NationStates Jolt Archive

The king groaned, and lay back on his bed. He was so tired, but he couldn’t fall asleep yet, for fear that he wouldn’t wake up. He was old and sick, and he lived in the knowledge that each breath may be his last. The foremost doctors in England and Wales hadn’t been able to find the problem, and now he was dying.
Worse than that, he had no children, no successor to his throne. He already knew of several lords who would do whatever it took to take the throne, and the only reason they hadn’t done so was for fear. Although frail, the king still ruled with an iron fist through his advisors, and to attempt overthrow the king was still certain suicide. Besides, the Lords reasoned, he would die soon, so why bother trying to kill him?
The old king feared for his country, what would become of it once he passed on? It was a question he’d long considered, and he knew there could only ever be one answer…. War. Every Lord for himself. He would be surprised if any of the lords made friends with any others, but surprises had been commonplace recently. He only had one chance.
“William” He rasped, his eyes following the advisor as he hurried to attend to the king. “William, send out messengers to each of the Lords in England and Wales” He was overcome with a coughing fit which took a minute to go. “Get them to tell the Lords….. Britain is no longer. Each Lord is Lord of his territory, and each territory is independent. Tell them…. The King is dead, long live an independent Britain.” The kings eyes misted over for the last time….

Long Durham had been an exception to the rule, always a special point in history. The small county saw granted autonomy for this position from the king, even before his death. It would have at first be seen as a papal state, but then on closer examination, it had become a case of its own. Ruled by the Bishops of Durham, headed by the Prince Bishop, it had played a very curious role in history.

But as the heirless king died, there was a slight, change in agenda for the autonomous county, now completely independent. A new Prince Bishop might be the first to reach such a status of... Kingship.
______________________________________

The letter was received quickly by the chamberlain, but he had no choice but to wait for a more appropriate time.

[TAG]

Lord Denbigh raised his eyebrows in surprise after reading the message handed to him. "This is unexpected..." he spoke in a hushed tone. Noticing the messenger still standing in the doorway, he barked at him. "Leave me, boy! You will get your payment from the Chamberlain."

He sat down at the table in his room and pondered for a moment. He, like many Lords within England and Wales, would dearly love to be king, and felt that he deserved the position more than most. Nay, he did not deserve, he was destined to be king.

The breakup of the old kingdom may make things a little more difficult for him, though, he knew this well...but, with generalship being a personal hobby of his, he was confident that he could personally lead his army to complete victory. He frowned...then called upon his advisors to prepare to stake his claim on Wales...and perhaps England too.

The Messenger had been sighted by the guards that constantly roamed the outer walls and looming turrets of Dover Castle, and so the mighty outer gates of the Castle had been open and ready as the frenzied messenger whipped his horse, frothing at the mouth, through the massive wooden gates.

The man jumped off of the horse, which simply collapsed to the floor, such was its fatigue, and was challenged by the guards. However, when they heard of the horrific news he carried they called for the inner gates to be opened, and hurredly escorted the messenger to the chambers of Lord Xavier, Lord of all of Dover.

Xavier was standing at a large oak table, on which a map of the country had been held down by several knives, and was conferring with several of his feudmen when the messenger walked through the doors of his chamber. Bowing, and dropping to one knee, the messenger opened his leather pouch and handed Xavier a rolled up piece of parchment, sealed with the King's personal wax symbol. Xavier cut the symbol and read the message within the parchment.

He frowned, and dropped the parchment to the floor. He had liked the old King, and had seen the country well-served by his example. Now, however, the man was dedad, and the country would soon be in trouble.
He dismissed the messenger and called his feudmen over. 'Take this message and read it out to the people, and then call together my men. We must plan for war. And double the guard.'

Tag

tag for later post

“Adrian,” Lord Adrian of Hemyock, who was currently trying to write a response to an particularly contentious monk, nearly fell of his chair when he heard the shrill voice of his wife, Helen.
“What?” he shouted, “Woman, you ruined my concentration.”
“Oh I don’t care,” she came in a fluster, “The King is dead, you nitwit.”
“The King is dead?” Lord Adrian scratched his head, “Mother Mary.”
“The realm will be in chaos,” Helen said.
“The realm is always in chaos,” Lord Adrian swore in Latin and Anglo-Saxon. “About a dozen idiots each thinking themselves king.” He sat up and walked out of the room.
“Where are you going, Adrian?” Helen said after him.
“Getting Robert,” Adrian noted, “We need to do something about this.”

"Milord! There is a messenger at the gates, says he is one of the kings messengers. He's making no sense, he's clearly addled in the head."
Lord Thomas of Caerphilly looked up from his work. "Why? What does he say?"
"He claims that the king is dead, and before he died, that he ordered Britain to be split into factions, where each Lord rules his faction."
Lord Thomas sighed "Let him in, and show him in to my room immediately."
The servant bowed and left the room, returning minutes later with a messenger, who although tired, bowed and stood proud and tall as he faced Thomas. "Milord, the King is dead, and his last wish was that Britain be broke into its seperate territories. You are now the owner of Caerphilly and its surrounding lands."
Thomas nodded and dismissed the messenger, then sank into his chair, deep in thought. Now that Britain was merely territories, it would be the ideal time to attack, yet he knew he would not be the only one harbouring treacherous thoughts. For now, caution would prevail. He called a servant and ordered patrols stepped up, and production in the various weapons workshops.

Lord Xavier strode into the Great Hall and saw that, through the milling servant girls and the smaller pages who ran through the Hall stoking the fires and aiding the serving girls, his Feudmen, the men who controlled his entire army, were sitting around the huge Oak table that was the centrepiece of the entire cavernous room. The eight men were eating, taking chicken-legs, pieces of lamb and pig, and roasted bread from the giant wooden platters on the table, but were silent, waiting for Xavier himself to enter and take his place at the head of the table.

He did so, waiting whilst his two guards pulled back the high-backed wooden chair and allowing him to sit down. He stared at the men before him, who had ceased eating when he had entered, and were now staring back at him, waiting. He took a chicken-leg and tore into it, favouring the spices, before turning to his men.
'Gentlemen, as you now know, the King is dead. This, of course, means that we are in trouble. Our friends all around us.' Xavier used that term as lightly as possible, ' Will no doubt take this opportunity to strike at us and take Dover.' Xavier sipped at his Mead, and then thrust it to the tabletop, shaking it and spilling Mead all around the cup.

'I shall not let this happen. We have our lands and I shall be damned if they are taken away from us by our greedy and corrupt kin around us. As such, I shall be raising our taxes, and I want the Blacksmiths to pick up production as soon as possible. You, Feudman Hood, shall see to this.' Hood, a tall man with raven-black hair and a permanent scowl on his face, nodded at this. Xavier continued. 'The rest of you; begin counting the peasants and bring me a listing of all those able to fight, and begin construction of a second moat around the Castle Boundaries. We shall be ready when the blow falls upon us Gentlemen; already our scouts are in our lands, searching for the enemy should he come; believe me when I say he will be coming. He will get a fight when he does.'

With that, Xavier called for more mead and more food to be put on the table. Night was drawing in fast, and the pages ran around placing more wood on the fire and drawing covers over the windows. Xavier watched with growing unease; to him it seemed as though the darkness of the night would soon be permanent throughout the land, and an age of darkness would possess the land. He wished anything but war, as he had seen too much of it in his thirty years of age, but he would protect his land at all costs.

Lord Alexander turned his horse slowly towards his follower. He decided that if it would be an assasin his beloved animal was too tired to keep the distance anyway. He thought a little note to self "Next time, when i go riding i should take at least a dagger with me". He stood calm and brave waiting for the soldier that aproached him. Although he was expecting an assasin, as no rider should be in such a hurry in this part of the forest, this was not the case. He saw surprised that the man following him was one of his private guards. Something bad happened for sure. He hurried to meet him and asked what has happened.
The soldier said "A royal messenger has arrived at the castle. He has a message for your eyes only."
Alexander drove his horse to galop towards the castle. He wondered what could have happened. Only two possibilities came to mind. Either the king wanted his troops for a war or the king died. Neither of them apealed too much to him, but he hoped the king was still alive, although the news about his condition were grim.
Finnaly, he left the dark forest behind him, and could finnaly see his beloved castle. He smiled, as he remembered his happy childhood on the hills of Corfe. The time will be soon to make some repairs. Some of the walls begun to crumble under the burden of time.
As he passed the gate, he finnaly saw the messenger. A strange, tall man, like not many are these days, a pure soldier, that could handle a big sword like it was a dagger. He smiled, impressed at the soldier he had in front of him.
"What is your name soldier?"
"Thomas Trivet, my lord", replied proudly the messenger while handing over the letter.
Lord Alexander read it slowly, trying to overcome the shock that came on him. Even as he expected this, what he read in that letter surprised him anyway. The king dead and England shattered in little pieces. There will be a war coming, and whoever is best prepared for it will take the crown.
He watched Thomas silently for a few moments and then asked:
"You know what this letter says?"
"Yes, my lord"
"The house of the king is no more. He has no heirs, and thus you no longer have a master. If you wish to enter my service you are welcome. You will have food, a bed to sleep in, clothes and will be paid well enough for your services. What say you?"
"The lord is very kind with me. I accept", said Thomas smiling.
Alexander noded and told the captain of the guards:
"I want all the walls repaired, and send men dressed as merchants to the nearby villages to buy all the food they can. Also, send word to the workers to make weapons. Swords, bows and arrows. There`s a war coming, and we`ll be prepared for it"

OOC: ok, this is my first RP that i actually play in.....i hope its ok what i wrote

The horseman rode across the lowered drawbridge with a sound like thunder, horseshoes kicking up sparks from the iron bindings. The gatekeeper nodded as the fine mare whipped by, racing away towards the keep. Startled men and women hastily moved out of the way as the wild-eyed messenger rode as hard and fast as he could. The horse's chestnut flanks heaved as it ran: it had been moving at this pace for the best part of a day, with only a single stop at Colchester.

Reaching the keep, the rider dismounted, swinging himself down onto the stones below. Two young men took the horse away to be rested and the messenger walked through the doors.

His way was suddenly barred by a trio of spearpoints levelled squarely at his breastbone. He stepped back gingerly, his hands out, palms towards the guards who stood there. They were large men, muscular frames indicating that any one of them could skewer him like a suckling pig for a feast. A wild image came to his mind of his head being carried to the Duke on a plate, an apple clamped firmly in his mouth. His chuckle died in the back of his throat as he remembered the spears, and the hard-faced men clutching them.

"State your business here, traveller."

It was the largest of the guards who spoke. His ruddy, weatherbeaten face was expressionless as he stared the frightened man directly in the eyes, daring him to make a single wrong move.

"I bear a message for the Earl."

The spears receded a little, although they were still far too close for comfort.

"A message of what?"
"Tidings from His Majesty the King. Very urgent tidings. Your master would be most displeased should he not recieve them."

The guards looked at each other, then back at the messenger. The spears were drawn back, and held pointing upwards. The guards stepped backwards, allowing the man to pass through.

"The Earl is in his chambers upstairs. He should not be difficult to find."

The messenger nodded, then walked up the spiral stone staircase, clutching the scroll in his hand. The Earl was indeed easy to find. He was indeed within his chambers, sitting at his table, writing a letter. He stood up as the messenger approached, and turned around. The messenger dropped his gaze to avoid looking the man in the eyes, and then bowed. He walked across the room and placed the letter in his hand, then walked back out of the room.

The Earl sat down, breaking the seal of the letter. It had come from the King himself, and judging from the messenger's haste, it was important. The King's health had been failing, and everyone from there to Rome knew it, but he had not expected this letter so soon. His face paled as he realised the implications of the King's final message to the nobility. He had to prepare his vassals for war.

From the diary of Sir Robert Dovercourt, Constable of Conwy Castle.

May 16th

My lord, the Marquis of Conwy, returned from the wars in Europe last night. He and a small band of men at arms had been campaigning across the length and breadth of the continent, fighting for causes that were just, Christian, and lucrative. I am sure they were for he returned with a large chest, and though his beliefs are odd and he fails to spend adequate time in prayer, he is at heart a good man. Even if he does not make extencive use of the private chapel allotted to him, God will surely forgive his transgressions.

My lord arrived late at night, with a small army of retainers, none of whom had attended him when he left. Fortunately, the chef enjoys a challenge. Many of the men had the swarthy looks of musselmen and Jews, but did not hold that against them. That they were my lord’s guests was enough. He rode in on his warhorse, and I was struck by how much he had changed. No longer the brash lad who rode out of Conwy five years ago, vowing never to return until his father was dead, now he was a sturdy young man in his twenties. His face was heavily tanned and he now bore two large scars running across his formerly handsome face. His kit had also changed… instead of the straight sword he used to carry, now he wore a jeweled scimitar at his waist, and curved dagger upon his other side, both held up by a sash of purple fabric the likes of which I never had seen. His armour too, which he wore for his grand entrance, was not the finely crafted plate armour he had taken with him, worth 20000 shillings. Instead, he wore a fine light mail shirt, like those of the Saracens.

He swung himself off his horse with practiced ease, but his face went white and he swore a savage oath. My planned greeting went out of my head, as I gasped “My Lord!” reprovingly.

He grinned wanly at me. “So sorry Robert, I forgot I can’t manage that any more.” He limped forward and clasped my arm. “So good to see you again. Been holding the fort since father kicked it?”

“My Lord!”

“Sorry Robert, but you know our differences were irreconcilable..”

“I always hoped you would work through them.” I replied sadly.

“It was impossible… but stay, I have some people for you to meet!” He gestured to the lady sitting on the palfrey behind him, a beautiful maiden, dark and exotic looking; my pen can not do her justice. He handed the lady down from her, and she looked about curiously, pulling her shawl about her even though the night was relatively mild. “My wife, Rukaiya, daughter of Caliph of the Bene Hashim.” At my look of outraged shock, he waved away my objection. “Do not worry. She will convert. Or I will. Or something.” He and she exchanged wry smiles, and half embraced, but then, with the suddenness that characterized him, even as a small child, he turned and motioned the next person forward. “My apothecary and churgeon, Chaim Shwartz. My alchemist, Garmat. My engineer Maurice of Constantinople and his team, and Sergeant Urse of Bern. Make sure they are comfortable and want for nothing. And arrange for some porters to take up our cases. Come my love, let me show you our new rooms.”

I raised my hand, determined not to be overrun by my lord’s enthusiasm and energy. “Wait my lord… first, some terrible tidings. The king is dead!”

Without a quiver of countenance, my lord shrugged, “The King is dead, long live the King. Whom-so-ever-it-may-be. Well, come on, tell us, who is the new king? He’ll want a present likely, I wonder if I can foist my old armour off on him…”

“No my lord. No one is king. He has declared us all independent.”

“WHAT! Why the devil (sorry Sir Robert) would he do a damnfool (sorry Sir Robert) thing like that! Blast and damne. Although…” If I may use the term figuratively, an unholy smile spread across my lord’s face, “It does provide us with some interesting opportunities. Garmat, Maurice, Urse, and of course Rukaiya my darling, attend me!” He stalked off to the great hall.

So the events did truly unfold, may the Lord God strike me down if I told them falsely,
Sir Robert Dovercourt.

The Town of Raglan, Wales
A mighty clatter was heard upon the cobblestones of the Town of Raglan, as townspeople and guards moved aside to allow for a messenger bearing the livery of the King to pass through. He gallopped up the drawbridge, and without dismounting pounded on the age-darkened great door of Castle Raglan. The Lieutenant Beregond opened it, as he had been conferring with the guards. "What is your business here, messenger of the King?" Beregond asked in a deep voice. "I have come with urgent tidings for the Duke of Raglan, Aramil, the messenger managed to utter. Beregond let him pass, and he dismounted and ran up to the Great Tower.

Duke Aramil was gazing out of the stain-glass window on the top floor, the engravings of Saints in wonderful hues playing out on his face. He had a hawk nose, and strong, proud features. He was tall and slender with unfathomable green eyes and jet black hair. He was dressed simply, in a grey shirt. The messenger burst in, and attempted a bow. Aramil turned, and serenely gazed at the man at his feet. So the time has finally come, he thought. The King is most assuredly dead. He proved to be correct, as the messenger wordlessly handed him a letter with a heavily embossed seal and then collapsed on the floor. Aramil quickly read the letter, and tossed it into the fire. This is unexpected. The King has left the fiefdoms to fend for themselves. Well, we will make the most of it. He spoke for the first time, in a calm voice considering the news, and ordered his ministers to meet in the Dining Hall.

Dining Hall of Castle Raglan
Aramil thumped his silver goblet on the table, and composed himself. The men along the table listened attentively. "My ministers, I am sure that by now you have all heard the momentous news. We must begin preparations for war immediately, be it offensive or defensive in nature. Beregond," he gestured to his right-hand man and Lieutenant,"You will assemble all men ages 16 to 30 on the Common tomorrow morning. You and I shall select the worthiest to be elligible for our army. Leto, you will step up the productions of the blacksmith. I will need more swords, bows, and pikes than ever before. Not only that, but they must be up to your exacting standards. Paul, you can assemble all the merchants and ask them to continue trading relations, but be ready to impose an embargo on any hostile fiefdoms. Also, begin feeling about to see if any of our neighbors would react well to alliances. One final word: The future of Raglan depends on you in this era of momentous change. If you all do your duty, we may not only be able to weather this tide, but profit from it as well. That is all." The ministers rose to go, each one attending their respective tasks. Aramil withdrew to his chambers, to prepare a speech for the townsfolk the following morning.

Lord Howard stood at the highest point of Hawleys Castle. As far as he could see had just become his own territory, if the messenger was to be believed, independent and free. He knew the other lords would quickly try to sieze the kingship, unsatisfied with the lands that had been given them. He had no choice, he had to take the offensive to protect his own people. If he needed to become king to protect his castle and his kin from the other lords, then so be it. "Tell the blacksmiths to increase production of weapons and armor. Also, I want increased defenses. I want parallel walls built to the river, dividing the castle into three sections. Get me plans and prices soon."

OOC: will post the plans next post

Inside the castle, Duke Vincent Sauvage, Lord of Caernafron, had debated the news. The message had been under the king's seal, so he could trust it, but the new state of matters in England still were shocking and surprising.

The king is dead... It shall take no time at all for the fiefdoms to enter war... What should we do? What should our first move be?

"My lord..." said the sergeant-at-arms, "perhaps we should conscript some of the peasants... We cannot sit idly while the other lands begin moving against one another."

"I have thought about that. However, we must be wary, as the last thing I want is rebellion. We must do as we can, but not too much, or the peasantry will revolt."

"So, what is your decision?" said another knight at the table.

"We must move, or someone else will move against us. You, go tell any blacksmiths in the town to increase the production of weapons... pikes, falchions, bows, short and broadswords, everything. You, Tell the men of the town to prepare for war, and that there will be a small conscription to boost our forces in this time of strife."

"Yes, my lord." stated the two squires, who left to do their duties.

"The rest of you... I will need your services direly quite soon. Are you prepared?"

"Yes, my lord!" shouted the rest of the knights still in the hall of the King's Tower.

"Very well, get some rest." And with that, the hall emptied, with the exception of the Duke himself. He still sat at the head, with a troubled look.

Let us hope that we have not sealed our fates to die in this new civil war...

Duke Aramil walked out to the Common, accompanyed by Beregond. The 2,500 men of Raglan and the surrounding farms were arrayed before him. Although not all would serve in the army, they were each distributed rudimentary weapons whould the Fiefdom be invaded. After several hours had passed, Aramil had picked the 500 finest for service in the army of Raglan. These soldiers would augment the standing garrison of 200 for the Castle, and provide Aramil with a stout fighting force, if trained and equipped properly. They were each issued a breastplate, helmet, greaves, pike, sword, and shield. Although all had already had basic training in the phalanx formation, they would now report early every morning to recieve additional training to turn them into hardened veterans, capable of holding their own on the battlefield. Unfortunately, Raglan had only 15 knights, which would fight on foot as leaders of the phalanxes. Additional men would be called up as longbowmen, should the fiefdom be directly threatened, but they did not need much training as most already new how to use a bow sufficiently well. Despite this however, Aramil instituted a practice on the common two days a week for all the men. they began that day, after 10 knights along with Beregond left with the chosen men to practice in the Castle courtyard, Aramil stayed with 5 knights to instruct the other men in the use of longbows.

Bump for more responses from the RPers involved.

OOC Curse you Caladonn, I was going to do that! Still am, actually… but just ask Sanctaphrax if you think I’m copying =)

From the diary of Sir Robert Dovercourt, Constable of Conwy Castle.

May 25th

My lord has put us all in a flurry with the changes he has implemented. So many new laws, missions, even a tourny to arrange! I had, under his father, forgotten what it was like to serve a young master. Though I mean no disrespect to the late Marquis, there is an excitement one feels when things are changing. And things certainly were changing.

I came in to his office, as he called the solar, which he appropriated from the ladies rather abruptly. Papers were strewn about it, and he sat in deep conversation with his ‘inner circle.’

“So you believe the terms we are offering are generous enough, Chaim?”

The Jew grinned and shrugged, “My lord, you will have non-Christians flocking to your gates. Allowing them to own land would be enough, but you also are abolishing the special taxes against them? Offering them equal rights? A section of the city to be reserved for them, with limited self rule? My lord… they would be fools to ignore this offer.”

“Even with the codicil we’ve attached?”

He shrugged again, “I actually think they will be honored. The right to defend their homes against aggressors, even if it is only through the loan of a few cogs, is not something often offered to Jews and Muslims in Christian lands. They will accept.”

The Marquis smiled back at him, and held out a satchel. “Then pick a bodyguard - four knights should be sufficient – and be off with you. Visit your cousins and tell them that the Marquis de Conwy invites them all, rich and poor, to make a home for themselves within his walls.”

The doctor took the satchel, bowed deeply, and left the room. I was astonished, offering full rights to non Christians was unheard of and the Pope would have a heart attack when he heard. If he heard. I looked nervously at the chaplain sitting next to the Marquis. He was an odd fellow, a short, unassuming priest from Prague with Orthodox tendencies and a faintly mousey attitude… until one saw the raw cunning in his eyes, and wondered if the former chaplain, an unpleasant fanatic who harvested enormous tithes from the peasantry, had really fallen out the gatehouse window by accident.

The Marquis turned to his wife. “Any news from Abdu in London?”

“Yes,” she grimaced. “Lots of obscene complaints about the quality of steel and iron. He says it is impossible for him to do anything with what we have here. He wants to set fire to the mines, and return home to Damascus, where there is ‘real metal’.” He also is arriving with a small caravan of goods, bought on your credit, so things can’t be as bad as he makes them out to be.”

The Marquis looked warily at her. “How much did he spend?”

“Twenty pounds”

“Twenty… ! He damned well BETTER have something to show for it. Twenty pounds, my god.”

I cleared my throat. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

“I did? Why the deuce… ah yes. Sir Robert, we are going to hold a tourney.”

“A splendid idea milord, I’ll arrange for invitations to be sent out to the neighboring kingdoms.”

“No. This is a private tourney. Only for the county. I want all the merchants and peasants to attend, Monday next. We will provide food and drink for all out of our private purse, and award prises for horsemanship and archery… my knights may put on a show, but will not compete. Further, we are to have one further event. You recall the reeds that were cut and left to dry?” I did indeed, they were cluttering up the inner ward. “Well, I wish to have all the men at some point organized into groups of sixteen, and compete marching about. In step. A drummer will keep the beat.”

“Of course, my lord. But…”

“It’s something I saw in Europe. Bunch of hillmen, crazy brutes. The Serjant here is one of em. Totally insane, the lot of them. Rule themselves. They fight in enormous formations with bloody great spears, and they all march moving the same foot at the same time. Bloody terrifying, seeing those spearpoints, pikes they call them, coming straight at you… the damn things are long enough that they can project four ranks of spearpoints ahead. Makes cavalry completely useless, no horse will charge that. Also got lots of people with enormous pole-axes that can cut a horse in half with a single blow. Those are less useful, because they’re so unwieldy, but murderous. In any case, we are going to make our own group of pikemen, with Serjant Urse’s aide. So I want to see how the men handle the reeds, which are quite a bit like pikes. The serjant will make himself available to any who wish to practice under his… ah… tender tutelage. And that IS one event my knights will participate in… introduce a little class rivalry. At the end of the day, the judges will pick the 600 best archers, 400 best pikemen, and 200 best riders. Those men will be invited to take two days off work a week, divided up so two hundred are off every day. The others in the group will tend the two hundred’s fields for that day. In return, they will receive three pennies for each day… and they will spend that day doing nothing but practicing. The king is dead, and will not protect us from the predations of our neighbors, therefore, we must make sure we are ourselves protected.”

I said the only thing possible under the circumstances, and bowed deeply. “Aye, milord.”

So the events did truly unfold, may the Lord God strike me down if I told them falsely,
Sir Robert Dovercourt

OOC: No, it's fine. Glad to see someone else using my tactics :)

IC: Duke Aramil gazed out the window of the Gatehouse, at the 700 men practicing in the Bailey. They were already getting very proficient at moving together, and were building up the arm strength to use their pikes proficiently. Fine armor and weapons were being produced by Leto and his blacksmiths, all well trained in their duty and working round the clock. Some of the men had already been fully equipped, but to meet Leto and Aramil's standards of masterwork quality, the equipment was taking longer than if Leto had been producing mere crude armor and weapons. A hammering could be heard behind him, and Aramil turned to see scaffolding going up on the Great Tower. He hoped to add several more stories and some artillery at the top, so Raglan would be proficient in both offense and defence. He could not train a veteran army without reinforcing the great masonry of Castle Raglan at the same time.

OOC They're the only ones that work, at least with the nuimbers and finances we're restricted to. If we were given more money I'd try to hire knights and train them as kataphractoi, while if I had more men, I might try for a manipular legion style organization. Given what we have... pikes and archers are the way to go.

The new self-proclaimed King Iorthas sat deep in thought, the beaches glistening in the sunset on the horizon. The sun was slowly setting, an apt metaphor for the current transition in power. The Union had given him power, and a slight modicum of glory. He would now be King, a great title, but would he be able to keep hold on his shaky new kingdom, a hybrid of celtic and roman culture? The only good thing that he could find from his current situation was that the barbaric anglo-saxons were gone, and their filthy, coarse language. Welsh was much more poetic and clean.

Iorthas got up. His tiny Kingship would only last as long as he had allies. He decided to send out riders to every major centre of power in Britain to ask for alliances...

An arrow thudded into the centre of the target, although the wooden practice tip only punched in a little way. A great cheer went up from the assembled young men at the other end of the range. The tall blonde man smiled as his friends slapped him on the back and whooped. They had been practicing all morning, firing arrow after arrow at the cloth-covered boards. Although they did not know why the Earl had ordered this extra archery practice, they did not mind.

For as long as any of them could remember the able men of Framlingham had spent one hour every week practicing with the spear and bow, in case they were called to arms for the Earl. The French could attack across the channel at any time, falling upon Suffolk like a wolf upon a flock. Their practice was to ensure that the wolf got a spear in the chest for its troubles.

But now things were different. The men were being drilled far harder. Armed men had come, bearing the seal of the Earl. They trained the able-bodied men every weekend, Saturday afternoon and Sunday from Church until dusk. Gone were the roughly hewn bows, replaced by longbows in the Welsh style, very much more powerful, capable of felling a man at 300 yards or more. The old spears had been burnt for firewood, and even now a group of once incapable peasants marched smartly past, pikes shouldered, in tight formation. Across each ones back was a round wooden shield bearing the device of the Earl, and each one wore a helmet.

Although no-one knew why the sudden re-arming was taking place, rumours flew faster than the arrows that they were being trained to fire. The French were invading, said some. Marauding Scots had swept South, killing and burning all in their path, said others. Other, more fanciful, people claimed that heathen Turks even now ruled much of Europe, and England was preparing herself for the Musselman invasion. No-one yet knew that the King was dead.

Earl Robert Bigod set down the goblet of water. He had sat thinking for the past hour. He hoped that his peasants would soon be brave soldiers, but the gamble was great. If another Lord was to attack him, he could not guarantee the safety of his small domain. He needed allies, and quickly.

Later that night, a messenger arrived at Framlingham, demanding to speak to the Earl...

The Earl's eyes opened a little, taking in the fact that it was still dark. He looked around to see what had disturbed him from his rest, then noted the expressionless face of Sir Roger Manner, his Captain of the Guard, and a brave knight by all accounts. He clutched a torch in one hand, and with the other he motioned for the Earl to listen.

"A messenger has arrived, my liege. He demands to speak with you."
"Will he wait?"

The earl groaned after saying this. He had hardly slept, tossing and turning as he imagined what could happen.

"No, my liege. He says that he must speak with you, and will not be deterred."

The Earl groaned again, but stood up and pulled his robe from the back of the chair. Pulling it on, he strode downstairs to meet this messenger. His guards drew close around him, wary for any attack. The messenger stood in the hallway, waiting.

"Greetings, traveller. I am Earl Robert Bigod. What is your business with me?"

Raglan Castle, Great Tower
Aramil paced in his chambers, restless as he thought of the great changes sweeping about in Britain. Luckily, the men were being trained well, and could already shoulder a pike and march in formation. Now came the finer points of training, and the build-up of stamina and expertise. The other men being trained with longbows were also progressing from hunting expertise to war expertise, and were now firing at moving targets, as most of them were good shots at non-moving ones. The blacksmithing continued, and now half of the pikemen were equipped with the finest weapons and armor that a master blacksmith could produce. Suddenly, his concentration was disturbed by the entrance of a guard. He bowed, and then said, "Your Grace, the riders are ready." Aramil thanked the man and descended to the courtyard, where three of his finest men sat on his best horses.

Raglan Castle Courtyard
He began to speak. "Men, you have lived all your lives in Raglan, as have I. God knows how much all of us wish for it not to come to harm. But, unfortunately, in this time of peril, harm will seek out our land, whether we want it to or not. Your missions tonight may save our land from a bloody end. I bid you to ride fast, and reach your destinations as quickly as possible. Nothing less then our future existence is at stake." The men bowed from the saddle, and were off, spurring their mounts to ever-greater speeds. They clattered across the drawbridge, and then went their separate ways: to Framlingham,Ewloe, and Conwy. Raglan needed allies fast if they were to survive in the multitudes of petty kingdoms in Britain.

Raglan Castle, Great Tower
Aramil returned to the Great Tower, but an Italian man was waiting for him at his door. "Ah, Graviocci, what wonders do you have to attempt to sell me now?" Aramil asked in a jesting manner. Graviocci was a travelling sailsman who had made a living bringing wondrous things to Britain from the Continent. He always visited Raglan Castle, but rarely managed to sell any of his inventions to the Duke. "Your Grace, I may have something different for you today, more an instrument of war than a tool of wonder." He drew a curtain away from something with a dramatic flourish, revealing a shield behind. "This is no ordinary shield, your Grace. This is a rectangular shield of Roman design. I have constructed a modern equivalent. With this shield, your men will be able to lift their shields over their heads, rendering themselves virtually imperivous to arrows or bolts."
Aramil scoffed. "That is all very well, but as you know, the fighting traditions of Raglan involve pikes. You cannot lock these shields together and hold a pike horizontally or vertically at the same time, they will not fit through."
Graviocci smiled. "Ah, that is where my own innovation comes in. You see, on these shields there is a hemispherical cut-off on the right side, allowing for pikes not only to fit through, but also be maneuvered as to skewer oncoming horsemen."
Aramil's eyes widened."You know, Graviocci, I think for once I may buy one of your designs. This is truly a remarkable invention which may allow me to gain the upper hand on the battlefield." They quickly agreed to a price, and Graviocci left. Aramil quickly ordered the construction of 700 of the shields, so that all of his pikemen would have one. They began to be trained in their use immediately.It would take time, but soon Raglan would have a revolutionary fighting force. Perhaps they were not in such dire straights after all.

A knock on the door... `Yes, come in. Ahh, Thomas, just the man i wanted to see.`
`You called for me sire?`
`Yes Thomas, how are the preparations going?`
`Well sire, most of our men returned from the nearby counties. They report preparations for war all over the place. Most of the neighbours are training pikemen and archers. I think we should do the same sire. Our men been training as archers every sunday, but we lack the pikemen needed to defeat the knights if needed.`
`I know, I was thinking the same thing. But dont forget that the castle of Corfe is situated on a hill. Its not an easy thing to take it away from us. We need archers more then anything to defend the castle from a siege. But, we shouldnt be unprepared for other situations. Take 200 of the men training as archers and show them how to use the pike. Formations, use of the weapon, maneuvering, anything you consider necessary. And Thomas, take as pikemen only the ones that are not very good with the bow.`
`Anything else, sire?`
`I was thinking of organizing archery contests. It should be targets at 100, 200 and 300 yards. The ones that pass the 100 yard target move on to the next, and so on. The winner has 5 shillings from me. That should keep them motivated. Also, the men should train two days per week from now on.`
`It shall be as you commanded sire.`
`Good, now send my esquire here`
Few minutes later...
`You called for me sire?`
`Armin, come in. I have orders for you. I want you to send envoys to the neighbours and beyond, to as many castles as possible. Tell them that we`re selling weapons, armour and the famous Purbeck stone, probably the finest limestone available for building and polishing in England. We need money to train more soldiers. Let`s hope someone will order some`
`Sire, what items should we say are for sale? And should we take one of each to show them?`
`Yes Armin, i will give you the list of the things we sell now`

OOC: if someone is interested, the storefront will be opened at the following adress (the money that i receive there will NOT be used for my Earth MB budget; consider it a simple merchant that sells to anyone and travels around the country)


Medieval weapons storefront (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=8749408#post8749408)




.

Lord Howard had approved the plans preparing his castle for war. He had ordered a single wall built, dividing the area in two, as well as putting out orders for training of the pikes, phalanx formations, and longbowmen. He had sent messengers to possible allies and hoped that he wouldn't find himself alone in his fight.

OOC: new castle wall is drawn in here: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v606/MMCDHoward/Hawleys_Castle.jpg

also, everyone has been sent a message for an alliance in the above post, feel free to answer as you think you should.

Alexander watched the men as they enjoyed the competition. Organizing this archery contest was a good idea after all. All the men dreamed for the ten shillings that were the great prize. As they turned to the 300 yard target, the remaining eight competitors waited for their master’s signal. He waived at them to continue and the last round begun. Five shots for each of them and the one that gets the best score takes the money.
As the contest carried on he watched more closely one of the archers. He had very good eyes, steady hand, excellent shots. He will make a fine addition to his personal guard.
As the last round started, his servant approached.
`Sire, we have a messenger from Lord Howard. He seeks allies for the dark times that lie ahead. `
`I see. Write as I say and then send the message to Lord Howard`

Dear friend,
We have received your envoy with great joy in our hearts. The thought that there might still be someone in this God forsaken land that doesn’t wish to take us down brought many smiles at our court. We are more then eager to call you our allies and thus, we accept your offer and assure you that we will stand side by side if you will ever need the little help we can offer.
I leave you now, with a broad smile upon my face, as my last thought while I sign this letter is that there is still hope for us to survive the coming times.
Your friend, Lord Alexander of Corfe Castle

The training of the men continued, and some of the pikemen were outfitted with the new shields. Aramil had reconsidered his decision, and decided to send envoys to all of the other Castles in the land, instead of the three he had previously sent word too. He sent out riders, hoping many of his fellow nobles would respond. Meanwhile, a guard came in and gave him a letter from Lord Howard. He sat down to pen a response:

Dear Lord Howard,
It is with great pleasure that I pen this reply to your magnanimous offer. I would happily pledge the support of the Dukedom of Raglan to you. I hope we can cooporate more in the future. At the moment, I would be happy to offer you some of the finely-crafted items Raglan has to offer: fine stone for the building of fortification, metal, weapons, and silver for the purpose of minting. If you have anything to trade also, I would be happy to see if we need it
Sincerely,
Aramil, Duke of Raglan
Aramil wrote similar letters to all the other lords.

ooc: Keep the replies coming guys, and don't forget you can start your own RPs as well if you want ;)

OOC: Hi

OOC: Hi

ooc: Hello to you too. If you want to participate in this RP, then you have to ask in the sign-up thread.

OOC: No one wants to eply to my offer of alliance? :(

Lord Aramil,
We are glad to see that not all Lords wish war only, and do accept your offer for better ties. Unfortunately, these are treacherous times, and one knows not who can be trusted. We therefore will promise not to attack you if you do likewise, however we must not get too close, for as aforementioned, these are treacherous times. We hope you realise these are merely precautions, and are in no way intended to offend your Lordship, or his fine castle.
Sincerely,
Thomas, Lord of Caerphilly

Lord Thomas of Caerphilly,
I do not see you as offensive, merely wise. These, in truth, are treacherous times. I humbly accept your agreement, and hope that our Illustrious Fiefdoms may co-operate more in the future.
Sincerely,
Aramil, Duke of Raglan

As Dafyd looked across the plains to the Moors and Hillocks surrounding Harlech Castle from his Window in his personel chamber he went to sit down by the fire place as he couldnt see anything with this terrible fog that had descended on the land the previous night.

The fog was dark and forboding and it was especially gloomy tonight.
Earl David Of Harlech was 32 years of age and was strong of body mind and heart he had been on campaign with the King before as was custom and had gotten to know him well in his time he spent with him but now the King was old and his hold on Britain was waining dark and uncertain times were looming in the future of this proud nation.

The Kings demises was certain thought Dafyd as he looked erily out of his window again and then he saw a faint flicker at the very reach of his sight in these horrible conditions where his eyes decieving him?

No he saw it again a faint fuzzled torch could be seen 30 yards away and closing it would be at the gates in a few seconds.
Now Dafyd thought should i go down to great this unexpected visitor or to wait forr him up here?
He decided to go down there hadnt been a messenger for weeks and his eagerness for news was unrepentent.

He quickly put on his robe and hurried down the stairs to the long hall.
When he made it down he was greeted by a slightly puffed rifers soaked well to the bone by the nights rains.

Sire a message from the King


What this is dated more than a week ago what happened?Exclaimed Dafyd

"Sire Bandits attacked our escort and took manyb things some of us managed to get away but many documents were lost we managed to retrieve these but it took time."

He looked further on and saw the words "The King is Dead" 'My God' he exclaimed as he crossed himself
'What is to happen now?'
'The land is free Britain is open to the Lords, the strongest shall reign Unbelievable indeed.'

"Murgatroyd" he called out to his chief advisor send out riders to the villages 'we need to mobilise!'

Bump

Lord Charles Younge looked out upon his land beneath the castle of Rochester, he owned this land and there was nothing going to stop him, the news of the King's death had caused his father to sink into a deep state of depression, but he too was out of the way and now Charles could make a mark on England.

The Duchess Of Windsor read the letter from the messanger. "Is this true? The King has died without a heir?" She asked the young messanger boy. "Aye M'lady, from what I heard, each Duke and Duchess has declared themselves independent from the Crown and are preparing to make a move to seize the empty throne of England." She sat back and contemplated her thoughts, Castle Windsor and The House Of Windsor is now free from the Crown and she is free to make whatever move she wishes.

"Thank you. You may go now." She waved the messanger away and sat back again to think. "Do you require anything M'lady?" She shoke her head "Nay. I am fine...." She thought to herself, 'Then it has begun.....House Windsor must win no matter what..'

Lord Charles could not sleep, it was too troubling thinking about what should be done of the land, he knew that defences would need to be improved, he would also need more men, oh this was too troubling.

Deep in the forest's of Kent away from the Keep's walls and closer to nature, there were groups of people, they seemed to be celebrating somthing but what it was could never be made out without closer investigation, and then it would be known that the group were asking for the Celtic god Camulus' assistance in driving Lord Younge out of Rochester.

"How do the troops look to you Sire?"

Walking to the window over looking the outer bailey of his castle, Lord Riever looked upon the weekly gathering of troops, training under the setting sun.

"They are getting better Lewellen, I just hope 'better' is good enough, only God and my treasury know how much we have spent on them. Thank the Lord it's only this year."

"Yes, Sire" answered the tall Welshman, "The Billmen are very effective now Sire, but we need to protect them as they cost a lot."

"Don't fret too much, nobody in his right mind would come within range of 1100 longbows. In anycase, send the men home, they have trained hard, we'll see how the conflict goes before getting involved..."

Samuel Harrison, Lord of the county of Durham, stood at the gates to Durham Castle, and could scarce believe the news. "Dead?" he said.

"Aye, Milord" replied the rider.

"Independence? Was he mad?"

The rider shook his head, "I don't know, Milord"

"LAVERSHAM!" yelled Lord Harrison.

A burly soldier, dressed in the red and yellow (http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y63/Verghastinsel/Harrison.jpg) of his Lord's house, with a halberd in his hands and a wide-rimmed steel helmet on his head, rushed from his post at the door of the Castle.

He saluted, "Yessir?"

"Sergeant Laversham, you will pay a visit to Mister Hayfield, of North Street, who I believe offered me a contract of French crossbows last summer. You are to instruct him to contact whomsoever owned them, and offer the man what he asked and half again. We are standing knee-deep in pigshit, Sergeant Laversham, and I would trouble you to walk as fast as you can!"

The sergeant's eyes widened, and he leant his halberd against a wall before setting off into the city at a run...