In Flanders Fields

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Maccavelli, Spot on. Flanders on its own could not have withstood the IK. Without giving too much away it's not been a bed of roses as England either, although that may be more down to my inexperience - this is still only my 3rd attempt at the game, reasonably successful so far though I guess.
AKjeldsen, thanks for the feedback. I've got some screenies so I will try and include some.
Coz1, I'm writing quite a bit after events took place. You'll soon see what happens with the ducal lands. One advantage of delayed writing is that you can allow for future events. When Pierre was first introduced as Pierre the Spare, I knew that he would inherit Flanders (but not England at that time), hence my use of the phrase "something about the boy" at the time. I guess this makes for easier writing but it also allows more plot development I think than writing immediately after an event has happened. I guess everyone has their own style, and mine does require keeping loads of notes which makes some game sessions slow with excessive use of the pause key! Great work on the donation front by the way in the AARland BAAR thread. I will stop by there and make a recommendation soon (lots of the good ones have already been recommended though, but not mine )

 

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CHAPTER 38 BIRTHRIGHT

Pierre spent but one night at Dover for he was keen to reach London as soon as he could. The next day, he set off for Canterbury, but a short ride away, where he made the obligatory visit to the bejewelled shrine of St Thomas a Becket. Like his ancestors before him, Pierre was not a particularly devout man, and his religious observance was strictly of the conventional kind. He gazed in wonder at the riches of the reliquary in which the saints’ bones lay. It was made of beaten gold and was inset with gemstones of every conceivable colour; emeralds and sapphires, diamonds and rubies, agate, pearls and lapis lazuli. Such was the popularity of the shrine that the thousands of supplicants who had made their way to it over the more than two centuries since the archbishop’s murder, had already worn a path into the stone flags of the chapel in which the shire was housed, and gouged out hollows in the steps up to the dais on which the shrine was set. The chapel was set behind the high altar, and was a fitting resting place for England’s sainted martyr. The marble pillars were polished pale red and white, surely to remind pilgrims of the martyr’s blood spilled so sacrilegiously over 200 years ago. Becket was England’s saint, but his fame had spread far and wide, and he had been canonised in then record time by the Pope, such was the esteem in which he was held and the horror of the crime itself. Only St Francis had been canonised more speedily. Pierre thus knew all about Becket and what he stood for, and the lesson of the shadow cast over Henry II’s reign by the murder was certainly not lost upon the new king of England. He knew he would have to work with the church and not against it to be successful. King Pierre crossed himself and bowed low in reverence to the tomb, then he turned on his heel and marched out of the enormous Gothic pile that was Canterbury Cathedral.

The king’s next destination was the town house of the Earl of Kent who ruled here in the king’s name. Here he was greeted by the Earl, Edmund de Holand, who had nearly bankrupted himself in preparing for his new liege’s visit. He assured Pierre of his devotion and loyalty, and wished the king a long and happy reign. Pierre accepted these wishes as the platitudes they were, but on the whole, the man did not seem too bad, and if the rest of his new English vassals were as pliable then his baptism as king might not be a difficult one after all.

Leaving the county town the next day, Pierre headed for Maidstone, his last stop before London. From here he visited the impressive royal dockyards at Chatham, and for the first time, suddenly realised the vast difference between a duchy and a kingdom. Even a rich duchy like Flanders was simply no match for the resources and wealth at the disposal of the kingdom of England. Surely there were more vessels under construction here than there were in the entire Flemish fleet?

The king left Maidstone the next day and headed for London. He approached via Blackheath, the great open common space on the south eastern fringe of the city, and was greeted at London Bridge by the Lord Mayor, Sir Richard Whittington. He handed the keys of the city to Pierre, who, as he had done in Bruges, returned them to the Lord Mayor having symbolically accepted possession of his new capital. London was the largest and most famous city in Europe, and seeing it for the first time, Pierre could see why. He had never seen as many churches in such a small area. By far the grandest and with the highest steeple was the cathedral church of St Paul, dominating everything else from its lofty perch atop Ludgate Hill. Away to the east, just within the city wall, was Pierre’s destination, the infamous Tower of London. This, the most famous of all the Conqueror’s foundations was the seat of kings, the home of the Treasury and the Royal Mint, the location of the Royal Armoury and of the Royal Menagerie, and above all, Pierre’s principal residence when in the capital. Up river lay the palace of Westminster with its famous Hall, said to be one of the wonders of modern architecture with its lofty interior and splendid hammer beam roof. Further out, in the heavily wooded but beautiful rolling English countryside lay the huge castle at Windsor and other palaces at Sheen, Richmond, Eltham and elsewhere. Truly the king of England was a fortunate and a rich man.

Pierre’s first act as king was to appoint his royal steward. For this crucial post he chose a highly able lady called Emma Colville. She herself was of old English stock (hence her Christian name) but had married a minor knight of Norman descent (hence her surname).

His second act was something that he had determined upon in the very first days of his reign, when the news of his accession had started to sink in. He had quickly realised that his focus would have to upon England now, and that although he had only reigned for a short period as duke of Flanders, it would be unwise to rule the two lands together, even with the most able of stewards to help him. He had an ideal solution though. He had sent messages to all the vassals of the duke of Flanders when he had become king, firstly telling them the momentous news, and secondly bidding them to come to London for his eventual coronation. On the morning of 12 July, a special and highly welcome visitor was announced and shown into the royal presence within the king’s private chambers deep in the White Tower, the central keep of the sprawling fortress that was the Tower of London. Arnaud, Count of Nevers, approached the king, and knelt in homage before his great-nephew.

“Your Grace, greetings, and may God grant you a long happy and prosperous reign, my liege.”

“Arnaud, I thank you” (Pierre was still not used to speaking in the third person but on this occasion the lapse was a deliberate one) “It is good to see you uncle. I trust your journey was not too arduous or tiring for your old bones?”

“It was not, your Grace, thank you. I hastened here as soon as I heard your news. I am so proud of you, as would your father have been had he lived, God rest his soul.”

Pierre had pondered this conundrum a lot recently. Had Charles not been killed, he would still be Duke of Flanders yet Pierre would still be King of England. Exactly how would that have gone down with Charles he wondered, having to defer to his son after years of lording it over him?

The king had helped the older man to his feet and now they sat by the empty fireplace in the dark chamber, sharing a flagon of wine and spoke freely, man to man, and not king to subject. Eventually the king stood up, and as Arnaud made to follow suit, he eased the old man back into the comfortable chair and paced across to the small glass paned window (no expense spared here – all the Tower’s windows were fully glazed to keep out the usual foul English weather no doubt thought Pierre).

“Uncle. Until the time of your father, there was but one branch of the de Dampierre family. When your father married your mother, it was for dynastic reasons as he had but one young son to succeed him. In time his son did succeed him, and then in turn his son, my father, the great Charles. And now, the greatest prize of all has fallen into the lap of the senior line of the de Dampierres. But things could have worked out quite differently. Had my grandfather, duke Louis III not survived, you would have become duke of Flanders, and, who knows, one of your descendants could now be King of England had my mother married into your branch of the family. My inheritance demands my full-time presence here in England, and I need someone to look after Flanders for me. That will always be my homeland, and its importance to me and to my kingdom can never be under-estimated. I intend to give you the birth-right that could so easily have been yours – Arnaud, you are to be Duke of Flanders.”“You Grace; what can I say? Thank you, thank you. You honour me greatly with this bestowal. I shall, of course, rule wisely and justly, proud to be your vassal and liege man, knowing that you will always be my good lord.”

And with that the two men embraced.

 

[coz1]

The solution seems to have been found, and I am sure Pierre's uncle will be true to his word. Now perhaps it is time for Flanders and England to join forces against a mutual enemy and begin what will hopefully not be a hundred years war.

 

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CHAPTER 39 FAMILY MATTERS

King Pierre and Queen Sophie were crowned by the cardinal archbishop of Canterbury in Westminster Abbey on Michaelmas Day, 29 September 1402. As the ancient crown of St Edward was placed upon Pierre’s head, the assembled nobility and clergy of England shouted the customary acclamation “Vivat Rex!” The archbishop had already anointed him with the holy chrism, symbolic of his status as God’s anointed, invested him with the orb and sceptre, the symbols of his temporal authority, and with the acclamation, his investiture as king was complete.

The young royal family, small replicas of their parents’ magnificence, stood to one side under the watchful gaze of steward Emma. The 3 princesses were the eldest, Pierre’s daughters, Ide (b.1390) and Douce (b.1391) and their aunt, Pierre’s sister Marie (b.1390). Then there were the 2 princes, younger in age, but senior by blood of course, Alderic, Prince of Wales (b.1393) and young Yves (b.1398).

The assembled congregation gazed upon their alien royal family – it was neither the first time nor the last that the English would espouse foreign royalty – and pondered the future. The Plantagenets had ruled England for so long that it seemed strange to think of a new dynasty. Although Pierre was half-Plantagenet and thus had the blood of the great kings of the past, Henry II, Edward I, Edward III coursing through his veins, by the same token he also had the blood of Edward II, of John and Henry III, and fundamentally he was obviously a de Dampierre first and foremost by birth. He lacked the Plantagenet height, good looks and drooping eyelid, and his English was by no means fluent. That was not a problem, for although English was now the widely spoken vernacular language of the country, French was still the primary language of the court and of diplomacy, and Pierre spoke this as his native tongue of course (he also knew Flemish, German and Latin as befitted a prince of Flanders).

Thus began the reign of Pierre, King of England and Wales (he had added the latter title shortly before his coronation).


Throughout Pierre’s translation to England, life, and war, went on in Flanders. A battle was lost in Gent in November and Pierre mustered the 9000 strong Essex regiment and sent it overseas to Flanders to strengthen the depleted Flemish forces. On the Feast of St John the Evangelist, 27 December, the men of Essex defeated the forces of the Il Khanate in Gent and relieved their abortive siege.

Throughout 1403 and 1404 there was continual fighting in the various Flemish provinces, all inconclusive. Two other items of note in an otherwise uneventful period. By November 1403 it was obvious that Prince Alderic, or Derek as he now liked to be known, had inherited his grandfather Charles’s vengefulness. And in June 1404, typhoid fever broke out in Essex.

Pierre was a good self-publicist and soon initiated a propaganda project designed to impress his new subjects. By September 1405 this was bearing fruit and the king’s prestige rose (a bit). And then later that same month some success at last in the Flemish war. Marshal Louis captured Loon and was appointed its count. This left Pierre short of a talented marshal and he had to make do with one of his Flemish courtiers, Mathieu von Chalons.

However, in June 1406 a more suitable candidate presented himself. He was nothing if not a confident young man.

“Morning, your Grace”
“Er, good morning. Do we know you?”

“Nah, not yet. I’m Sir Manasses de St John, but you can call me Manny.”

“Manny? Well, Manny, who are you, what do you do and what do you want?”

“I’m a knight errant!” proclaimed the stranger proudly.

“A knight errant?” repeated the king “and what exactly is that?”

“Er, well, I’m not exactly sure, but there’s quite a few of us about. There’s even a fellowship of the noble order of Knights’ Errant. I seem to get sent about Europe quite a lot, often with a message for so and so, but I think that’s because people think I’m a knight errand.”

“And do you do anything else?” enquired the king.

“Yup. I’m the bizz when it comes to tournaments. Ladies love a knight errant so I made tournaments my business. All that swooning, and dainty little favours – I’m quite a performer with my lance, if you know what I mean!”

Pierre thought he probably did know what Manny meant, and he pondered momentarily on the attractive-sounding life of a knight errant.

“So you have an accomplished martial background and training?” said Pierre.

“I most certainly do, generalissimo. Tactics, strategy, weaponry, attack, defence – I’ve got the lot. I’ve read Vegetius, Sun Tzu, and the Penguin Guide to Modern Warfare more times than I’ve skewered a wench on my lance. If war’s your game, Manny’s the name.” And he bowed a deep, if overly theatrical bow, to the king.

“Well, Manny, we may have just the job for you…..” and the king took the young knight by the arm and led him off down the corridor. Pierre had found his new marshal. An unorthodox but brilliant individual to whom young Prince Yves took an immediate liking, and over time Manny doubled up the marshalcy with being mentor to the impressionable young prince.


Medieval England was a most lawless place. Most towns had areas that were real dens of iniquity, housing thieves and pickpockets, cutpurses and cutthroats. Travel was a hazardous business, especially through forested areas where outlaw bands preyed upon rich and poor alike. Although the king’s writ ran largely unchallenged throughout the kingdom, criminals knew they could get away with many things, and, sad to say, royal officials were not above involvement. Early in 1407 came news of corruption by customs officials at Dover who had embezzled 350 pieces of gold. Pierre had the sheriff of Kent chain the culprits to the harbour wall at low tide and left there for the sea to do its inevitable, terrible, murderous deed as the tide swept in. This was the fate often reserved for pirates and river thieves, and chained, decomposing bodies were a frequent site on the stretch of the Thames below London bridge.

Better news came in March when the French county of Labourd turned from its heretic ways and re-embraced the Frankish Catholic faith and tradition. Pierre’s battered piety was aided by the boost given by this conversion (although to say he had been fighting the Il Khanate for years he remained puzzled at the continuing hit to his piety – what more did the Pope expect?)
Pierre’s family was growing up. His daughters had completed their education and were now seen as the most eligible young women in the country. In December 1407, partly to bind his dynasty to the native English he ruled over, and partly to keep a close eye on the governance of corrupt Kent, Pierre married Princess Ide to Roger de Holland, Earl of Kent. Roger was the son of the old earl who had first greeted Pierre on his arrival in England 5 years past. His family had ruled Kent since the conqueror’s time, and despite their obvious Norman origins as betrayed in their name, the de Hollands were essentially as English as the next man genetically. The match also swelled the royal coffers by some 4000 pieces of gold which more than redressed the balance for the money stolen by the men of Kent previously.

In May 1408 the hard won county of Loon was lost to the Il Khanate. Maybe this was the last straw for the ageing Adelaide, dowager duchess of Flanders and King Mother, for later that month her physicians diagnosed depression. And then in September, Breda fell. Pierre knew that some drastic response was required and so he mobilised the forces of several vassals, including his son-in-law of Kent, and also the earls of York, Norfolk, Leicester, Surrey and several more – in short, all the cream of the English nobility. Such was Pierre’s grip on his new kingdom that not one demurred.

At the end of 1408, An English force relieved yet another siege of Gent before marching on into Brabant which was placed under its own siege.

Pierre had stayed at home and thus was able to be present to give his second daughter’s hand in marriage in person to her new husband. Princess Douce was as gentle as her name implied, and at the end of her education she had emerged as a charismatic negotiator. Her father loved her dearly, but was keen to retain her skills at his disposal. Luckily, a solution was at hand, for despite his apparently dissolute past, that former knight errant, Sir Manny had fallen in love with the beautiful princess, who in turn was enraptured with the dazzling young knight. A combination of his martial skills and her diplomatic ones might yield some talented grandchildren for the king. The couple were married in the small chapel of St Peter ad Vincula deep within the Tower of London.

Later that year, in the more sumptuous surroundings of Westminster Abbey, Derek, Prince of Wales was married to Phillippa, daughter of the Earl of Norfolk. She had outstanding diplomatic skills and wide child-bearing hips and the alliance would surely cement the relationship between the king and one of his mightiest and proudest subjects. King and queen both attended the ceremony, both of them privy to a most surprising secret, but one that time and nature would surely reveal to all in due course. The 36-year-old Queen Sophie was pregnant once again.

 

[coz1]

Watch out there - it's dnagerous to have a child so late. Sure would hate to lose Sophie like that. And that Manny sounds quite the sport. Some great lines there.

I must say, it's probably a lucky thing you have the might of England now to combat the Il Khanate. Much more numbers to work with than what would have been left of Flanders.

Still think war with France should come before we are all said and done. At least add the title - Pierre should be King of England, France and Wales don't you know.

 

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Hi everybody! Apologies for the lack of action but my PC crashed and I've only just got it working again. Unfortunately, this has lost my game, but don't worry, I've still got several years left to write up and I will have to fudge the ending somehow, so all you Flanders' devotees out there all is not lost.

Coz1, you seer! Some of the events that are still to unfold will interest you, but i swear that they had been played out long before your observations!

Amywhere, here at last is the next chapter in the delayed story of the Dukes of Flanders. I hope you enjoy it and once again sorry for the delay. RA.

CHAPTER 40 PEACE AT LAST

In May 1409 came news that Gent had fallen to the forces of the Il Khanate. Pierre’s English troops were still busy in Flanders fighting the infidel and later that summer they successfully relieved sieges in Yperen and Bruges and then at the beginning of October, they recaptured Gent for Duke Arnaud.

The Portugueuse ambassador had brought news of an attack on England’s ally by Castille, but Pierre, fully strecthed as he was in Flanders had to decline to assist – after all, what help had Portugal sent him during his lengthy war against the Il Khanate?


Pierre continued his policy of marrying his family into the English nobility when in September 1409 his sister Marie was married to Charles de Vere, son of the earl of Oxford. That same month, Prince Derek completed his education and was pronounced a scholarly theologian. His childhood now well and truly over, the prince was created Duke of Ulster by his father the king in October. His new duchy included the lands of Tir Connail and Tir Eoghain and the county of Ulaid that Pierre had brought to England as part of his Flemish inheritance.


Early on the morning of 1 November 1409, All Saints Day, the king was woken by his groom of the bedchamber with an urgent entreaty to attend the queen. She was in labour with her child, and had been all through the night. Pierre grabbed at a cloak and wrapped it around his shivering shoulders before padding down the stone corridor and up a flight of stairs to the queen’s apartments. Her maids curtseyed in deference to the king as he strode past them towards his wife’s bedchamber. He could hear her anguished groans and screams through the heavy oaken door. He lifted the latch and the great wooden door moved back easily on well-oiled hinges. The sight that greeted his eyes was not a pleasant one; his wife lay on the bed drenched in sweat and looking exhausted. Her maids and servants and midwives fussed around her, mopping her brow and offering water to cool her fever. She tolerated this attention between spasms, but as the latest contraction wracked her tired body, her temper shortened and more than once she sent a beaker and its contents flying from the hand of comfort. Pierre beckoned to the senior midwife and leaving her station by the queen’s side she bobbed low before the king.

“How fares the queen?” asked the king

“Your highness, she is very tired. The baby’s position is not good. I fear she will need much assistance and possibly surgery to deliver the infant. What is your Grace’s pleasure?”

The king went over to the bed and sat down beside his wife. He laid a hand on her fevered brow and bent low to ask her what he should do at just the time when the next contraction hit. Sophie’s obvious discomfort and growing tiredness made the decision for him.

“Do what you must to deliver the child. Whatever you do though, save my wife.”

The midwife bobbed again and hurried back to the bedside to prepare for an assisted delivery. Pierre saw the instruments of midwifery, the forceps, the knives, the scalpels and thought they must have been brought up from the torture chamber in the dungeons far below in the cold stone fortress. Knowing he could offer little practical assistance, he turned on his heel and left the birthing chamber to the womenfolk. He returned to his own chamber, summoned his grooms to help him dress, and then he broke his fast with some freshly baked bread, cheese and fruit, washed down with small beer. Breakfast over, he moved through into his withdrawing chamber and tried to concentrate on papers of state left there by the chancellor, but try as he might he could not concentrate and the words just floated before his eyes in a nonsensical jumble.

The hour glass had been turned 3 or 4 times, and more than half of the grains of fine sand had tumbled into the lower chamber on its latest turn when the door burst open to reveal his mother of all people.

“Pierre, you must come at once!” commanded Adelaide.

The king brushed his mother aside and rushed through the open door and out into the corridor en route for the queen’s bedchamber once more. As he approached, this time there was no groaning or screaming, neither adult nor infant. What did that bode? Once again he lifted the latch and entered the dimly lit room. His wife lay on the bed, stiller and calmer now, but looking ghostly white and with a tell-tale and spreading crimson tide staining the sheets that now covered her modesty. The king hastened to his wife’s side and seized her clammy hand. Fearing the worst he looked up into the midwife’s eyes looking for some signal of hope. None came.

“Your highness, your wife has lost a lot of blood, and continues to do so. She is very weak and tired, and unless we can stop the blood, she will die.” (the midwife was a Yorkshirewoman and believed in plain, straight speaking, even to kings).

Pierre had not noticed the shadowy figure of a priest standing in the gloom, but now he stepped forward and approached the king.

“My Lord, the queen, she should confess her sins. May I hear her last confession?”

The king stood absent-mindedly and the priest took his place beside the queen and began to shrive his royal charge. The queen’s voice was low and quiet and barely audible. After a short while the priest raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross over the queen whilst saying the words of absolution.

“Ego te absolve”

The king looked down upon his dead wife and wept.

“The baby, your Grace. What is to become of that?” asked the midwife when the king had composed himself somewhat.

The king followed the midwife’s outstretched arm and saw another nurse cradling an inert bundle.

“Sir priest, it appears that is also your department. What use have I for a dead baby?”

And with that the king departed.

 

[coz1]

Good to see you back, Rex. And a heart-wrenching episode. I knew that would not be good for Sophie. Tis a shame for the King. I hope it won't effect his ability to fight the horde.

 

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CHAPTER 41 MORE PEACE

Sophie and her stillborn daughter had been laid to rest together in Westminster Abbey. Muffled bells had tolled for several days after her death, news of which spread slowly throughout England. The king was alone. His children were grown up and married, his wife dead. He had no-one to turn to. Apart from his mother. She was still his chancellor too, and thus wearing her two hats she soon saw that Pierre needed to marry again both for his own sake and that of his kingdom.

She broached the subject with him gingerly at first, but getting no response she nonetheless started to look around Europe for a new queen. She had decided, sensibly, that it would not do for Pierre to marry an English subject so soon after his wife’s death, but a foreign princess or heiress with the promise of lands, well that was something entirely different.

Kunigunde von Rendsburg was the daughter of the ageing duke of Schleswig. She had a younger brother who was the sole heir to the duchy and its lands, and life was cheap. She worked on her son and eventually he agreed to receive a portrait of the young lady, which showed her to be not unattractive, but certainly no beauty (which probably meant she was as ugly as sin thought the king). He could, however, appreciate the potential inherent in the match, and the prospect of adding Schleswig to the kingdom of England was mightily attractive. He allowed negotiations to proceed, and thus it was that on 2 February 1410, Pierre, King of England and Wales, married his new queen, Kunigunde of Schleswig.

If a later queen of England was to achieve notoriety as the Mare of Flanders, then Kunigunde could have been known as the Donkey of Denmark. She fell short of being downright ugly, and had any one of her individual features adorned a face graced by other attractive aspects, their individual deficiencies would surely have been overlooked. As it was, the combination of so many unfortunate features was not a happy one. Her nose was overly large, as were her lips. Her chin was ever so slightly weak, and her hair not quite yellow enough to be called blonde, and yet not brown enough to be called auburn. Her cheek bones were not high, and her eyes were that shade of indeterminate green-brown, sometimes called hazel. In short, coming from a country famous throughout history and Christendom for producing some of the most ravishingly beautiful women on the planet, Kunigunde was in the debit column.

A 10th and a 15th granted by Pierre’s first parliament softened the blow, yielding as it did some 4250 gold to swell the royal coffers.

Despite his wife’s physical shortcomings, Pierre did his royal duty, and in early April it was announced that the queen was with child.

In June came news of the liberation of Breda, followed by what became known as the Lammastide Treaty, signed as it was on 1 August, ending the long war with the Il Khanate. The net effect of the long years of fighting was that Brabant and Breda were added to Pierre’s dominions.

In November, another member of the able Beck family, Charles, was appointed Bishop of Labourd. His liege lord, King Pierre, had now been king of England for over 8 and a half years. He was forgiving, merciful and an eminence grise. In addition he was well-loved by his people, and well-respected by his nobility and vassals. England was well-blessed with its first Flemish king.


On 15 December 1410, the Flemish dynasty’s future became that little bit more secure. Prince Derek’s first born son and heir was named Fedelmid. This was a name hitherto unheard of within England, where more traditional names such as Brooklyn, Romeo and Cruz were popular. Nonetheless, bells pealed from tower and steeple throughout the land to celebrate the birth of a healthy prince who would one day rule over England’s green and pleasant land.

Meanwhile, Queen Kunigunde had enjoyed an uneventful pregnancy, but when she went into labour on 29 December, the king prayed earnestly that this confinement would not end in tragedy as had the last one. Although the labour was long and arduous, the king’s prayers were answered for on 30 December 1410, the queen was delivered of a healthy baby daughter. Pierre had no hesitation in naming her Sophie after his dead wife (caring not a jot for any sensitivity that the queen might feel).


Thus the new year celebrations to welcome the year of grace 1411 were especially joyous. Pierre and his court celebrated in style in his palace of Westminster. The Great Hall was bedecked with greenery and festooned with ribbons that hung down in great silken cascades from the mighty hammer-beam roof. The floor was strewn with fresh pine and fir branches which yielded their clean resiny fragrance as they were trampled underfoot. The dais, whereon stood twin thrones for king and queen, and for the evening feasting the high table at which the great and the good of England dined, was carpeted with a fine Persian rug, a present from the Byzantine emperor on the occasion of Pierre’s accession. The hall was lit with the finest quality beeswax candles, infused with frankincense so that the whole hall was perfumed with the sickly-sweet smell of incense. Music was provided by the London City Waits and by boys from the nearby abbey choir, all of them novice monks, mostly second sons entrusted to the Order by anxious parents, or orphans dumped on the monks by relatives or civic authorities as the only viable alternative to a life of thieving or starvation. The music was mainly of a festive Christmas nature, it still being well within the 12 days of the great midwinter feast. Particular favourites this year were “Angelus ad virginem” and “Hodie Christus natus est”. The whole great occasion was presided over by the Lord of Misrule, who, dressed in a long green velvet robe, trimmed with the costliest ermine, moved throughout the hall ensuring that everyone joined in the games and antics, and for a time, distinctions between commoner and king, between servant and nobility were forgotten in the joyous, drunken revelry that marked the dawning of a New Year.

 

[Fall of Stars]

Great update, Rex, and a long time coming. I particularly like the stabsa at everyone's favourite Spice Girl, though they're certainly just a leetle bit anachronistic.

Curious, thought: shouldn't it be "caring not a jot for any sensitivity the Queen might feel"?

 

[coz1]

Ahh, excellent to find a new update here. And the time off has certainly not left you rusty. Excellent descriptions of the feast!

It appears that Pierre has overcome his hardships with peace, a new bride (however distressing she may be in looks) and a new child. Methinks something will come along to break up his seeming good fortune not too far off, as it always does.

 

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Fall of Stars, Thanks for your feedback. You were quite right about the sensitivity/insensitivity. I've edited the entry to correct - thanks for pointing it out. As you'll know if you've read the story from the beginning I'm not averse to a bit of anachronism if it adds some humour. If you've read any Julian Rathbone you'll see how well he uses it. Really glad you are following my tale and enjoying it. Although my PC crash brought an untimely end to the game I've still got plenty of notes left to write up so more instalments ahead.
Coz1, Thank you again to my most loyal reader. Pierre certainly does have some interesting times ahead. The next chapter will see him consolidate his power and prestige, but we all know what happens with absolute power, don't we......

 

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CHAPTER 42 AAH NO

Now that war with the Il Khanate was over, Pierre was anxious that the martial tendencies of his nobility should be harnessed in a positive manner, and that they be not left to their own devices, for who knew what outlet their warlike passions might seek.

Thus it was that on 24 January 1411, a small fleet of royal ships set out from the small port of Liverpool, bound for the north of Ireland. The force was drawn mainly from the home counties, the men of Bedford especially prominent. Arrived in Ulster, Pierre’s men consolidated, secured provisions and supply lines, all of this the necessary preamble and preparations for the declaration of war that came on St Cuthbert’s Day, 20 March. The victim was Ercc, duke of Leinster and Count of Laigin. Arnaud, duke of Flanders declared war too, as did the Isle of Man. In retaliation, Angus declared war on Flanders and Orkney on the Isle of Man. To square the circle, Pierre declared war on Orkney on 28 March. Thus were the whole of the British Isles brought to war in the spring of 1411. The outcome though was never in any serious doubt, with the English being the dominant and overwhelming force. Laigin was placed under siege, what limited local resistance there was being easily overcome by Pierre’s troops. Unusually, the queen had joined Pierre in the field, partly to show herself to the loyal Irish subjects, and the king had obviously been equally active in the bedchamber as on the battlefield for in May Kunigunde announced that she was once again with child.

In early June, Laigin fell, and a month later, Duke Ercc surrendered all claims to his Irish lands and fled to Verona. Pierre immediately declared himself Count of Laigin, and High King of all Ireland, holding as he now did the majority of Irish titles.

Pierre and Kunigunde stayed in Ireland and on Lammas Day 1411, they were crowned King and Queen of Ireland in front of the high altar of St Patrick’s cathedral Dublin.

Pierre the Spare was now King of England, Wales and Ireland, and his prestige rose accordingly.

The king returned home in triumph to London later in August, although an outbreak of the sweating sickness soon forced his court away to the cooler and less crowded environs of Sheen, upriver from the bustling metropolis. Another Beck was soon promoted to high office; Louis Beck became Bishop of Mzab and also Atlas Mountains. Offers of marriage started to flood in for the highly talented and attractive Margit Beck, but Pierre rejected all these out of hand, for he had earmarked this young lady for his youngest son Yves when he became of age.

Domestic matters beckoned, and in December 1411 Pierre approved the inception of a cheese dairy in Northumberland. The actual dairy was situated in the high, bleak moorlands where the border between Northumberland and York was never clear. Monks from Jervaulx Abbey in Yorkshire had long since made their creamy hard cheese and now further up the Dales, at the head of Wensleydale, a new creamery was founded in the small market town of Hawes, and before long the first Wensleydale and Swaledale ewe’s cheeses were being produced for the benefit of the local economy and palate. Consumed with the fine local ales, this wonderful product made even the humblest dalesman feel like a king.

Although war in Ireland had been concluded, the men of Angus had never made peace, and in February 1412 they astonished Pierre by invading Gent. They never had the manpower nor leadership to do any serious damage and after three months Pierre exacted a heavy price for peace, 3295 gold.

That same month, Kunigunde gave birth to another daughter, Marthe. The longed-for male heir who might one day inherit Schleswig remained elusive.

With the completion of the cheese dairy in Northumberland, Pierre approved the next stage in the development of his northern infrastructure by agreeing to the building of a War Academy (should that be ‘wor Academy!!? – apologies to non-UK readers for local pun).

In September, Derek’s second son, Conlae, was born – another not very Anglo-Saxon name muttered drinkers in taverns throughout the land as the news spread.

With the brief war in Flanders over, Pierre embarked upon a diplomatic onslaught of the Low Countries. Although the Bishop of Liege and the counts of Gelre and Holland declined to become Pierre’s vassals, Berthe of Hainault accepted, and the southern Flemish province was added to the kingdom of England.

In March 1413, Prince Yves’s formal education came to and end and he was pronounced a misguided warrior by his tutors. Pierre noted this and made a note to keep a close eye on his son; if ever he needed his support in battle he would have to make sure he could actually find the battlefield!

Later that year, in September to be precise, the queen discovered that she was once again pregnant.

Six months later, Prince Yves was married to Margit Beck. Pierre hoped that the able blood of the Beck’s would add ability and talent to the de Dampierre line (which in itself was reasonably able anyway).

The white peace that was concluded in April 1414 with Orkney was overshadowed by the death of the elder statesman of the House of de Dampierre. Arnaud, that great bundle of energy who had been such a staunch and loyal support of his nephew Charles the Great before being elevated to the duchy of Flanders by King Pierre, died peacefully in his sleep in the early hours of 4 April. He was 70 years old and had provided stability and continuity throughout the inexorable rise of the House of de Dampierre and he would be sorely missed. He was laid to rest in the family vault within Bruges Cathedral in a funeral ceremony not only attended by King Pierre, but in which the king read his personal eulogy and testimony to his great-uncle. This was just about the highest honour that could be afforded, and it was begrudged by none, for all had had the greatest respect for Arnaud and his lifetime’s achievements. Arnaud was succeeded as duke of Flanders by his eldest son Henri. Before he left Bruges, Pierre left a modest donation of 100 gold pieces to help Henri decide where his loyalties best lay.

In June, the queen gave birth to yet another daughter, this one named exotically, Peronnelle. Still no male heir for Schleswig! Despite this, or maybe in spite of it, Pierre pressed ahead with a plan that he and his mother Adelaide had had brewing for some years, ever since the king married Kunigunde in fact.

 

[coz1]

A profitable war with Ireland, some Wensleydale cheese (which of course always makes me think of Michael Palin) and the sad passing of the aged Arnaud. Quite eventful and it sounds as if you have more excitement cooked up. Excellent!

 

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CHAPTER 43 THE SLEEPER

Ulf Mortensen was an ordinary Danish bloke. He was a baker and plied his trade in the schleepy Schleswig countryside, making an honest living selling his wares in markets and from his home. He was married (to Ute) and had six young Ulfsons who were his pride and joy. He was easy going and very popular in all the small townships he travelled through selling his bread and cakes and pies and pastries. Ulf, however, had a secret. In his youth he had been a sailor, and a regular route was from the Danish peninsula to London, the busiest and wealthiest port in western Europe. On one trip, he had had too much to drink and had become embroiled in a fight in one of the many taverns that lay along London’s seamy riverside. It was a fair fight, but nevertheless, his adversary was killed, and being a foreigner, the crowd soon turned on Ulf and his own life was imperilled. He was rescued by a couple of burly soldiers wearing the royal livery who saved him by placing him under arrest and taking him into their custody. Shortly, Ulf found himself floundering in a small cell somewhere in the bowels of the Tower of London. Fearing the worst, and being a God-fearing man, Ulf had started to make his peace with God and to pray for his soul. He had fallen short of praying for his very life, but it seemed that God had not done with Ulf Mortensen yet. One day, the heavy door of his prison was opened as usual, but instead of carrying the expected tray of stale bread and near-undrinkable water, the warder was empty-handed. He strode over to Ulf and unlocked his manacles. Ulf winced as his legs took his full weight properly for the first time in weeks. The warder also brought fresh clothes, for Ulf was filthy and soiled from his confinement. A bucket of cold water was thrown over him, as if this would cleanse away the stench that had attached itself to the Dane during his captivity.

Ulf was marched out of his cell and forced up a steep flight of stone circular steps and into the comparatively bright light of a medium-sized stone chamber – presumably a guardhouse of some sort. At a desk covered with a cloth of rich crimson damask sat an elderly lady with steel grey hair. Her demeanour, and Ulf’s captivity defined the nature of their relationship. The king’s mother beckoned Ulf forward and motioned him to be seated on the crude wooden stool that stood before the desk. Adelaide herself sat in a wide comfortable chair with plump cushions.

“I am Adelaide Plantagenet, daughter and mother of kings, and Chancellor of England. You are Ulf Mortensen, sailor, a nobody from Denmark. You stink, you are a felon, you are a foreigner here, and yet….and yet, you can be of great service to us. I give you a simple choice. You can either be hanged by the neck until dead and your body left as carrion for the many ravens and crows that abound here, or you can enter my service and become an agent of the crown of England.”

And so it was that Ulf became an agent of the court of St James.

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The years passed and Ulf the sailor became Ulf the baker and Ulf the family man, and he almost forgot that his life remained forfeit to the crown of England until one day in the summer of 1413 when an unknown traveller presented himself at Ulf’s shopfront. Initially posing as a simple traveller, the stranger bought a loaf and asked for a drink of water. As Ulf handed it over, the stranger grabbed the baker’s wrist and pressed the tip of an Italian stiletto into the startled tradesman’s ribs.

“Baker, we have pressing business. Shut your stall and let us go somewhere quiet for a chat.”

The two men walked into the open countryside, free of prying ears and the stranger revealed the terrible nature of his mission to the horrified baker.

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The hunting party was in high spirits as it moved through the light woodlands of southern Denmark. Deer was abundant here, and if wild boar were now seen increasingly rarely outside of the denser woodlands of northern Germany and the Low Countries, there was always the hope that one of the ferocious beasts might appear. The clean and sweet-smelling air was filled with the sound of birdsong, the cooing of turtle doves and the hammering of woodpeckers clearly audible above the gentle background chirruping of the woodland birds. The happy voices of the hunters added to the soundtrack, as did the jangling of the jesses attached to the feet of the kestrels and goshawks that sat proudly on the mailed fists of their handlers from the mews.

The group emerged from one copse, and their broad track led gently downhill across an open pasture towards a gentle stream babbling contentedly to itself in the warm summer sunshine before equally gently ascending the other side towards a more dense stretch of woodland, perhaps this one with the promise of an elusive boar. At the head of the party rode a teenage boy, and as they exited the wood, he turned to one of the birdhandlers and motioned for him to remove the hood from the head of his hawk and to pass it over to the boy’s leather gauntleted hand. As the riders neared the stream, the boy stood in his stirrups, raised his right arm, and launched the beautiful bird of prey into the clear blue sky.

The crossbow bolt caught the boy squarely in the throat, the force of the impact throwing him back out of the saddle and along his horse’s back, which, startled by this unexpected movement from its rider, bolted over the stream, throwing its dying rider into the clear water of the stream. The shock of this act of violence stunned the rest of the hunters, and by the time they had realised the full import of the assassination they had just witnessed, and hastened to the side of the stricken boy, the waters of the stream were already running red with the spent life blood of Theodor von Rendsburg, heir to the duchy of Schleswig.

Within the wood, Ulf Mortensen scrambled down from the large oak tree from whence he had launched his murderous missile. In his haste he scraped his shins down the gnarled bark of the old tree, and snagged his tunic momentarily on the bottom-most branch, but neither mishap registered through the adrenaline surge that was forcing his body to escape from this dreadful place. Turning once to see if there were any sign of pursuit – there wasn’t – he ran blindly into the heart of the small wood, towards the clearing where he had tethered his horse. As he ran he prayed for forgiveness for the terrible act he had committed, but what option did he have? Surely God would understand? The Englishman had promised Ulf that unless he co-operated and did as he was bidden to repay the debt laid upon him by the English crown 11 years ago, then his children would all die in settlement of the debt. Ulf had known immediately that he had no choice in the matter. And the English had chosen their man wisely for like many Danes, Ulf was an expert with the crossbow, using it regularly to provide rabbits and small deer to supplement the meagre diet of his growing family. Never before though had his prey been human.

By the time he reached the clearing, his breath was coming in more measured gasps, and he was relieved to see his horse still tethered where he had left it, happily chewing away at the lush woodland grasses under its feet. Ulf approached the horse and patted it on the neck, reaching across to unhook the reins as he did so. A second figure had entered the clearing, silently, and as Ulf was ministering to his horse, the hooded man slipped the point of an Italian stiletto through the baker’s ribcage and into his heart. The Englishman wiped the blood from his dagger on a clump of grass, and as mysteriously as he had appeared, vanished from the woodland clearing.

 

[coz1]

Very well done! This story of Ulf was a wonderful way to present an assassination attempt. I just hope it does not come back to haunt the King.

 

[stnylan]

Just a note to say that I've started to read this again, just catching up and remembering everything that was going on.

 

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Just a note to say that I've started to read this again, just catching up and remembering everything that was going on.

Good to have you back. Hope developments meet with your approval.
Coz1, First of all Happy Birthday for yesterday; sorry I missed the actual day. And glad you liked Ulf's story. This was one of my favourite chapters. And the next one I think is pretty good too. Just polishing it up and hope to upload next week.

 

[stnylan]

Well I've now caught up and I'm very impressed. Nice way to do an assassination, and it's good to know that Wallace and Gromit will not longer have to go to the moon to get their cheese.

 

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Stnylan, Thanks for the positive feedback. Wensleydale always puts me more in mind of the famous Monty Python sketch rather than Wallace & Gromit. Either way it's lovely cheese!!

CHAPTER 44 REVENGE AND RETRIBUTION

Several weeks later, Alderic de Dampierre, Duke of Ulster and heir to the kingdom of England was due to inspect a newly commissioned cog that floated ponderously within the harbour of the small town of Belfast. The harbour was busy that day, ships from England and Scotland were drawn up at one quay, whilst those from France and Scandinavia, subject to different customs dues, were drawn up at another. Amongst the latter group was the Odin, out of Copenhagen.

The quayside was alive with people – sailors, traders, thieves, townspeople out enjoying the still warm summer sunshine, and eager to glimpse a sight of their duke and future king.

Although the murder of Ulf had been intended to remove any link to the English crown with the death of the heir to Schleswig, it was not difficult to work out who might benefit from Theodor’s untimely death, and enquiries amongst Ulf’s associates revealed his connections with a mysterious stranger, believed to be an Englishman. And so two and two were put together within the duchy of Schleswig and the Odin set out on its latest voyage to Belfast.

The captain was an enormous barrel-chested six-footer, proud of his descent from the Vikings of old. His normal cargo was livestock – Danish pigs were famed throughout Europe for their bacon - and beer, probably the best lager in the world…. However, Svein Eriksson welcomed the additional cash that came from the ducal coffers whenever he was asked to carry additional human cargo, and his ship had been specially fitted with secret compartments to allow diplomatic and other missions to arrive undetected in foreign ports. Thus he had asked no questions when on his latest voyage, from Copenhagen to Leith to Belfast to Bristol to Dinan to Calais to Zeebrugge and back to Copenhagen, he had been asked to accommodate two travellers, posing as merchants, but more than likely in the secret service of the duke of Schleswig. Gabriel Prince and Oswald Harvey had mingled freely with the crew on the first leg of the voyage to Leith, and at that Scottish port they had disembarked and masqueraded as the merchants they were not, to gain credibility with the crew and some tangible evidence of their pretence that might just help to save them if their mission ended in capture or worse. Such freedom was to be expected in the kingdom of Scotland, but as the Odin neared Irish waters, where the king of England’s writ ran, the two men were secreted for the arrival into Belfast, Danish vessels being under particular scrutiny with a Danish queen on the throne. Svein piloted his vessel effortlessly into the familiar harbour, and waved a greeting towards the burly, bearded harbour-master who recognised the Danish captain from his many visits to his port. Prince and Harvey remained concealed during the perfunctory examination of the manifest and the vessel by the Irish customs officials, and indeed they remained so for a further two days after the Odin had berthed.

On the third day they were awake very early, and stole off the Odin and onto the quiet quayside in the wee small hours before dawn. They were aided by a sea fret that had crept in and covered the whole harbour in a clammy blanket. Hours later, all traces of the fog had been blasted away by the heat of the late summer sun that blazed down from a cobalt blue sky, as Prince and Harvey mingled with the crowds pressing about the quayside awaiting the arrival of Duke Derek.
If anyone wondered at the thick cloak and hood that Harvey wore despite the heat of the day, no-one did anything about it. He was just one more body in the growing press that thronged the quayside.

A shout went up as the ducal party trotted onto the quayside and the crowd surged and shifted to get a better look at the young duke. Amidst the upheaval, no-one noticed as Harvey shed his outer garments to reveal the grey garb, clappers and bells of a leper. As the duke made his way, now on foot, towards the new cog, aptly named Duke of Ulster, Harvey made his way to the front of the crowd and proclaimed in his loudest voice.

“Alms for a leper! Give alms!” and he rang his bell and clapped his clappers.

Mild panic ensued amongst the crowd, which pressed in closely upon the duke and his retainers. Such was the throng that they were unable to draw their swords, and they were helpless to prevent the crowd from reaching Derek and from reaching out to touch him. Amidst the chaos it was but a simple matter for Prince to force his way towards the duke, and to slip the blade of his dagger into the duke’s unprotected back. Prince had withdrawn hastily before the duke had slumped to the ground, groaning and gasping for breath. As soon as the onlookers realised what had happened, several of them started to scream, whilst instinctively they pulled back from the dying duke, at least freeing his (failed) bodyguard to draw their weapons. This sudden movement trapped Harvey even before he could divest himself of his leper’s garb, and realising that the whole incident had been triggered by the leper’s sudden appearance, the soldiers quickly seized hold of the man who must surely have been involved in the assassination attempt.

The duke was lifted on to the main deck of the Duke of Ulster, and there, on the vessel that bore his name, and which he was to commission that very day, he breathed his last. Alderic de Dampierre, duke of Ulster and heir to the kingdom of England had been assassinated in cold blood in the middle of his people, and in broad daylight.

As realisation dawned, the crowd started to flee off the quayside and back towards the town. Fresh soldiers had somehow been summoned and they blocked the many exits, questioning and manhandling those who looked the most shifty. Prince made one fatal mistake. Instead of heading towards the town, he headed back towards the Odin. As he did so, one of the customs officials asked to see his papers, and having none, the assassin drew his dagger once again and lunged towards the hapless harbourman. Actually, not so hapless, for like many customs officials he was an ex-soldier, and his years of training came to his rescue. Stepping backwards out of range, he suddenly swept forward and caught the off-balance Prince by surprise. He was amazed at the strength of the grip that was exerted upon his wrist, and the dagger quickly clattered on to the cobbles, the cue for the customs man to change his grip suddenly and twist the assassin’s arm up and behind his back, so swiftly and mercilessly that Prince cried out in pain.

Harvey and Prince were arraigned before the king’s bench in Belfast guildhall. Under torture, both men had confessed their guilt, explaining how their master, the king’s father-in-law, blamed Pierre for the death of his son Theodor, and that he had therefore determined to repay the king in kind. The trial lasted but two short days, and both men were convicted of treason (interesting given that neither were English subjects of King Pierre) and spying and of course murder. Their inevitable sentence was to be dragged on a hurdle from the place of their imprisonment, hanged by the neck, and then to have their bellies slit open whilst they yet lived, their genitals cut off and burned before their eyes, and their bodies cut into four quarters and dispersed throughout the realm.

Svein Eriksson was acquitted of any direct involvement in the plot, but the Odin was seized and declared forfeit to the crown, and he was sentenced to forty days’ imprisonment following which he was pressed into service of the king’s navy, initially below decks but eventually rising to captain his own ship once again.

The death sentence was carried out in London on St Matthew’s Day 1414. The prisoners had been taken to London from Belfast and imprisoned in the Marshalsea gaol. From there they had been dragged through the streets of London and out to Tyburn Hill, where the Marble Arch stands today at the entrance to Hyde Park. Here, in front of the huge crowd that had gathered, the two were strung up side by side and left to gyrate slowly and painfully in the equinoctial breeze and light rain. A priest read the last rites over them (curious how amidst the barbarities of medieval execution, the niceties of religion still had their place) before the hangman approached Harvey with his heated instruments and made the first, awful incision in the man’s unprotected body. As he drew the blade downwards from the chest bone through the belly button and down through the abdomen, Harvey’s screams could have awoken the dead he was so agonisingly close to joining. His intestines spilled out, a writhing mass of blue-grey-red, convulsing with the life force that was so nearly spent. His hands were tied behind his back so he was powerless to make even the token gesture to force them back. Quickly, whilst he was still conscious, the executioner produced a small dagger with which he promptly sliced off Harvey’s genitals, taunted the dying man with them, before throwing them onto a brazier where they sizzled and burnt. Luckily for Harvey, he was now dead; the shock and loss of blood being too much for his shattered constitution. All the while, Prince gyrated at the end of his rope, whimpering and petrified at the fate he knew awaited him. This extra punishment reserved for he who had struck the fatal blow that had killed Alderic de Dampierre.

 

[coz1]

See, I knew that was going to come back and bite. Interesting that Jacque de Rubee did not intervene and take out Harvey before he was able to tell of the plot. Well told, nonetheless.