Neath Talbot
18-10-2005, 03:57
[OOC: Feel free to comment, but please, if you would like to join in Telegram me first, lest I ignore you.]
“M’ liege, it is done.”
The exhausted king slouched down into his symbolic throne. His face momentarily losing it’s youthful exuberance, his image was startlingly similar to that of his late father, Colwyn Llywelyn, Sovereign of Talbot and her kingdoms.
“How many?” The boy king asked, his eyes regaining their vigor as they fell upon the form of another noble – a lesser noble, having amassed dominion and title through the wars of his father. The nobleman knelt, armor rattling as his knees touched the hard stone floor.
“Thus far, all members of twenty-eight noble families, including the royal lines of Neath and Gwynedd, and the dukes of Cardiff, Merthyr, Cynon, Wrexham, and an independent Tydfil. Now, only the families Luttrel, Anwyl, and Bannough have refused to sign on behalf of their households and vassals.” The news was stunning. The feudal hierarchy on this island of Neath Talbot had produced no fewer than fifty-seven competing lines of nobility in its long and obscure history. Now, of the forty-two which remained, thirty-nine had chosen to attend what was being called the Accords of Anglesey. Twenty-eight of those families had agreed to recognize the Llywelyn Family, Sovereigns of Talbot – long the most prosperous region of the tiny island – as the legitimate heir to all Neath Talbot. A further eight had sworn fidelity to the Llywelyns long ago, leaving only three dissenting lines of nobility.
“And of the dissidents?”
“The Luttrel dukes of Caernafon in far Gwynedd demand the restoration of their ancient titles should they submit to your rule. The Anwyl and Bannough families have followed their fathers’ oaths of allegiance to the Caernafon dukes. They will break from Gwynedd should you not recognize their claims.”
“And?” Inexperienced as he was, his mind hesitated when called to rule judgment out, particularly on those of the nobility among whom hospitality was expected even in times of war.
“Yes m’ Lord?”
“Alun, I ask for your advice, as your friend and ruler. Please, rise.” The king sounded distraught, as though, for all his power, he doubted himself even in the face of such a menial challenge. The death of Colwyn Llywelyn had taught his son the price of ambition, and he now struggled to do what would enrich himself and his kingdom.
The lightly clad knight rose and raised his face to his lord. Their eyes met, and he was quiet for some time. At long last, “M’ Lord – “
“Aneurin, please, or Aneurin Llywelyn if you would prefer.”
“Aneurin,” His eyes fell. “It is not my place to say, but such an affront to your sovereign rule needn’t be endured. All you have to fear is the levies Bannough may raise against you, but I can assure you that even my family alone in battle could take Caernafon. For all her defenders, she is weak as the decayed timbers of her walls. The appearance of strength is but that, an appearance.”
“What would you have me do? As a friend, tell me.”
“Refuse them. Make it known that the Weldig family still rules over Gwynedd. That all Wrexham’s long halls will be emptied against them in this foolish venture. You will demonstrate firmness. ‘Tis as your father would do, Lord rest his soul.”
“Very well.” The boy-king sighed. The band of pressed gold weighed terribly on his brow. Responsibility, he thought. It was as his father had said, the power to rule was as trying as any a job under heaven may be. Finally, he reached decision. “Gather your vassals and their sons. Ride for me to the meeting hall, in force and as my herald. You have told me what you would have me do as friend. As a friend, then, do this for me.”
“M’ Liege.” The knight in scarlet and yellow hurriedly bowed and, collecting his brazen helm, hurried forth from the king’s chamber.
The door crashed closed, leaving the room shuddering with its echo. The cooling air of autumn swept in from the door, carrying with them the stink of mud and filth churned up in the rainswept streets. For all it’s grandeur, the halls of the king seemed drab and empty, and likewise the rule of Aneurin Llywelyn, King, seemed for all their accomplishment appeared suddenly marred by the small yet vexing trials which lay before the young king. Yet he knew that overhead the sun continued in its movements, and so all things would move onward, slow though they be…
“M’ liege, it is done.”
The exhausted king slouched down into his symbolic throne. His face momentarily losing it’s youthful exuberance, his image was startlingly similar to that of his late father, Colwyn Llywelyn, Sovereign of Talbot and her kingdoms.
“How many?” The boy king asked, his eyes regaining their vigor as they fell upon the form of another noble – a lesser noble, having amassed dominion and title through the wars of his father. The nobleman knelt, armor rattling as his knees touched the hard stone floor.
“Thus far, all members of twenty-eight noble families, including the royal lines of Neath and Gwynedd, and the dukes of Cardiff, Merthyr, Cynon, Wrexham, and an independent Tydfil. Now, only the families Luttrel, Anwyl, and Bannough have refused to sign on behalf of their households and vassals.” The news was stunning. The feudal hierarchy on this island of Neath Talbot had produced no fewer than fifty-seven competing lines of nobility in its long and obscure history. Now, of the forty-two which remained, thirty-nine had chosen to attend what was being called the Accords of Anglesey. Twenty-eight of those families had agreed to recognize the Llywelyn Family, Sovereigns of Talbot – long the most prosperous region of the tiny island – as the legitimate heir to all Neath Talbot. A further eight had sworn fidelity to the Llywelyns long ago, leaving only three dissenting lines of nobility.
“And of the dissidents?”
“The Luttrel dukes of Caernafon in far Gwynedd demand the restoration of their ancient titles should they submit to your rule. The Anwyl and Bannough families have followed their fathers’ oaths of allegiance to the Caernafon dukes. They will break from Gwynedd should you not recognize their claims.”
“And?” Inexperienced as he was, his mind hesitated when called to rule judgment out, particularly on those of the nobility among whom hospitality was expected even in times of war.
“Yes m’ Lord?”
“Alun, I ask for your advice, as your friend and ruler. Please, rise.” The king sounded distraught, as though, for all his power, he doubted himself even in the face of such a menial challenge. The death of Colwyn Llywelyn had taught his son the price of ambition, and he now struggled to do what would enrich himself and his kingdom.
The lightly clad knight rose and raised his face to his lord. Their eyes met, and he was quiet for some time. At long last, “M’ Lord – “
“Aneurin, please, or Aneurin Llywelyn if you would prefer.”
“Aneurin,” His eyes fell. “It is not my place to say, but such an affront to your sovereign rule needn’t be endured. All you have to fear is the levies Bannough may raise against you, but I can assure you that even my family alone in battle could take Caernafon. For all her defenders, she is weak as the decayed timbers of her walls. The appearance of strength is but that, an appearance.”
“What would you have me do? As a friend, tell me.”
“Refuse them. Make it known that the Weldig family still rules over Gwynedd. That all Wrexham’s long halls will be emptied against them in this foolish venture. You will demonstrate firmness. ‘Tis as your father would do, Lord rest his soul.”
“Very well.” The boy-king sighed. The band of pressed gold weighed terribly on his brow. Responsibility, he thought. It was as his father had said, the power to rule was as trying as any a job under heaven may be. Finally, he reached decision. “Gather your vassals and their sons. Ride for me to the meeting hall, in force and as my herald. You have told me what you would have me do as friend. As a friend, then, do this for me.”
“M’ Liege.” The knight in scarlet and yellow hurriedly bowed and, collecting his brazen helm, hurried forth from the king’s chamber.
The door crashed closed, leaving the room shuddering with its echo. The cooling air of autumn swept in from the door, carrying with them the stink of mud and filth churned up in the rainswept streets. For all it’s grandeur, the halls of the king seemed drab and empty, and likewise the rule of Aneurin Llywelyn, King, seemed for all their accomplishment appeared suddenly marred by the small yet vexing trials which lay before the young king. Yet he knew that overhead the sun continued in its movements, and so all things would move onward, slow though they be…