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The Eagle of Destiny - The One Hundred Year War

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Durand

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Prologue
1336, August 27th​


Sir Walter Tickhill was not an important man. In fact, he was barely more than a hedge knight and he was of low birth. For the past 21 years of his life he had been little more than a guard to the Bishop of Winchester. That had changed not a fortnight past, when he had been given a task of utmost importance.

He had not slept longer than a few hours these past days, and when he did it was in his saddle, trusting his horse to follow the path. By now he could not have been more than a day’s ride from his destination and still he rode. Since that night in the Bois de Vincennes, he had ridden two horses into the ground and slept little. And by now he was exhausted, yet through all this he rode not for his task granted to him, but for his king. Ignoring his saddle sores and fitful coughing, Walter flew across the downtrodden road to Northampton, remembering the night that started it all.

It had been a warm summer night when the Bishops of Durnham and Winchester met with King Philippe. Walter’s purpose there was to serve as an escort for the bishops, as disturbing rumors had floated that the French were massing their fleets and armies. Whether it was true or not was not the purpose of the visit, though it might as well had been. Even more disturbing rumors recently came up that the Scots had been visiting the king in Lyons. The bishops’ were sent to discern the purpose of the visits; and to ensure Philippe’s loyalty to Edward.

It had not gone well from the start. The meeting room was chilled, but that was not unusual in the palace in the Bois de Vincennes. What was unusual was that the fireplace had not been lit. Shadows flicked across the room from its only source of light, a small burning torch. The King Philippe was sitting in the room’s only chair, a sturdy wooden thing that looked too small for his size. To his side were two guards, donned in the raiment of the Capetian Dynasty and with longswords at their side. The bishops were courteous enough, and though Philippe’s demeanor was as cold as the room, they were making some progress.

Walter didn’t hear what the Bishops said that started it, but suddenly the Iron king jerked up, his chair kicked out from under him, and he started shouting. Cursing Edward and the crown, he raged about things that, to Walter, made no sense. Gripping the pommel of his sword, he watched the guards with a wary eye. He could take one, depending, but not two. Thankfully it had not to arms, for just as sudden as the outburst started it ended and the meeting was over.

Later that night, just after the moon began its descent in the sky, John Blankley, the Bishop of Winchester, visited him. He whispered of urgencies that late night, and giving Walter the message that he was now delivering to the Royal Council. That King Philippe the fortunate, sixth of his name, had declared full support for the Scots and would soon mount his army. Word had to reach King Edward that the kingdom was in peril. The armies of France were marching, its fleet sailing, and England was stuck facing enemies on two sides. With no one else available, Walter was chosen to deliver the message. He stole away that night, riding for the next day and a half before catching a boat across the Channel. It mattered not what happened to him, so long as word got out.
 
Introduction

The year is 1337 and England is at war. ​

To the north lie the Scots where Edward III fights a war to little gain. To the south Philippe the Fortunate, King of France, has thrown his support for the Scots and now looks towards Gascony with a hungry eye. The Pope has declared neutrality and the Lowlands are becoming restless due to the English embargo on wool and leather. England has little friends, and rumors are spreading throughout the kingdom that Englishmen in France are being slaughtered. In quiet whisperings in the castles along England, lords speak of great Scotish and French armies marching down on them, and more than a few have questioned Edward’s ability to rule. Edward’s brother, John of Eltham, recently stricken dead, is buried in Westminster Abbey. Times are dark, and as winter descends King Edward III finds little relief in these trying times.

But not all is lost. In this time of darkness King Edward finds friends in unlikely places. In Bordeaux, Bernard Aiz d’Albret, a man as devout as he is ruthless, stays true in his loyalty, rejecting King Philippe’s offers. King Edward’s Master of Arms, Baron Sir John Darcy De Knayth, one of the finest knights in Europe, pledges his sword and his life for his crown king. Henry of Grosmont, son to the rebellious Henry of Lancaster, and Earl of Derby, seeks to restore his family’s honor. And Robert d’Artois, once advisor to King Philippe and now exiled from France, throws his support for Edward and enters his council.

King Edward III and King Philippe VI once sought an alliance together, but no longer. Now they fight on the set crafted by their fathers. Fate deemed that they would meet on battle, these two, and so who are they to go against destiny? There will be blood, there will be destruction, and by the time this tale is over there will be no true victor, but there will be peace. For who? Well, that is for us to find out.
 
Great start! if you keep this level up this will be one of the great AAR's. Wonderful job!
 
Chapter I.A
1337, Jan. 7, London

The bells struck in mourning on that cold January day.​


Over two thousand were present at Westminster Abbey for the funeral, including three lords and seven score knights. It was not every day that a king’s brother was put in the ground. Later that day many would remark how the King had seemed quiet and distant, as if there was a great weight resting on his shoulders, but who were they to know the thoughts of kings?

Edward had sat through the procession deep in thought. There was no time to mourn, even little for remembrance; in fact he had fought to even attend, his council citing more important things for him to do. For war had begun and along the coast villages burned and men fought and died. In truth, it was little importance to the realm for him to stand by this brazier, watching as men dug his brother’s gave. Edward knew that he ought to be raising his banners and riding south, or north, but for just this moment he did nothing. It was the eye of the storm, where everything seemed so quiet and false hope shined, and after this day he would get no rest for months, maybe even years.

Afterwards, when the crowd mingled to talk nonsense and the funeral was over in all but name, Edward forced himself up, managing one last glance at his brother’s fresh grave, and entered the Abbey. He wasn’t surprise to see Robert d’Artois sitting off in the corner, with that sly look on his face.

“My Grace, I feel your loss and I am here to express my sorrow for your brother,” his advisor said, standing up and giving a slight bow. Robert d’Artois was a portly, balding man who, by appearance, didn’t seem the intellectual that he was. He had dull, brown eyes that rarely sparkled, and his jaw was nearly always set.

“He was a good man, but pray, tell me what you’re really here for, Robert.” For a moment Edward thought he saw a flash in the man’s eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“Yes, of course. . .” Robert glanced around the room before taking a step closer to Edward, “I’m here to remind you about the talk we once had, you remember? The one about a certain crown?”

Edward hardened his stare and gave a single nod. He remembered. It was two months previous, when the rumors of France’s talks with the Scots were small, and held seemingly little truth. Robert d’Artois had come to him that night, appealing to Edward to lay claim on the crown of France. He had ignored the man then, as the notion was ridiculous, but now?

“My Grace, I sympathize with your decision then. You still had hoped that you and your friend would crusade together. Smashing Muslims here and there was it? But that is over, he has betrayed you. You and Philippe share the same blood, the same ties. No one would argue against such a claim. My Grace, all you would need is to defeat him and the Kingdom of France could be yours.”

Edward couldn’t deny that the idea appealed to him. To announce the world that he held the crown of England as well as France? But there was more to it than that. “If I lay this claim, the war will change.” Edward said. It was not a question, “I would be crusading against the entire kingdom of France, and Philippe would know that defeat would mean the end of his family and house.”

Before Robert could respond, Edward left him, leaving the Abbey. First he went to the stables. Calling his squire, young Robert Mortimer, he told him to saddle his horse and that he would return shortly. Stepping out to the Abbey grounds, he looked at the sullen sky. Dark clouds covered her, and soon it would be snowing again.

Snow crunching with every step, he grabbed the first man he saw, a boyish looking knight with dark hair. The man whirled around, eyes ablaze before he saw who it was, “M-my Grace!” He said, lowering his eyes.

“You, sir, what is your name?”

“Sir Edwin Gilly,” the knight stammered out, still confused.

“Sir Gilly, I task you with a message, for the Royal Council at Northampton. Tell them. . . Tell them that I, King Edward, third of my name, lay claim on France for reasons of blood and known connections. Tell them to send messengers to the Pope, to Philippe, and to my vassals.”

It took a moment for Sir Gilly to gather himself, to close his gaped mouth, before he ran off to his horse, screaming for a stableboy. Edward turned then, and went to find his horse. And as he mounted the freshly saddled beast, Edward smiled at the sad irony that on the very day his brother was buried, Edward had condemned tens of thousands to die with a simple stroke.
 
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Whoops! Must have missed the introduction below the prologue somehow... That should teach me to stay up too late reading these things...

At any rate, this seems to be shaping up into a most intriguing AAR indeed. Best of luck in the war with France.
 
Chapter I.B
1337, Feb. 4, Kent

The Baron de Knayth stood facing two men.​

The first, a young man with a longsword in one hand and a large iron shield in the other; the second was an older man, almost as old as John himself, with a claymore at his side. It was the older man that posed the greater threat. Neither John nor his opponents wore armor, one misstep or fault would leave a mark.

“Have you not heard the Baron de Knayth?” John asked with a glimmer in his eye. The one on the left, the younger one, opened his mouth to answer but thrust his sword forward, swift as an arrow. Parrying it, John whirled to avoid the claymore that came crashing down on where he stood but a moment ago. Both men moved fast, but John faster. Blocking blows left and then right, he twisted to avoid a blade every other movement.

“I take it then, that you have not heard the Baron de Knayth,” he said, grunting as he flung himself forward, meeting the sword head on with his own. Catching the younger one by surprise, he kicked the man’s knee before throwing himself aside, avoiding the claymore once again. Surveying the scene for a brief moment, John saw the younger one was down, but getting up, and the older one was wearily watching him. This one was learning fast. Pressing forward, John brought his sword down on his opponent’s claymore. Sparks flew as John whirled to the side and brought his famed bastard sword down on the back of the man’s thigh, turning the blade at the last moment so hard steel slammed against the unprotected leg. Now that John could focus his attention on the younger man the battle did not last long. Soon his second opponent was on his back feeling the stinging welt across his side.

“Simply amazing, well done John,” Lord Thomas Holland said laughing, “I told them what they were getting into, but they wouldn’t listen!”
Watching his training partners get up and leave the field, John looked at the young lord with a smile. It had been too many years since he had seen the boy; he was growing up fast, “My Lord, your Master at Arms is a well skilled man. He was not a bad sparring partner.”

“My Lord? Now none of that, John, you’ve known me too many years. You took us in, Ed and I, and raised us as your own. But I suppose you aren’t here to fight my men and laugh at my bad jokes. It’s the war, isn’t it? Edward wants me to raise my banners is it? March across France and see just how bawdry the French ladies are in bed?”

“Something along those lines, Tom. Our Grace is gathering men in Essex. Rumors are that the number has reached 10,000 and is growing. King Edward has sent me to tell you to ready your men for war. We invade through Calais.”

The Earl of Kent was never much of a thinker, his fame as a fighter reached far, but his weapon was the sword and not the pen. John was not surprised to see a smile flash across his boyish face.

“Well then there it is. Don’t worry John, I won’t let Ed down. Haven’t yet, have I?” Tom said before slapping John’s back, “Come, John, let us sup. Starting now, every meal could be our last you know!”

Sir John Darcy, the Baron de Knayth, followed Thomas Holland into Dover Castle. That night would have entertainment and laughter and good times and John would enjoy it, for he knew that in the days ahead such festivities would be replaced by death and carnage. Let the Earl of Kent think war a game while he was still young. He would soon learn, as all men did.
 
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