one long draught. She wiped her mouth and said nothing.

“You didn’t even deny it,” Elwen murmured. “My son was gentle. He wanted peace. That’s why he died.”

“He was weak,” Sigrid muttered. “And the weak always fall.”

“Weak? Who was weak when the crown of England was torn from your head in 71? Remember the name or is your brain too picked? Stefan of Grismannus. You were Queen once, Sigrid… and now you rot in brandy and spite.”

Sigrid’s shoulders shook, not with rage, but something smaller. Something older.

“I lost everything. My children. My crown. My name. And you sit here, smug, dying with your little throne and your line intact. Damn you, Elwen.”

Elwen smiled in quiet knowing.

“We’ll both be in the ground soon enough.” She said eventually “Yes. And good riddance. But our names will not weigh the same.”

She reached out, hand trembling, and grasped Sigrid’s wrist, not as a friend, nor an enemy, but as a magnaminous winner.

“The heirs of Antoninus will endure. We reclaimed the stones.”

She drew breath, her final words coming as a whisper of iron.

“And Britannia will follow.”

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Thus ends the Nine Tales of the Antonines. The next stories in our tale are taken from Grismannus Rex.

 

[Micutio]

Normally I prefer AARs which use screenshots more often, but your writing paints such a vivid picture that can easily stand on its own.
How cool that you're gifting us two AARs at the same time!

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Normally I prefer AARs which use screenshots more often, but your writing paints such a vivid picture that can easily stand on its own.
How cool that you're gifting us two AARs at the same time!

Thank you for your kind words. I like using screenshots but I didn't decide to write this save up until quite late on so I don't have many from the start.

 

[KingAntoninusGRS]

Grismannus Rex
1. Stages of Grief

Sailsbury, September 981

Petty King Antoninus mab Elwen pointed at the map upon the table.

“Duke Gilla-Crist holds lands here, in East Anglia, and here, across the sea in Ireland. Should we divide our forces to strike at both?” He looked to his seasoned Marshal for counsel.

“Nay, sire. We must strike at his Anglian seat first; then, when he is weakened, we may take his holdings in Ireland. Split forces would be ripe for ruin, should Gilla-Crist keep his men together.” Antoninus nodded; the advice was sound. Yet the Marshall’s brow furrowed with weariness. “We have been through this five times now, sire. The plan is laid; we shall not be ready to press your claim for many years yet.”

“I know,” Antoninus replied, his voice quiet. “Thank you.”

With that, he dismissed his Marshall for the day. He had delayed long enough; he could put it off no further. He would have to call upon his wife.

He found Sigrid, as he had expected, drunk and sunk deep in her gloom.

“So; you have finally come to mourn your son,” she said, her voice sharp with bitterness.

“I have mourned him since the day he died,” Antoninus replied, his voice low and steady. “But I shall not drown myself in drink, as you do.”

Sigrid did not flinch; this was not the first time her vice had been turned against her.

“Have you been plotting your war with Gilla-Crist again?” she asked at length, her words thick with scorn. “You will never have the men. And besides; look at me. See what ruling a kingdom has done. You would do better to stay here with your precious stones.” Antoninus, now dressing for a ride, paid no heed to her barbs. But Sigrid was not yet finished. “You were not meant to be a King, husband,” she hissed. That drew his gaze; and seeing that, she struck deeper.

“It was meant to be Maenceneu. King of England, of Hwicce, and of Cornwall. A man to bind Breton and West Saxon together; a man strong enough to drive back the Norse. But now he lies dead, just like his brother and sister. And you.” Her voice rose, like a knife about to strike home “You do not even care.” It was clear to Antoninus that Sigrid would not be comforted; she demanded conflict. Antoninus said nothing at first. He finished pulling on his riding boots, then stepped to her side. He took her gently by the arms and kissed her brow.

“Maenceneu, Uther, Gueruel, they are all gone,” he said softly. “And I mourn every one of them. But I will honour them in deeds. By bringing prestige to their family name.” He kissed her once more and turned to leave. “Find some purpose, Sigrid,” he said, glancing back as he opened the door. “If you do not, you will not see the year’s end.”

He left her there, standing in silence. For a long while she stared into nothing; then she sank into her chair once more, lost to her sorrow.

She would be dead within the month.