Swords of the Sea - 20/04/14, II-VIII

[mAIOR]

Just finished, very nice. Just a small pointer, do add a map in the first post. A map does wonders to follow the story

[General Retreat]

Swords of the Sea
II-III – The Sack of Carlisle, summer 1078.

"And when the soldiers of the raven did raze the fields, black smoke and baleful fires could be seen for many leagues around. Upon seeing the devastation, the people did groan for they knew their doom was upon them."

-Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, 1087.

T

he plan had worked well – very well. Certainly well enough to justify the trail of frostbitten corpses Charles had left scattered across the Pennines. The Saxon lord of Cumberland, Earl Ausbord of Carlisle, had dismissed most of his levies and allowed them to return to their villages over the winter for Christmas. Border skirmishes with Lancastrian Norman fyrds had bloodied his men and made them uneasy – the time to tend to their farms and their wives would settle their temperaments. The Norman occupiers were considered unlikely to launch a campaign into the northern depths of England in the deep of winter, after all. The weather had been unusually harsh for the last decade, a fact that William’s captains had learned all too well during their initial conquests.

When Charles’ host descended from the mountains into the foothills of Cumberland late that autumn, desperate runners were sent throughout the fief to recall the army to Carlisle and prepare to meet the new threat. This was to no avail. Within a week, siege lines were prepared around the town, with Earl Ausbord and a paltry handful of his forces bottled within its walls. Attempts were made to break the siege, yes, but the slow trickle of unorganised and unprepared farmers were no match for the icy-veined Danish invaders. Many of the peasant militias retreated immediately, returning to their lands where they could pretend they had received no news from any courier. Those possessing of more mettle were intercepted before they could tempt the garrison into sallying forth, and mercilessly routed. The Danish offer to accept a surrender was refused.

The army had lived off tithes of food demanded from surrounding villages throughout the winter. Charles expressly ordered his men to allow the peasants to go about their business without overly much harassment, enabling them to till their new lord’s fields and live out their quiet - and most importantly, loyal – lives. Pledges of obedience were extracted (sometimes at swordpoint) from village elders and thegns. There was no warm welcome or cultural amity for Charles and his men here. The Danelaw had not encompassed this side of the Pennines, instead stretching to the south and midlands. They were not considered a returning liberator; just another foreign occupier. Which lord it was that took the taxes made little difference to the peasants – life was much the same with one king or another - Saxon, Norman, Scottish or Danish. Despite this, there was still there ever present resentment from the aristocracy, and their machinations would likely be the crux of any sedition that came about.

The fields surrounding Carlisle were left barren, with weeds springing up and strangling the few straggling ears of barley that germinated. They were growing up through the ashes of the fields Charles’ forces had torched some time earlier. Later that same night, the soldiers had watched the distant flickers of burning roofs as the citizens of Carlisle rushed to put out the falling embers in the thatch. Morale within the town had been in steady decline since that point, and the demands made of the Earl ever louder and more hostile. The population was becoming tumultuous, and should the food run out it was likely they would riot – invading army outside or not. It was during the 5th month of the year of 1078 that Charles’ patience finally gave out and he ordered the attack. Two great rams had been built from local wood, and covered over with treated hides from slaughtered cattle for protection. The army was broken into two parts, one aiming to batter down the front gate, and another punching a hole through the palisade slightly to the west.

Charles could see the second wing of his army on the brow of a hill some distance away, off on the flank. The main body of the force was clustered around the town gate in front of him. He heard a crash and a distant cheer as a portion of the wall caved in. The main force was still working at the gate, which appeared to have been reinforced. Kicking his horse’s flanks, he powered the beast forward to the rear of the milling formations, with Erik in close pursuit. “Kasper, Nygaard is through the wall! He’s beating you!” Light heartedly goading the grizzled warrior was one of Charles’ little hobbies, one he happily participated in when possible with a wry smile of amusement. Slamming his sword into its sheaf, Kasper spat on the floor in disgust.

“Like hell he is. You’ll kiss a heathen pagan goddess before that wretch gets the best of me!” Muttering foul curses, he strode through the crowd and threw one of the young lads on the ram out of the way. “What are you whelps looking at? Put your bloody back into it!” he bellowed as the others faltered. Acting with a new rigour, great splinters began to shear off the doorway’s frame. From the other side of the wall, bellows and screams were audible. The archers had stopped firing over the wall now there were Danish swordsmen in action on the other side. As the hinges buckled and the great gates burst inwards, Charles unsheathed his own blade.

“Men, through the breach! Kill them all!” The Danish foot poured through the opening, spoiling for a fight and prepared for blood. The gate was abandoned – the enemy appeared to have redeployed to the broken hole in the wall. “Move up the slope and support Thegn Nygaard!” With Kasper at the forefront, a unit of swordsmen charged off up the hill, following the curve of the wall. A short distance ahead, a heavily depleted squad of local spearmen could be seen fleeing from a deadly melee with Nygaard’s own household troops. Seeing the reinforcements charging towards them, the spearmen clattered to a halt and tried to muster what defence was possible. As the Danes closed in on both sides, they cried prayers to a God that had clearly abandoned them, and prepared to die.

While the fight was on-going, a sheet of arrows arced over the houses and landed among the combatants, piercing Saxon and Dane alike. Several fell to this indiscriminate fire. The Danish light cavalry scouts immediately responded by charging off to take care of this new threat, finding the archers protected by a force of rival light cavalry on the main road leading to the market square. Crashing into the skirmishers a bloody fight ensued, with Scandanavian axe meeting English blade and blood flowing freely across the Cumbrian cobbles. The moment hung in the balance until Charles personally tipped the odds, leading a devastating charge on the enemy horse’s flank.

The supporting infantry led by Nygaard and Kasper arrived a short minute later, routing the archers. The fight once again hung in the balance as the Lord of the region, Earl Ausbord of Carlisle, arrived with his household retinue of knights. The Company of 38 as they were locally known, slammed into the Danish front rank to support their lighter brethren. This fierce combat continued for some time, while the Danes slowly ground the mailed knights down with their superior numbers. Charles himself duelled for a long while with a huge Saxon knight on horseback, trading blow for blow and suffering a slash across his arm after his shield was ripped away. The battle came to an ignoble end for the Saxon when a foot swordsman hamstrung his mount, throwing him to the floor.

“Enough! Enough of this madness!” The Earl of Cumberland spurred his horse into a canter, barrelling past the swordsmen who opposed him. Wheeling in the centre of the square, he ripped off his helm and threw it to the floor. “Enough! There has been enough death on this day!” Charles did not speak much English, but the shared past of both languages made the gist of the Earl’s intent clear enough. This was made clearer when his sword followed the helm to the floor. “I surrender Carlisle to your leader! Let my men go alive, and I surrender to you!” Charles lifted his visor as silence slowly spread across the scrum of men, Saxon and Dane glaring venomously at one another over raised blades. Each of the remaining knights and the few surviving English foot were now fully surrounded.

Slowly but unhappily, the rest of Earl Ausbord’s men dropped their own weapons. Whooping cheers and bellows broke out from the Danes, clattering their blades against their shields in celebration. Several men took off towards the gates to tear down Earl Ausbord’s heraldry and replace it with the black raven. Charles trotted towards his defeated counterpart, with a very battered looking Eric accompanying him. Kasper extracted himself from the thronging men and joined the entourage. His helm had been almost cleaved in half by a sword blow, and one eye had been closed up by a light slash that had already swollen. It was nothing short of a miracle that the leathery soldier wasn't injured more severely. Eric lent towards Charles and muttered in his ear while they approached their captive. “Be careful with this man. Some lords would rather die than surrender to a victor. He may try to take you with him.”

Charles smiled sweetly in response. “Why good Eric, so suspicious! That’s what you’re here to stop!” Eric snorted and sat upright in his saddle once more. They pulled alongside their despondent prisoner. “Dǫnsk tunga?” Charles queried hopefully, wondering if he spoke any Norse. The Earl shook his head. Charles similarly knew no more English, and that blasted chaplain Mikel was no-where to be found, just when he may have been some use as a translator. Considering the current militancy of the Catholic Church, the priest had a surprising aversion to blood and tended to avoid battlefields whenever possible. “Latin?” he offered. Ausbord nodded. Latin was often one of the only unifying languages spoken by both the clergy and the more pious of the European aristocracy. Continuing in rough Latin, Charles accepted the surrender on the terms that the Earl surrendered his troops and lands and spoke the pledge of allegiance to himself primarily, and then King Knud of Denmark. These terms were accepted with poor grace, the Saxon lord and his remaining retinue spitting the words through gritted teeth.

Charles decided the best place for Ausbord to be would be nearby, and inducted him into his personal household where he could be kept under watch and out of trouble. It perhaps would have been less hassle to execute him, but Charles found this course of action disagreeable. It was one thing to kill a man in battle – it was another altogether to cut him down while unarmed and surrendered. Murdering nobles after battles set an uncomfortable precedent the Prince wasn't particularly eager to establish. Being stripped of his fiefdom and witnessing his men’s slaughter was probably punishment enough. Leaving the previous lord of the land behind for dissidents to rally around would have been unforgivably negligent in any case.

That evening, the victory-drunk soldiers celebrated by pillaging the town, cowing the remaining residents into terrified obedience. Charles allowed the transgression to slide, instead taking a percentage of the recovered spoils; after all, these people were not of the Danelaw. With enough time, truly that would change.

[Merchant of Venice]

I liked the chapter, great battle description. On the pictures, you may want to get rid of the green circles underneath your men's feet. It takes away from immersion. Is the first picture yours as well. Even if it isn't, it is quite a magnificent artwork and sets the precedent nicely for the rest of the chapter.

[General Retreat]

First of all, huge thanks to Wolar, mAIOR and Merchant for the support, despite my inexcusable tardiness.

I've got medieval working again, so I'll now be posting with some regularity. I even have a plan for my campaign following England (if William doesn't throw me off the island)! Still, you know what they say: no plan survives the first arrow being loosed.

The first picture isn't anything I can lay claim to, sadly. I actually found it on Google as an unrelated result while searching for 'burning medieval villages'. I believe it was originally in an article with the Daily Mail, about a viking fire festival on the Shetland Isles.

[Wolar]

You're welcome and keep up the great work!

[Tigellinus]

First of all, huge thanks to Wolar, mAIOR and Merchant for the support, despite my inexcusable tardiness.

I've got medieval working again, so I'll now be posting with some regularity. I even have a plan for my campaign following England (if William doesn't throw me off the island)! Still, you know what they say: no plan survives the first arrow being loosed.

The first picture isn't anything I can lay claim to, sadly. I actually found it on Google as an unrelated result while searching for 'burning medieval villages'. I believe it was originally in an article with the Daily Mail, about a viking fire festival on the Shetland Isles.

How do you get the pictures at such an amazing quality? They look amazing!

[General Retreat]

For the title pictures, it's usually just a case of shrewd searching on Google. Be very specific with the keywords and you'll find what you're looking for. A careful use of the crop tool can also do wonders (for example, removing a county lane from the bottom of the picture of the snowy pennines). Beyond that, all of the borders, shading and contrast alterations are done through image hosting sites such as imgur and photobucket.

For the ingame shots a liberal use of the pause button is happening. Usually I'll pause the game whenever anything particularly dramatic is happening (a big charge; the tipping point of a big melee) and take a ton of pictures. Browsing through afterwards, I'll pick the best 3 or 4 and then crop them until they're the right size and scale.

Next post is coming this afternoon after I get back from work.

[General Retreat]

Swords of the Sea
II-IV – Hell to Pay, winter 1078.

"Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists the authorities resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment. "

-Christian Bible, Romans 13:1-7.

"T

hat is enough!” Charles glared stony-faced at the rest of his War Council. Eric lounged laconically in his chair and chewed his nails, while Kasper tugged on his beard in exasperation and returned a cold frown. Mikel had his hands clasped together so tightly they had turned pale white, his eyebrows knitted in frustration. The captive Earldorman Ausbord sat on the stone floor in the room’s corner, while the door guards watched him owlishly. “We will hold this town, reinforcements or no! I have sent the request to my lord father the King, and he will honour it!” In truth, Charles had appealed several times for more men over the last few months, to no avail. The messages had left aboard merchant ships, and either resulted in empty placations, or absolute silence. The prince stalked over to the roaring fireplace, and tossed a log onto the inferno, raising a sheet of incandescent sparks. He brooded there for a moment, melting away the winter chill before returning to his advisors.

Mikel cleared his throat hesitantly, speaking softly. “My prince – every man here loves your father as they love you, but… the nobles of Jutland and Sjaelland… many do not see him so. This is the truth, no?” He paused again, testing the water. “In Sashen, many of the Old Families respect only you. Across the rest of the kingdom, your lady mother rallies more admirers, and of her, there are… stories. Baseless to be sure!” It was not without merit that King Knud was known as ’The Cuckold’. Mikel continued swiftly. “But it could well be that your father’s demands are being intentionally ignored while you are away. It would suit… some… of the noble families greatly should you perish or be discredited.” Kasper grunted testily. He hated enemies he could not sink a blade into, although he would have been sorely tempted to try after a month of Arrhus’ court intrigues.

“Well, that’s bloody fine,” he snapped. “We’re stuck out here in the bloody English hinterlands, on the wrong side of the mountains, blocked from the sea, cut off from reinforcements – which probably aren’t bloody coming in any case!” His face was now flushed red, save for the healing wound that ran from his temple down to the corner of his lip. He had been lucky the knight’s blade had not sliced open his eye. A Cumbrian wise woman had treated the laceration with a foul smelling paste that had been mulched from local bark. It itched and stung, but had staved off infection and purification. Looking for something else to be angry about, he turned and glared at Ausbord who had been watching intently, obviously trying to scry some meaning from the bickering Norsemen. “You’re lucky you didn't get the axe,” he spat, pointing an accusing finger. Ausbord simply grinned sardonically at his captors, irritating Kasper further.

Charles slammed his fist to the table, upsetting the goblet that had been resting there. “Kasper, enough! Calm yourself before I have you removed and install Thegn Nygaard Torsson in your place!” Silence descended over the room once more. After a moment, Charles continued. “We’re holding Carlisle. I did not cremate the corpses of 50 good men to abandon their gains to the Bastard. We have enough men to hold until my father sends more. 160 of our countrymen stand ready to man the walls, and 113 Yorkshire levies to support them.” Mikel nodded, following the routine this discussion had followed the previous three times.

“And what if the Normans attack, my prince? Or even the Scottish? We have no way to replace those Danes who fall in this land without Jutland’s support. We could stave them off, perhaps, but not indefinitely. To expand our realm would be unthinkable. The Anglo-Saxons of this county hold no love for us in their hearts – they will not fight, and those who do will be unreliable at best.” Charles dismissed his concerns with a contemptuous roll of his eyes. The chaplain pressed on regardless. “We are overextended here. We do not have the resources to defend all of our territories. In the name of our Lord Father and the holy Spirit above, this is the sad truth.”

Eric finished nibbling and sat up, quaffing ale from a mug liberated from the Earl’s kitchen before continuing. “The Cumbrians may not have any love for us, but neither do they for the Normans. What they do love,” he said fishing around in his pocket, “is coin.” To punctuate his point, he tossed a Dane korsmønter onto the table top. It rolled to a stop with the head of a king facing up – a silver impression of Cnut the Great minted in Arrhus nearly a century ago. “Mercenaries could well make up the numbers we need until we can bring in more men from the homelands.”

Mikel shook his head. “And how do we intend to pay for these men? Soldiers are not the only thing the king has stopped sending, as you well know.” Eric laughed mirthfully.

“Why good chaplain, I seem to recall seeing you poking around in the Earl’s treasury during the sack after the battle! I'm sure we could appropriate some of your well-deserved wages.” Mikel turned crimson at the allegation. “In any case, dead men don’t need wages. Battles are dangerous affairs. For the rest, raise the taxes here and in York – I'm sure the peasants will happily foot the bill for their own survival.”

“It is not a bad idea,” Charles conceded, much to Mikel's panic. “Kasper, assign some of your men to go out into the country and see which men are prepared to take silver. We can call them up on short notice if they are up to standard. I do not like the idea of raising taxes though. The peasants are no good to us if they are destitute and starving.” The chaplain covered his sigh of relief with a hasty half-cough. Grumbling, Kasper knuckled his forehead and pushed his chair back, preparing to leave. Before he could, there was a rap at the door and a courier rushed in, similarly saluting.

“My prince, I have urgent news! A procession of mounted men bearing the banners and sigils of Normandy are at the gates, demanding access in order to hold an audience with you. What should we instruct the guards?"

Charles looked to his advisors in surprise. William had let them be for almost a year. Why now? “Allow them entrance on the terms they surrender their blades and take an oath of peace that shall bind them for the duration of their stay. I will summon their leader to the audience rooms when I am ready.” The messenger knuckled his forehead again and rushed away. Charles frowned. “Kasper, I think you’d be best staying here to help me greet our new guests. All of you, with me now. We are done here - we hold Carlisle, and my decision is final.”

***

Almost an hour later the dignitary entered the stony hall. Charles was sat on the wooden throne Ausborg would previously have ruled his earldom from. He carefully watched the figure enter. He was a man of the cloth - opulently tailored and gold-laced cloth, admittedly - but of a religious nature nonetheless. His attire, while travel worn, marked him as a senior Bishop. Mikel shifted uneasily at the sight. A stout but brawny man-at-arms accompanied him, wearing a tabbard bearing the twin lions of Normandy. Notably, his sword belt was bare. The priest nodded his head in acknowledgement of Charles' existence, but did not stoop so low as to be subservient. Kasper whispered into Charles' ear discreetly as the clergyman approached. "The Bastard has sent a holy man because he does not believe we will kill him." Almost imperceptibly, Charles nodded in agreement.

The prince broke the silence first, defaulting naturally to Latin. "So, Duke William finally sends an emissary." A careful emphasis was placed on duke. "What is your name?"

The Bishop smiled, revealing the countenance of the perfect political predator. "By the grace of God, I have the honour of being Geoffrey de Montbray, faithful servant of the immortal kingdom of Heaven, and humble shepherd of the people of England." He carefully adjusted the shawl around his shoulders, ensuring the golden crucifix hanging from his neck was clearly obvious. "I come to you today on behalf of King William I, rightful ruler of these isles."

Charles leaned forward. "I do not recognise that claim, and neither does the Lord God. The rightful heir of the English throne is the descendent of the blood of High King Cnut the Great; grandfather of my king and father, Knut of Denmark. In his name, I reclaim this land." Geoffrey's smile stiffened.

"The rightful heir was Edward the Confessor, who promised the throne to King William before God and men. The omens that preceded my liege's victory over the usurper claimants clearly demonstrated God's will." Charles snorted.

"You see what you will, priest, but you are wrong. What do you want of me?" Charles' tone had hardened to the point of menace.

Once more all evangelical benevolence, the Bishop smiled warmly. "To reward you for services rendered. The rebel traitors of York and Carlisle have been subdued. King William wishes to thank you for your efforts. I have with me 5,000 livres of silver, with a further stipend of 1,000 per year to be paid to your personal treasury for a further three years once your men have returned across the sea." He paused for a moment. "What happened to the local lords of these settlements?"

Charles simply laughed. "You think you can bribe away this land's rightful rulers? You are more deluded than your bastard ruler." He dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "We have no more to say to one another. You may rest here until you are ready to travel, then you can crawl back to Duke William and tell him how your efforts fared. Leave me."

A great darkness came over de Montbray's face, and he drew himself up to his full height. "For he is God's servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God's wrath on the wrongdoer. Romans, chapter 13. The Bible has many answers to those who stray from God's path. You have been warned, young prince." He motioned for his guard to leave, and the pair marched from the room.

Outside the wind rose to a howl. It brought the first hints of snow and the bitter promise of an even colder future.

[Merchant of Venice]

Interesting, I wonder who will strike first at Carlisle?And what of the Scottish, they have been silent but I feel a storm coming. Some great insight to some of the characters here and well done with the dignitary as well.

[Wolar]

Some great insight to some of the characters here and well done with the dignitary as well.

Indeed. +Rep.

[General Retreat]

Thanks guys.

I'm away for the weekend so the next post should be up by Sunday evening or Monday afternoon.

I've also entered the MAARC with Swords again. It'd be great if you could go and check out the other entrants and ask the authors of any other AARs you like to submit theirs.

[mAIOR]

Nice developments. Can't wait to see what happens next. Turning to mercenaries is bold strategy. How is their loyalty in DM? The actions of Duke William are indeed nice. It's better to try and bribe someone than it is to support the costs of a full military campaign. I also like the prince's worries with the peasants. People tend to forget that if peasants didn't eat, then i was likely the nobleman followed. Nice read.

[mAIOR]

One further topic, I knew your AAR reminded me of something...
I have recently began rewatching Terry Jone's Medieval lives So far your AAR seems spot on

[General Retreat]

Just a quick update to let you all know that I've been messing around with the first post. There is now a content box that contains character descriptions and an index of the more unusual terms. If you think there're any other words I've used that need definitions, let me know here and I'll jump on it.

The character descriptions for chapter two will be coming up shortly, as will the next complete post in the AAR (sorry it's a bit late).

EDIT: This is also now a map in the first post.

[General Retreat]

Swords of the Sea
II-V – Familiar Faces, summer 1079.

"Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers: though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe."

-William Shakespeare, Cymbeline: Act III, Scene IV. 1623.

T

he Bishop’s words had cast a fog over the people of Carlisle. Word had spread soon enough that once more the Anglo-Normans to the south would rekindle the fires of war and march north, beating the drums of death. A shrill excitement thrummed through the Danish defenders, eager to face their true foe and reclaim the lost lands from the Norman occupiers. It was thought that York would be the first target in any campaign, given that it was the Danes’ strongest position and only point of access to reinforcements from abroad. Consequently, the newly completed stone keep of York was where Charles vowed he would be to blunt the offensive. He had weathered the winter in Cumberland, commissioning a great wooden wall to be built around the town that would put its paltry palisade to shame. He had toured his new lands, further affirming the pledges of loyalty that had been previously offered under duress. With these vows in place, a tenuous bond was struck between the governing and the governed – the few remaining Saxon nobles would provide levies of men, food and coin while the crown would establish peace and rule of law.

Prior to his departure, he rewarded his men for their services. The Norse swordsmen – progenies of the lavadel nobility – were conferred tracts of land, confiscated from those Anglo-Saxons who had resisted their conquest. The youth of Holstein and southern Schleswig in particular were rewarded, anchoring the region’s loyalty even further to their jarl and prince; several were inducted into the prince’s retinue to replace the fallen. Each man was then responsible for maintaining the king’s law within his fief, investing a personal stake in the stability of the realm. A fief in rebellion was a fief that was no longer paying for its lord’s lifestyle. These landowners owed the crown a military obligation, although the precise nature of each individual arrangement varied. Many were given feudal castle-guard tenures, requiring them to send troops to man the garrisons of local settlements for a set number of days in the year. Others were bestowed a knight’s tenure, which necessitated the levying of men for the king’s army in times of war. A knight’s obligation was far heavier, but also carried with it the possibility of far greater future reward for those who performed well.

When Charles rode to the south-east, the procession was short. He took little more than his household retinue and a short baggage train of mules with provisions for the trip. Progress was slow, awkwardly navigating the overgrown trail paths and picking past fallen trees and other obstructions. Throughout Cumberland the peasants in the fields they passed locked themselves in their homes or ran to hide in the nearby forests. The men and women of the north had long since learned that processions of horsemen were bad news, usually bringing either demands for loot, or offering a descending blade. The journey was quiet due to this, with little to occupy the men save idle chatter and the passing countryside. Ausbold was riding with the luggage on a donkey to the rear of the convoy, with the reins lashed to the pommel of the horseman beside him. Mailed outriders roamed ahead and lagged behind, ensuring no surprises took their lord unawares.

It was on the fourth day of travel that one of the riders returned at a gallop, appearing over a ridge and heading straight for the prince. Reigning in his panting steed, he bowed from the saddle. He was one of the recently promoted men of Schleswig – Erlfried Frumsson. “My lord, news from ahead. Me and Gerhard saw a town, the one with the burned and broken church by the river. There are two banners flying from the gate – yours and another we don’t recognise. Looked Norman.” Charles frowned. If a Norman raid had made it that far north, couriers would have informed him. His banner would likely have been removed and burnt as well.

“Were you spotted?” The blonde-haired Norseman shook his head. “You’ve done well, lad.” He loosened his blade in its scabbard. “Tell the others to return to the luggage and don their armour. We’ll ride forth and investigate this immediately. We take no chances.” Erlfried bobbed his head again and heeled his horse to a trot, passing from man to man. Over the next thirty minutes the soldiers struggled into their chainmail, plate being far too heavy and cumbersome to use in the field on short notice. Suitably armed, the column rode forth, Erlfried and Gerhard racing ahead as bannermen, holding the Danish standard high to catch the rays of the setting sun. Before long they found themselves outside the town gate which had been shut for the evening. A nervous watchman examined them pensively from atop of the wall.

“Who goes there?” He called in English. Neither rider spoke much of the tongue and waved the banner in reply. What little they knew came from getting drunk with the natives, a time when their memory was not at its most receptive. “Open the gate!” they shouted in a rough approximation of the language. Peering at the proffered banner the militiaman turned pale, looking in turn at the pendants flapping from the wall he was stood on. Nearly dropping his spear he ran from his post, shouting for the gate to be hauled open. Elfried remained at the gate with the banner while Gerhard galloped away to report to the approaching horsemen. A few minutes later the entire party was assembled in the market square. A short and richly dressed Englishman stood waiting for them, clasping his hands nervously. Ausbold was hauled forward to act as an interpreter, translating Charles’ Latin into understandable English.

“You, name yourself,” Charles growled. Ausbold and the man exchanged words for a minute, the local apparently expressing some incredulity at seeing the lord of Carlisle there. The earldorman replied tersely.

“He is Egbert Helzson, town-reeve for Ripum. That is a sort of landowner of the nobility, above a thegn but lesser than… myself.” Charles nodded, not caring to point out the reality of Ausbold’s current situation.

“What is the other banner that is flying from the gate?” As this was asked, the militiaman returned to the square with another figure in tow. It was dirty, unshaven and wobbling as if heavily drunk. His clothes were equally grimy and tatty. The reeve simply pointed at the drunk before explaining.

“That man is a foreign noble who stated he wished to serve the people fighting the Normans. That is his heraldry. He paid the townspeople to put it up to attract your attention. Allegedly this… man… did not want to approach York with his knights lest your garrison took the wrong impression.” Charles frowned at the unsteady wretch who had now stopped next to the reeve, who began to slowly edge away. Suddenly Ausbord’s composure cracked and he burst out laughing.

“Why, it’s the infamous hopper lord! You’d do well to steer clear of this dog. Ralph de Gaulder, known traitor and alleged coward.” De Gaulder immediately unsheathed his blade and levelled it at Ausbord, causing twenty mounted knights to draw their own weapons in response. Charles raised a calming hand to ease their fears. The inebriated Breton probably wouldn't have been able to hit the flank of a horse if he was pushed towards it.

“I undershtand what you’re sayin’,” he slurred in pig-Latin. “Jus’a well for you m’not interested in our Norse friend’s local pets.” Ausbord clenched his fists and ground his teeth, obviously itching for a blade of his own. De Gaulder threw his sword to the floor in front of Charles’ horse and dropped to one knee. “M’lord, you have the service of Earl Ralph d’Gaulder and the service of my man. Men. 24 of, of the finest Breton knights on the continent!” He lurched unsteadily to his feet. “I - I’ve only one condition. When you march south, I go with you and spill Norman blood.”

He paused. “Two. Two conditions. Geoffery de Montbray. I take his head.”

[Merchant of Venice]

Another excellent chapter. I am starting to really like the quotes at the beginning of each chapter. Well done

[mAIOR]

Nice development... Ah dude, I love the society portrayal. Sometimes I have to re-read certain sentences because I can't understand them the first time because it is simply a completely different society with a completely different set of values and priorities. Kudos and I'll rep you when I can or remember. Pip pip mum's the word, bob's your uncle and that kind of gibberish. Keep it up

ps: really enjoy the map. It makes things easier when you have correct spatial awareness.

[Axis Sunsoar]

Well crafted characters! Greatly enjoying the way Charles and his fellows are developing at the same time the story is, which makes for an excellent read.

[General Retreat]

Just a quick update for anyone who may be following - the lack of updates has generally stemmed from a dissatisfaction with the way the campaign AI is behaving. The English have one large army which is sat just south of London staring down some rebels, and the rest of their settlements are garrisoned by single units or generals.

The stuff of epics it is not. I may restart the campaign and tinker with the settings to try and spice things up - having the campaign AI set to Very Hard would probably be a good start. I'll rush things up to the point that they are now, then carry on where I left off.

Also, good god - nearly 2,000 views! I'm humbled. Thanks to everyone who's shown an interest.

[Tigellinus]

You're a good writer, Retreat you deserve those views!