January 1068-November 1068. Marriages and consolidation (Or, When you're in luck, don't leave the table).
January 5th. My wife-to-be is finally of age. I had the Borg send my spontaneous, sincere, heart-felt marriage proposal a couple of weeks in advance, to be sure we're first in line. She's also done a great job writing it in the first place.
You think I'm after her money, do you. Well, what would you do? I'm running a hemmed-in kingdom with a single province to call my own. Her dad has four provinces and runs three times as many vassals as I do. Naturally I'm interested. It's not the money. It's the safety.
January 23rd. Isn't it wonderful? The Duke's accepted! I receive the bride and pocket the (scanty) 45 coins of marriage duty.
Now I only need to beat the Mallorcans off, beget her a son, raise him, and wait for the old bugger to drop dead. Easy as pie. That should get Navarra off the hook of the Jimenez Stakes for good.
Well, I ask you. It's a good plan, isn't it?
By the way, here's a pic of her. Isn't she cute? And that's good, too, because The Borg is definitely Off. She's even pregnant. Makes one wonder about the Royal Prerogative.
February 19th. The Mallorcans arrived in Navarra, and they reached the capital. The day will be remembered for centuries, I believe.
The garrison had been called to arms and equipped, and I had returned with my personal guards (plus the three men-at-arms that Agnes had brought with her). We were expecting the invasion, but we were still quite few. So when the moorish troops appeared before the city on the previous day, it was hard to keep the optimism going.
The suspense didn't last long. The moorish general launched an assault against the West gates just before the break of day. The garrison was piling in and hardly keeping up the fight when the moors pulled a second, unexpected attack on the South ramparts. The reserve soldiers couldn't arrive in time, and the moors got into the city streets. But the populace took their own measures. They gathered every cow and bull in the city (it being market day, there were a few) and turned them loose at the moors.
Narrow streets, barricaded doors, a stream of horned beasts bearing down on them. It worked.
You never saw such running. And quite scenic it was too, with their white moorish robes. Tripping over each other, and falling, and being trampled, and all. White and red. Very scenic indeed. I was watching from the Palace balconies and enjoyed it so hugely that I had to go down and run after the bulls to see how it ended. The moors thought I was driving the bulls in person, apparently, and it's done a lot for my prestige.
What a thrill. And afterwards there was just the most stupendous spontaneous festival you can imagine. People just kept partying for days and nobody asked me to pay anything.
We should do it oftener. But then, how do you convince foreigners to come visiting and be run over by bulls? I'll turn the idea over to The Borg and see what she comes up with. She's good at "cultural things".
February 25th. I marry another cousin off to one of the senior officers of my new vassal. I really need to make this work. Don't worry, she's Mayor, not one of the Urracas. I ran out of them a while ago. I think.
March 27th. Agnes has told me she's pregnant! Must have been that crazy bull-running day and the celebrations... or maybe she's starting to appreciate me. I mean, I know I'm a dear with a manly, magnetic character and a great Royal Prerogative, but until now nobody seemed to have told her.
And that's helping her make friends in the court, too. Although she's started with one of our resident frenchies, she soon picks it up with other expatriates. All in all, she's becoming a brighter presence in the court.
May 3rd. The bull-runners must have arrived at Mallorca, because the emir just accepted my peace proposal. No mention of sending us back the bulls, though.
May 11th. Now I'm sure these foreigners are crazy. The Emir just went and asked me to become allies. Well, why not?
What could go wrong? For me, I mean. And besides, it's sad to say... but they're the first offer that I get.
May 28th. I'm so happy with this new-found sense of security and fruitful manhood that I send vassalization offers to every duke in sight.
Everyone refuses.
Pricks.
To vent it off, I take advantage of the fact that my new Muslim vassals have finally disbanded their armies to raise them again... and blast poor Albarracín, which just happens to be sitting in the middle of my lands. My brand-new ally does not offer to help.
June 14th. No rest for the war-weary. I get an offer for a substitute regiment of mercenaries (the last one was pretty well scrubbed off) and a proposal to erradicate my poor bastard. I tell my dear spymistress to leave junior alone. Or at least, to wait until we have a replacement.
July 1st. The Borg is showing stress symptoms. Must be the lack of my assiduous attentions, now lavished on dear Agnes, the Bearer of Hope for Navarra.
July 6th. Albarracín's army is beaten: we kill some 600 out of their 700 soldiers. Soon my armies will swarm upon its walls and make it join the happy kingdom of Navarra, allowing me to visit the seashore without the hassle of crossing borders.
November 9th. Yes, November. Five months. Five frigging months. Less than one hundred soldiers held us out for five months. I ask you, what kind of weak-kneed, jelly-spined, yellow-streaked cowardly infidels are these Albarracinans? Or conversely, what kind of brave, world-beating, Jimenez-cousin-bashing army am I building?
It's not an irrelevant question. I embrace the Emir of Albarracin and give him back his sword (while keeping the keys to the city keep, of course: however it started, a new vassal is a new vassal). The seven remaining soldiers in his regiment look as proud as if they'd conquered us, and with reason. I think they could.
It preys on my mind for days. I can't rest easy if my army is as soft as it's looking. If those Castilian armies come calling... or, say, the Emirate of Toledo were to bang at the door... I pace the Palace gardens, debating with myself and kicking at stray stones.
"The Emirate is at war with another neighbour right now", says Laura, my spymistress, interrupting my meditation and guessing at what's eating me. It's probably due to my habit of thinking aloud, but then it could be mind-reading. She's that sharp. "They won't be banging the door anytime soon".
Can't show that I'm surprised, so I take her interruption in my stride. "Yeah, but imagine they lose. The moors consolidate, and then we're really screwed up", I say.
"There's only one way out of that", says García the marshall, popping out from behind a rose bush. "Preemptive strike".
"Preventative what?"
Granny hobbles out from behind a garden statue. "Preemptive strike, dumbbell. It's like when you kick the opponent in the nadgers before the referee says go, and suddenly you've won the tournament."
I wince. But it's sound advice... or not? I mean, what could possibly go wrong if I attack the largest muslim state in the rear with a frazzled, mixed, war-weary army? I do have the Albarracinans on my side, don't I?
January 5th. My wife-to-be is finally of age. I had the Borg send my spontaneous, sincere, heart-felt marriage proposal a couple of weeks in advance, to be sure we're first in line. She's also done a great job writing it in the first place.
You think I'm after her money, do you. Well, what would you do? I'm running a hemmed-in kingdom with a single province to call my own. Her dad has four provinces and runs three times as many vassals as I do. Naturally I'm interested. It's not the money. It's the safety.
January 23rd. Isn't it wonderful? The Duke's accepted! I receive the bride and pocket the (scanty) 45 coins of marriage duty.
Now I only need to beat the Mallorcans off, beget her a son, raise him, and wait for the old bugger to drop dead. Easy as pie. That should get Navarra off the hook of the Jimenez Stakes for good.
Well, I ask you. It's a good plan, isn't it?
By the way, here's a pic of her. Isn't she cute? And that's good, too, because The Borg is definitely Off. She's even pregnant. Makes one wonder about the Royal Prerogative.
February 19th. The Mallorcans arrived in Navarra, and they reached the capital. The day will be remembered for centuries, I believe.
The garrison had been called to arms and equipped, and I had returned with my personal guards (plus the three men-at-arms that Agnes had brought with her). We were expecting the invasion, but we were still quite few. So when the moorish troops appeared before the city on the previous day, it was hard to keep the optimism going.
The suspense didn't last long. The moorish general launched an assault against the West gates just before the break of day. The garrison was piling in and hardly keeping up the fight when the moors pulled a second, unexpected attack on the South ramparts. The reserve soldiers couldn't arrive in time, and the moors got into the city streets. But the populace took their own measures. They gathered every cow and bull in the city (it being market day, there were a few) and turned them loose at the moors.
Narrow streets, barricaded doors, a stream of horned beasts bearing down on them. It worked.
You never saw such running. And quite scenic it was too, with their white moorish robes. Tripping over each other, and falling, and being trampled, and all. White and red. Very scenic indeed. I was watching from the Palace balconies and enjoyed it so hugely that I had to go down and run after the bulls to see how it ended. The moors thought I was driving the bulls in person, apparently, and it's done a lot for my prestige.
What a thrill. And afterwards there was just the most stupendous spontaneous festival you can imagine. People just kept partying for days and nobody asked me to pay anything.
We should do it oftener. But then, how do you convince foreigners to come visiting and be run over by bulls? I'll turn the idea over to The Borg and see what she comes up with. She's good at "cultural things".
February 25th. I marry another cousin off to one of the senior officers of my new vassal. I really need to make this work. Don't worry, she's Mayor, not one of the Urracas. I ran out of them a while ago. I think.
March 27th. Agnes has told me she's pregnant! Must have been that crazy bull-running day and the celebrations... or maybe she's starting to appreciate me. I mean, I know I'm a dear with a manly, magnetic character and a great Royal Prerogative, but until now nobody seemed to have told her.
And that's helping her make friends in the court, too. Although she's started with one of our resident frenchies, she soon picks it up with other expatriates. All in all, she's becoming a brighter presence in the court.
May 3rd. The bull-runners must have arrived at Mallorca, because the emir just accepted my peace proposal. No mention of sending us back the bulls, though.
May 11th. Now I'm sure these foreigners are crazy. The Emir just went and asked me to become allies. Well, why not?
What could go wrong? For me, I mean. And besides, it's sad to say... but they're the first offer that I get.
May 28th. I'm so happy with this new-found sense of security and fruitful manhood that I send vassalization offers to every duke in sight.
Everyone refuses.
Pricks.
To vent it off, I take advantage of the fact that my new Muslim vassals have finally disbanded their armies to raise them again... and blast poor Albarracín, which just happens to be sitting in the middle of my lands. My brand-new ally does not offer to help.
June 14th. No rest for the war-weary. I get an offer for a substitute regiment of mercenaries (the last one was pretty well scrubbed off) and a proposal to erradicate my poor bastard. I tell my dear spymistress to leave junior alone. Or at least, to wait until we have a replacement.
July 1st. The Borg is showing stress symptoms. Must be the lack of my assiduous attentions, now lavished on dear Agnes, the Bearer of Hope for Navarra.
July 6th. Albarracín's army is beaten: we kill some 600 out of their 700 soldiers. Soon my armies will swarm upon its walls and make it join the happy kingdom of Navarra, allowing me to visit the seashore without the hassle of crossing borders.
November 9th. Yes, November. Five months. Five frigging months. Less than one hundred soldiers held us out for five months. I ask you, what kind of weak-kneed, jelly-spined, yellow-streaked cowardly infidels are these Albarracinans? Or conversely, what kind of brave, world-beating, Jimenez-cousin-bashing army am I building?
It's not an irrelevant question. I embrace the Emir of Albarracin and give him back his sword (while keeping the keys to the city keep, of course: however it started, a new vassal is a new vassal). The seven remaining soldiers in his regiment look as proud as if they'd conquered us, and with reason. I think they could.
It preys on my mind for days. I can't rest easy if my army is as soft as it's looking. If those Castilian armies come calling... or, say, the Emirate of Toledo were to bang at the door... I pace the Palace gardens, debating with myself and kicking at stray stones.
"The Emirate is at war with another neighbour right now", says Laura, my spymistress, interrupting my meditation and guessing at what's eating me. It's probably due to my habit of thinking aloud, but then it could be mind-reading. She's that sharp. "They won't be banging the door anytime soon".
Can't show that I'm surprised, so I take her interruption in my stride. "Yeah, but imagine they lose. The moors consolidate, and then we're really screwed up", I say.
"There's only one way out of that", says García the marshall, popping out from behind a rose bush. "Preemptive strike".
"Preventative what?"
Granny hobbles out from behind a garden statue. "Preemptive strike, dumbbell. It's like when you kick the opponent in the nadgers before the referee says go, and suddenly you've won the tournament."
I wince. But it's sound advice... or not? I mean, what could possibly go wrong if I attack the largest muslim state in the rear with a frazzled, mixed, war-weary army? I do have the Albarracinans on my side, don't I?
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Enjoyable read, full of loony allusions.
