Hogswill in Burgundy (closed pre-game RP)

[Barry Goldwater]

The year is 1478, three years before the death of King Edward IV of England. His kingdom, supported by the Duchy of Burgundy, remains at war with the French.

The sun has gone down while a full moon rises to take its place amidst the stars, marking the end to a crisp autumn day. Hours prior, a combined Anglo-Burgundian force managed to - at great cost to themselves - repulse the advance of a larger French army towards Flanders, one of the wealthiest domains within the broader Duchy of Burgundy. Now, only a few hours' march away from a battlefield still blanketed in blood-soaked corpses, the victors are throwing a celebration at their camp: this is the first time in the four years since the fall of Neuss that the Burgundians have won a battle, and the first victory of any import won by the Anglo-Burgundian alliance in general in the eastern theater of the Hundred Years' War's 'second Edwardian' phase since it began three years ago. Casks of beer and wine are broken open, roaring campfires illuminate the length of the two armies' encampments, beasts as great as boars and as small as rabbits are turned over them, and even the poorest Flemish pikeman or English bumpkin-turned-archer is treated to as much ale, warm bread and onion soup as they can stomach this night. The cool night wind, already neutralized by those aforementioned campfires, has further been drowned out beneath the voices and laughter of near twelve-thousand men, men who feel equal parts triumphal joy and relief at having survived the day's bloody events.

At the very heart of the English camp, three lords gather for a private feast of their own, away from the rank-and-file kicking back & letting loose outside. The Dukes of Gloucester, Buckingham and Suffolk, architects of the recent victory at Coutiches and de-facto commanders of the combined English and Burgundian armies (on account of the Duke of Burgundy himself having become food for the crows an entire year prior) would be treating themselves to a more dignified manner of celebratory triumph - a well-deserved rest after plucking the first fruit of a grueling, 18-month campaign where they marched from one nightmarish battlefield to the next, pulling their hairs out as they pored over complicated strategies where the fall of all Burgundy was a possible consequence of any misstep, and losing to or achieving costly and insignificant victories over French armies. As the first English commander in Burgundian lands and son-in-law to the late Charles the Bold, the Duke of Gloucester was the de facto commander of the allied forces, and thus it was also his duty to host the feast this time.

Though known to be an austere and reserved man who disdained pomp and excess, for once in his life Duke Richard is pulling out all the stops: his pavilion has been freshly redecorated, and a team of servants are busily roasting the boar and two oxen that would serve as the centerpiece of the night even as others are cracking open casks of fine Bordelais rosé and Burgundian dark reds. The appetizers - trenchers laden with chestnut soup, anchovies crisped in breadcrumbs, roasted mushrooms, plums stewed in honey and cinnamon, a great pease pie and various salads - are already laid out across the dining table. There can be no doubt that even the normally uptight youngest son of York is glad for this opportunity to relax and take a breath. Now all that remains, besides the main courses of course, is for the three Dukes to make their appearance.

(this pre-game RP is closed to myself, BF and Oz)

[Oznerol]

Things had gone downhill in Burgundy, not only had the duke died foolishly against the Swiss, but the line of Good King René had recovered Lorraine. None had been able to prevent the many defeats and catastrophies that followed, not even the throughful and reflexive Gloucester. The three English dukes, deployed on the Burgundian front had faced defeats and routs together and in solitary: little ago Suffolk had led his own host that fought an indecisive battle against the French and had to yield ground before being circled and completely destroyed. That would have hurt his ego some time ago, but the debacle at Burgundy was so complete a defeat was just another in a long string of failures. News arrived from the East of Edward IV faring slightly better, but any scenario was hard fought. Suffolk, however, was willing to forget the past failures at a party, celebrating their first significant victory since Charles decided that facing a vastly superior foe in battle was a good idea. The English-Burgundian host was battered, but had survided, and some prominent lords, now vassals of the infant Philip IV, still served under their banners.
The duke of Suffolk, the ostentatious man he was, arrived with due pomp, but wearing the dark, black robes that were so increasingly fashionable in Europe, thanks to the cultural influence of the very duchy they were fighting for. John was approaching his fourtieth year, yet he remained reasonably well preserved. His heir, the earl of Lincoln, had remained with Lady Elizabeth and her aunt Margaret at the Burgundian court, he had indeed witnessed and took part in battle in the previous months, but the groomed successor of Suffolk was far too precious to be squandered in a battlefield and the campaign looked dire enough. Moreso, despite the boy's complains his presence with the duchess dowager of Burgundy was useful, keeping, along his mother Elizabeth and her sister Margaret, track of the events in the Burgundian court: there were many who whispered Margaret could be pressed by the Flemish cities and nobility to sign concessions or even sign peace with the French.
John de la Pole took a seat next to Gloucester, as senior-most noble in the tent and duke of the realm; and also in deference of his kindred to the house of York.

[Barry Goldwater]

The Duke of Gloucester was not looking very well, and not even his recent haircut (removing the curls that had descended to his shoulders, which had grown increasingly unruly as matters of war kept him from tending to his looks) and the custom-fitted black Burgundian doublet and robes he was wearing could conceal his countenance: paler and gaunter than usual, the already-thin fourth son of York now looked almost ten years older than the man of twenty-six he actually was. For once the hunchback was the least of his visible problems, as there were clearly bags & circles under his eyes and his bony hands were occasionally seized by minor tremors, both signs of heavy sleep deprivation. The stress of the last four years had obviously done a number on him: the worst had come last night, when he stayed up well after all his fellow lords and captains had left his pavilion to continue planning for the day's battle. He didn't even remember falling asleep, only that one moment he had been sitting in his chair with a wooden knight (representing French or Burgundian cavalry, he didn't recall which either) in one hand, pondering hills and archers and how to flank a fast-moving Swiss column - and in the next, he was being woken by servants for breakfast, then a march to the battlefield outside of Coutiches.

Well. At least that night had been dreamless, Richard was tiring of nightmares where he was trying to hold back a stampede of angry French knights or getting yelled at by his wife for not spending enough time with their son or cursing at his father-in-law's grave, shouting "You only had to listen!" at the site where a man infamous for never listening to others' advice was buried. And at least they had actually won a victory that matters, justifying all of the mad lengths they'd gone to in preparation for this battle; hours ago when the sun was still up the French were routed, their greater numbers turned into a liability at a chokepoint between two hills where with dismounted knights and armored billmen he managed to blunt the Swiss advance just long enough for his ducal peers to direct a cavalry charge around their flanks. Their offensive into Flanders had been repulsed, and between the utter mauling they'd given his northern army and his older brother's advances to the west it was difficult to imagine the King of France would try again anytime soon. As far as Gloucester was concerned, the only thing better than hitting the sheets and going to sleep for twelve hours after a near-totally-sleepless night was seeing some actual, positive results from that sleeplessness.

"Be welcome, brother Suffolk." He'd greeted the older Trimming Duke when the latter took the seat next to himself. The pease pie and anchovies before them were dreadfully tempting to Richard, who in addition to being sleep-deprived was also hungry on account of having barely touched his meal last night, but he gathered his composure and was determined to wait with dignity until Buckingham joined them before digging in. "At last, we have won a victory worth celebrating. After that thrashing we gave them today, I do not think we will have to worry about a French advance into Flanders again for some time." Christ Almighty, even the trenchers were starting to appear appetizing. "Margaret will be pleased to hear this, I'm sure."

[Oznerol]

"Hopefully"

Replied Suffolk. The royal duke had aged noticeably, thought Suffolk, who remained seemingly un-aged by all hardships, God knew how. Actually, he had been severely wounded, once, and his health had decayed slightly, as he was bed-ridden for few weeks; his face and appareance, though, remained well-kept for a man of his age. Could be the sturdy blood and constitution of his merchant forebears or the ruddiness of the Chaucers. His mother had lived to very old age and Suffolk seemingly was following her steps.

"At least the Flemish lands were preserved. Imagine the outrage in England if these lands were disturbed or ravaged by war!"

Flanders was the big market for the English wool. The very own Suffolk would suffer serious loses if that trade was to be disrupted.

"My wife and eldest speak of turmoil at Lille. The cities are discontent with the war and might force some kind of deal on my sister of Burgundy"

[Barry Goldwater]

"Agreed. Had we failed today, the tumult at home would have been...unpleasant, of this I am certain. Our wool mercers would have been not only outraged, but impoverished. And that would mean nothing but bad news for our royal treasury, which in turn, means bad news for our war effort." England was already fielding many tens of thousands of royal soldiers, liveried men and mercenaries in this war, and even with all this strength they were having difficulties against the larger French kingdom; Gloucester shuddered at how much worse the war could get if a quarter, a third or half of those men had to be dismissed for lack of funds, brought about by the collapse of the wool industry that a loss of the Low Countries would surely have caused. "As the ancient Romans say, the sinews of war are infinite money. Fortunately, we have managed to keep the French from severing those sinews this day."

Suffolk's next choice of topic immediately dimmed Gloucester's newly-brightened spirits. No, was the first thing he thought when the older duke mentioned that he'd heard of discontent in Flanders, that the Flemish cities and Burgundian aristocrats they had just saved from French overlordship at great cost to themselves were considering making a separate peace. No, they can't do that, not after all the time and efforts we just invested in saving them! I will not stand for it! The thought of such a betrayal angered the normally calm duke to the point where he suddenly wanted to grab a knife and drive it into the table, just so that he didn't shank some hapless servant in his wrath instead. But this time, at least, he just sniffed with pain and disapproval and replied as calmly as he could, "Then I pray these rumors of turmoil remain just that - rumors. The Burgundians owe us too much to back out now, as their young duke's grandfather and namesake did the last time Englishmen came to French shores to claim our king's birthright. Without us, the fleur-de-lis would already be fluttering over Bruges and Gent."

[Oznerol]

"That might be true, but they want no war, those unruly subjects have little interest in funding the expenses of a campaign or seeing their lands besieged. The estates of Flanders are bound to create trouble, might even want to curb the powers wielded by the regent, our sister Margaret"

Said Suffolk in a hushed tone.

"They also say Adolf of Egmond has been released from his imprisonement. The duchess tried this to not be spread around the land, but the rumor might be more than an actual rumor: if Guelders arises in rebellion we won't be able to hold ground for much longer"

John could do nothing but sigh. Holding the land against the French was hard enough for all of them. The English host looked nothing like the troops that once departed the realm and mercenaries, rascals and whatnot had increased in number to replenish the increasingly exhausted ranks. Even the dukes' own treasuries had been affected by the prolonged campaigning.

"Unless His Grace manages to crush the French completely..."

[Dirty Chai]

The Duke of Buckingham entered into the pavilion, wearing a weathered fur coat and a small brimless cap of faded red - burgundy, in fact. He aimed for the seat opposite Suffolk, while the train of retainers in his wake served as a trail of seated knights back to the entrance of the pavilion. Harry Stafford had a limp as he approached, slight, but everyone knew it was no battle wound. He didn't try to pass it off as one, either. He wasn't so pompous.

The young duke - a year or so younger than the royal duke as it happened - was no fighter. Though it could now be argued he'd seen enough conflict to know what was what and how to lead some men around competently, his activity in this war had been, from the beginning, intended to be only token. It'd been his mistake to come himself, he'd realized, though he also noted that perhaps his failure to show in person might have been equally detrimental. At least it seemed he might find some small gratitude or credit for being here.

That said, what he contributed was the least of the three dukes. Buckingham had built his affinity up with the intent of saving his coffers from the costs of war, and ended up only crossing the channel with around four hundred men under an indenture. He told Suffolk on his arrival in Hainaut that the crossing had cost more than their wages that year.

A large bulk of those men had since died, leaving Buckingham now with a small retinue of less a hundred - though quality it was, nearly all riding men and knights. And as much as he intended to be austere, he couldn't but feel compelled to aid his comrades and their cause by eventually sending word back to England: his lawyers and bankers were to withdraw as much of his standing coin as possible and send over notes of exchange so he could endow Gloucester's force with a little more coin. Thus, some new men appeared, speaking tongues other than English, for higher pay than was reasonable - i.e. soldiers of fortune. One of the captains boasted his father fought alongside Joan of Arc.

In battle this day was laid out a quite clear picture of how this entire campaign had gone for the Stafford Duke: He'd ordered his knights and men-at-arms into a cavalry charge on the sides of foot formations, trying to spearhead through and between two of them with brute force. This was successful, but at cost always. Buckingham watched from afar, as usual, and felt a sense of regret for not going with them. Every time there was combat, his followers dwindled more than he hoped or expected, but perhaps he just had unreasonable expectations? Gloucester seemed to not bat an eye at the men dying under his employ at every twist and turn. Was this what was to be expected? The limp was in fact from falling from his horse the other day, out of battle. The bay horse had been spooked by a snake in the grass and had sent its rider to the soil below, bruising a lower limb.

Harry now sat at the table and greeted his two peers. His once tawny hair was much darker than in years prior, due to aging possibly, and his figure had begun to become more and more square and less fine. If he wasn't here on campaign, he imagined his old eating habits at home would have given him an extra chin. His dark hair likewise seemed to be like that of his father and grandfather's - or at least, how he remembered them - and he wondered if with age he was beginning to appear more as they did.

"Are either of you familiar with the Almain's tongue?"

He glanced back towards the entrance of the pavilion.

"One of the captains out there seemed to be very frustrated with me."

[Lucius Malfoy]

Damn, it still hurts... thought George Neville, as he tries to move his right arm, which now was recently marred with nasty slash towards his shoulder, at least they didn't need to amputate. He doubted the Duke of Suffolk, his future father-in-law, would like having a one armed man to marry his daughter. His mind did bring some memories of his own father, the Marquess of Montagu, telling him stories of his own imprisonment during the reign of Henry VI and his release after the Battle of Towton. With them came the arguments of his father, who did not want his eldest son to join the war. George felt he needed it and thus sought out the Duke of Suffolk, becoming his squire at the age of thirteen. Thinking back on that first day, George knew he would not be returning to England as the same boy who left.

The heir to the titles of Montagu, Westmorland and Raby would be heading for the tent where the senior commanders sat, Suffolk, Gloucester and Buckingham. George had arrived with a few other of his father-in-law's retainers, but decides to remain outside where it was cooler. As his gaze scans the encampment, he believes it was certainly a battle to recount to his children one day. To tell of the skills of their grandfather, of Gloucester and Buckingham as well as George's own role as a squire, using his sword for one of the first times in his life. One could learn of battle through books, but to experience it was a whole another ordeal. He was fortunate to at least have lived to tell the tale.

As he walked outside, his gaze notices Sir Harold Kyriell, a squire of the Duke of Buckingham. The male appeared to be busy with sharpening the sword of Buckingham. He was a few years younger than George was, but a familiar face nonetheless. His youngest brother, Thomas, was destined to marry a Kyriell in fact.

Sir Harold.

George says plainly, as he approaches where the younger squire was working.

Looking forward to telling your father of your participation in this battle? Certainly your siblings would be in awe.

For him, Thomas was young enough to be in awe. His other brother, Richard, not so much. He wasn't easily amused.

[Barry Goldwater]

"That might be true, but they want no war, those unruly subjects have little interest in funding the expenses of a campaign or seeing their lands besieged. The estates of Flanders are bound to create trouble, might even want to curb the powers wielded by the regent, our sister Margaret"

Said Suffolk in a hushed tone.

"They also say Adolf of Egmond has been released from his imprisonement. The duchess tried this to not be spread around the land, but the rumor might be more than an actual rumor: if Guelders arises in rebellion we won't be able to hold ground for much longer"

John could do nothing but sigh. Holding the land against the French was hard enough for all of them. The English host looked nothing like the troops that once departed the realm and mercenaries, rascals and whatnot had increased in number to replenish the increasingly exhausted ranks. Even the dukes' own treasuries had been affected by the prolonged campaigning.

"Unless His Grace manages to crush the French completely..."

"Such a quick and decisive victory may indeed be our best hope." Gloucester agreed gloomily. From what he'd been hearing, the French had had the worst of the fighting in the west, but they still kept on coming nonetheless. He had no doubt that his brother the Lion of Mortimer was a mightier warrior than Louis XI, the French Spider - but what he did have growing doubts over was whether the French will to fight would crack before they ran out of soldiers to throw at English ranks. Even if man-for-man the English were better fighters, there had been several Frenchmen for every Englishman on almost every battlefield of this war. He sighed, and turned his eyes to the chestnut soup still steaming inside trenchers. "Then, let us do our utmost to help His Majesty attain that victory, and the sooner the better. Another day, of course...this night, at least, let us worry about something other than the war. Like how much beef and boar we can fit into our stomachs."

For the first time in a year, Richard of Gloucester cracked a thin smile.

The Duke of Buckingham entered into the pavilion, wearing a weathered fur coat and a small brimless cap of faded red - burgundy, in fact. He aimed for the seat opposite Suffolk, while the train of retainers in his wake served as a trail of seated knights back to the entrance of the pavilion. Harry Stafford had a limp as he approached, slight, but everyone knew it was no battle wound. He didn't try to pass it off as one, either. He wasn't so pompous.

The young duke - a year or so younger than the royal duke as it happened - was no fighter. Though it could now be argued he'd seen enough conflict to know what was what and how to lead some men around competently, his activity in this war had been, from the beginning, intended to be only token. It'd been his mistake to come himself, he'd realized, though he also noted that perhaps his failure to show in person might have been equally detrimental. At least it seemed he might find some small gratitude or credit for being here.

That said, what he contributed was the least of the three dukes. Buckingham had built his affinity up with the intent of saving his coffers from the costs of war, and ended up only crossing the channel with around four hundred men under an indenture. He told Suffolk on his arrival in Hainaut that the crossing had cost more than their wages that year.

A large bulk of those men had since died, leaving Buckingham now with a small retinue of less a hundred - though quality it was, nearly all riding men and knights. And as much as he intended to be austere, he couldn't but feel compelled to aid his comrades and their cause by eventually sending word back to England: his lawyers and bankers were to withdraw as much of his standing coin as possible and send over notes of exchange so he could endow Gloucester's force with a little more coin. Thus, some new men appeared, speaking tongues other than English, for higher pay than was reasonable - i.e. soldiers of fortune. One of the captains boasted his father fought alongside Joan of Arc.

In battle this day was laid out a quite clear picture of how this entire campaign had gone for the Stafford Duke: He'd ordered his knights and men-at-arms into a cavalry charge on the sides of foot formations, trying to spearhead through and between two of them with brute force. This was successful, but at cost always. Buckingham watched from afar, as usual, and felt a sense of regret for not going with them. Every time there was combat, his followers dwindled more than he hoped or expected, but perhaps he just had unreasonable expectations? Gloucester seemed to not bat an eye at the men dying under his employ at every twist and turn. Was this what was to be expected? The limp was in fact from falling from his horse the other day, out of battle. The bay horse had been spooked by a snake in the grass and had sent its rider to the soil below, bruising a lower limb.

Harry now sat at the table and greeted his two peers. His once tawny hair was much darker than in years prior, due to aging possibly, and his figure had begun to become more and more square and less fine. If he wasn't here on campaign, he imagined his old eating habits at home would have given him an extra chin. His dark hair likewise seemed to be like that of his father and grandfather's - or at least, how he remembered them - and he wondered if with age he was beginning to appear more as they did.

"Are either of you familiar with the Almain's tongue?"

He glanced back towards the entrance of the pavilion.

"One of the captains out there seemed to be very frustrated with me."

"Be welcome, my lord of Buckingham." Gloucester had said when the youngest of the Dukes present walked in. With Buckingham present, they could finally dig in...or so he had thought, until the other duke made an inquiry that, in turn, made Gloucester raise an eyebrow.

"I am afraid my German is too rusty to be of much assistance, though I can lend you the assistance of one of my translators instead if you require it. What cause do you think this captain have to be angry with you, anyway?" A few guesses crossed Richard's mind, but 'issues with pay' was the first among them. He too had been forced to recruit mercenaries to replace the fallen among his ranks, which had frustrated him. These professionals often asked for more than what he thought was a reasonable salary, and he couldn't help but wonder if they would betray him the instant he missed a payment. Far better to surround oneself with good, liveried Englishmen who one could understand and whose loyalties were in less doubt.

Damn, it still hurts... thought George Neville, as he tries to move his right arm, which now was recently marred with nasty slash towards his shoulder, at least they didn't need to amputate. He doubted the Duke of Suffolk, his future father-in-law, would like having a one armed man to marry his daughter. His mind did bring some memories of his own father, the Marquess of Montagu, telling him stories of his own imprisonment during the reign of Henry VI and his release after the Battle of Towton. With them came the arguments of his father, who did not want his eldest son to join the war. George felt he needed it and thus sought out the Duke of Suffolk, becoming his squire at the age of thirteen. Thinking back on that first day, George knew he would not be returning to England as the same boy who left.

The heir to the titles of Montagu, Westmorland and Raby would be heading for the tent where the senior commanders sat, Suffolk, Gloucester and Buckingham. George had arrived with a few other of his father-in-law's retainers, but decides to remain outside where it was cooler. As his gaze scans the encampment, he believes it was certainly a battle to recount to his children one day. To tell of the skills of their grandfather, of Gloucester and Buckingham as well as George's own role as a squire, using his sword for one of the first times in his life. One could learn of battle through books, but to experience it was a whole another ordeal. He was fortunate to at least have lived to tell the tale.

As he walked outside, his gaze notices Sir Harold Kyriell, a squire of the Duke of Buckingham. The male appeared to be busy with sharpening the sword of Buckingham. He was a few years younger than George was, but a familiar face nonetheless. His youngest brother, Thomas, was destined to marry a Kyriell in fact.

Sir Harold.

George says plainly, as he approaches where the younger squire was working.

Looking forward to telling your father of your participation in this battle? Certainly your siblings would be in awe.

For him, Thomas was young enough to be in awe. His other brother, Richard, not so much. He wasn't easily amused.

"I'm afraid I'm no sir yet, George." Harold replied jovially, looking up from his seat after smoothly sliding the whetstone down Buckingham's blade's left edge, a long-practiced movement that he could pull off with grace and ease now. I don't even know why, seeing as the owner rarely if ever ventures into the fight with this drawn, he had to bite back when he was ordered to stay out of the festivities to sharpen his master's sword, but 'quietly dutiful' were words that were used to describe the young Kyriell for a reason. A year ago he'd become squire to the Duke of Buckingham, an impressive feat for the son of a man who'd been born to a rather poor knight - or so Harold had thought. The heir to Cambridge then found that his new warden had actually intended only a token participation on this campaign, and scarcely ever charged into the thick of the fight himself; he could not be more different in that regard than Harold's own father, who loved a good fight and was frequently present in the King's vanguard many leagues to the west. Harold was now starting to resemble his bear-like father in looks as his muscles grew more noticeable and his honey-blond hair became unruly, and though he wasn't as bloodthirsty, he still thought it necessary for him - as a Kyriell, a scion of a family that had advanced its fortunes through battle - to actually fight.

"I am indeed, though it was less dashing than I had hoped. Lord Buckingham was quite insistent that I remain with him when he hung back, and it took a while for me to convince him to let me ride with the rest of his men." Thomas and Soleil could both appreciate a good war story, though the former was likely to have some of his own the next time they met - he was slated to squire for William Hastings, Earl of Northampton, and that man served in the ferocious 'western front' of this war. "He assigned me to the rear and center of our formation. When we crashed into the French flank, well, I hardly got to see anything or even swing my sword before it was over. It went by so quickly...I broke my lance off in some footman's breast and I think my steed may have run over someone else, but I have no great, heroic feats of arms with which to regale my own kin back home." Kyriell found his voice lowering when he spoke about killing two men. The first time had been difficult, not to mention a complete accident - in a skirmish a couple weeks earlier, he was trying to get a fleeing French footman to surrender when he instead drove his horse into the man and trampled him to death - yet still it haunted him, and for several nights after that he'd wake in a cold sweat with the image of the Frenchman's broken body seared into his brain. This time, he killed at least one person he'd actually meant to, and would have appreciated a stiff drink with which to forget the sight of half his lance buried in a rapidly-spreading pool of red on that other man's blue jack. But of course, sobriety was needed to properly sharpen a blade.

"And you, George? You seem to have taken quite a wound there." Harold couldn't repress a wince at the sight of Neville's wounded arm. At least it didn't look like it was in need of amputation. "How did that happen? Was Lord Suffolk more willing to send you into battle than Lord Buckingham had been for me?"

[Lucius Malfoy]

"I'm afraid I'm no sir yet, George." Harold replied jovially, looking up from his seat after smoothly sliding the whetstone down Buckingham's blade's left edge, a long-practiced movement that he could pull off with grace and ease now. I don't even know why, seeing as the owner rarely if ever ventures into the fight with this drawn, he had to bite back when he was ordered to stay out of the festivities to sharpen his master's sword, but 'quietly dutiful' were words that were used to describe the young Kyriell for a reason. A year ago he'd become squire to the Duke of Buckingham, an impressive feat for the son of a man who'd been born to a rather poor knight - or so Harold had thought. The heir to Cambridge then found that his new warden had actually intended only a token participation on this campaign, and scarcely ever charged into the thick of the fight himself; he could not be more different in that regard than Harold's own father, who loved a good fight and was frequently present in the King's vanguard many leagues to the west. Harold was now starting to resemble his bear-like father in looks as his muscles grew more noticeable and his honey-blond hair became unruly, and though he wasn't as bloodthirsty, he still thought it necessary for him - as a Kyriell, a scion of a family that had advanced its fortunes through battle - to actually fight.

"I am indeed, though it was less dashing than I had hoped. Lord Buckingham was quite insistent that I remain with him when he hung back, and it took a while for me to convince him to let me ride with the rest of his men." Thomas and Soleil could both appreciate a good war story, though the former was likely to have some of his own the next time they met - he was slated to squire for William Hastings, Earl of Northampton, and that man served in the ferocious 'western front' of this war. "He assigned me to the rear and center of our formation. When we crashed into the French flank, well, I hardly got to see anything or even swing my sword before it was over. It went by so quickly...I broke my lance off in some footman's breast and I think my steed may have run over someone else, but I have no great, heroic feats of arms with which to regale my own kin back home." Kyriell found his voice lowering when he spoke about killing two men. The first time had been difficult, not to mention a complete accident - in a skirmish a couple weeks earlier, he was trying to get a fleeing French footman to surrender when he instead drove his horse into the man and trampled him to death - yet still it haunted him, and for several nights after that he'd wake in a cold sweat with the image of the Frenchman's broken body seared into his brain. This time, he killed at least one person he'd actually meant to, and would have appreciated a stiff drink with which to forget the sight of half his lance buried in a rapidly-spreading pool of red on that other man's blue jack. But of course, sobriety was needed to properly sharpen a blade.

"And you, George? You seem to have taken quite a wound there." Harold couldn't repress a wince at the sight of Neville's wounded arm. At least it didn't look like it was in need of amputation. "How did that happen? Was Lord Suffolk more willing to send you into battle than Lord Buckingham had been for me?"

George glances down at the word on his arm, gripping it slightly as the numbing pain was felt for a few moments.

Tis but a scratch, Sir Harold. A mere scratch left by a French soldier who thought he could cut my arm off.

His life would have certainly ended if that had happened. Neville recalled the incident well; having fought off one French soldier and turned to fight another, his eyes had not noticed the movement beside him where the swinging arm of a second soldier was seen. His arm was merely cut though, purely by luck, when an English soldier tackled the foe, causing him to lose balance. The physician said, if the blade had been any closer, George would have surely lost his arm.

Quietly does he flex his arm, wincing slightly at the cut.

Nothing the physician couldn't heal thankfully. I wouldn't want to return home to my father seeing me one-armed.

He calmly sits down by where Harold was still working. George had never felt such an exertion like that of the battlefield, but it was certainly a life changing experience.

Heard anything from your father lately? He's over in Normandy with His Majesty correct?

[Dirty Chai]

"Well,"

Harry glanced back, snapping his gaze back to Richard with an expression that showed he was unsure whether he could be amused or not.

"My lord of Gloucester, I think he was your man, to be sure, so.."

[Barry Goldwater]

"Well,"

Harry glanced back, snapping his gaze back to Richard with an expression that showed he was unsure whether he could be amused or not.

"My lord of Gloucester, I think he was your man, to be sure, so.."

"He's one of mine?" Gloucester asked as the rest of his men began to dig in. He supposed it was plausible, he had after all hired several small companies of German handgunners. They were loud, loutish drinkers and womanizers, some of them were even Neussers (to his surprise, they were happy to take his gold despite the role he'd played in getting their hometown sacked), but they had served him well enough to earn their pay. And it could always be worse - he'd once found an outfit of deranged Polacks, Lithuanians and assorted scum from Tartary, and immediately deemed that it would be too cruel to inflict them on anyone. Even the French.

"Very well. I will meet this captain and try to assuage...whatever his issue may be. After supper." Normally the diligent and stoic Richard would try to get to the bottom of problems as quickly as possible, but this time he was famished and had spent the last couple of weeks dancing dangerously close to a full-blown nervous breakdown. As far as he was concerned, he deserved a break: if Jesus Christ were to return to the Earth right this instant, he'd ask for the Son of God to give him enough time to finish a boar before proceeding to Judgment. "Sir Catesby. Please inform this mercenary that I will be prepared to see him within one hour." Smooth-faced and smooth-tongued William Catesby, a knighted lawyer and clerk who was among Gloucester's inner circle and had a better grasp of foreign languages than his lord, nodded and rose to leave behind a half-empty trencher. "Lord Buckingham, if you would be so kind to have one of your retainers direct Sir Catesby to whichever captain you're speaking of?"

Meanwhile, the cooks continued to turn the boar and oxen over their roaring fires. Soon the main courses would be ready.

[Dirty Chai]

Stafford's eyes blinked a few times before he turned back to his left and gestured at one of his closest retainers.

"Latimer," Buckingham called out, soft-spoken. A man half-rose, curiously looking at his lord for a moment - then quite quickly realizing he was needed and pulled himself out of his chair just as soon as he had pushed himself into it.

"Sir Latimer, find that German that was just spewing at me on our way here. Sir Catesby here would like a word with him."

The silvered man wearing a simple red jacket (for he was no armiger and it was actually illegal of a lord to dispense badges and livery of his own) nodded with relaxed understanding and then gestured with his head after greeting his counterpart quietly. The two men began to walk away, murmuring as they aimed for the slits at the far side of the pavilion.

Harry sniffed, twitching his nose with a slight tickle, and transitioned from one matter to another.. conversation. Unlike Suffolk however, he seemed to grasp that this feast was not intended for talk of everything around them. Buckingham seemed to arrive into the tent with the awareness that inside this pavilion, they were in England, or far from here at least, and that the war outside may as well not exist. A poor job he was doing of pretending so far, though.

Something... something.. come now, what saint must I pray to, to become a savvy conversationalist?

"John," he said, instinctively referring to the other duke without his title, "Your mother was Great Chaucer's daughter wasn't she?"

He knew this, of course. If anyone had ever met the Duke of Suffolk, he'd not let them go without knowing who his grandfather was. It was a conversation starter. De la Pole liked to talk about Chaucer, his mother, his ancestry. Perhaps it was the low birth of his forefathers that made him so proud, Harry suspected, of what claims to legacy he did have. However, with that being thought, being Chaucer's grandson was no small legacy.

The Duke of Buckingham quickly added more to his query, so that de la Pole would go into the direction desired, rather than chide his much younger comrade-in-arms.

"That must come with a lot of tales."

[Oznerol]

"Such a quick and decisive victory may indeed be our best hope." Gloucester agreed gloomily. From what he'd been hearing, the French had had the worst of the fighting in the west, but they still kept on coming nonetheless. He had no doubt that his brother the Lion of Mortimer was a mightier warrior than Louis XI, the French Spider - but what he did have growing doubts over was whether the French will to fight would crack before they ran out of soldiers to throw at English ranks. Even if man-for-man the English were better fighters, there had been several Frenchmen for every Englishman on almost every battlefield of this war. He sighed, and turned his eyes to the chestnut soup still steaming inside trenchers. "Then, let us do our utmost to help His Majesty attain that victory, and the sooner the better. Another day, of course...this night, at least, let us worry about something other than the war. Like how much beef and boar we can fit into our stomachs."

For the first time in a year, Richard of Gloucester cracked a thin smile.

"I might have peeled my knees praying for a victory, my Lord. I hope Saint John intercedes for us before the Almighty"

He said so piously. It was known the duke carried a small altarpiece, painted by a Flemish master of note, with gilded framework and decorated with the ducal arms, it was as pious as it was ostentatious.

"I'm also weary of brooding, my Lord. I miss the pageants at the court, the tourneys, the hawking and even a small feast with a dozen companions"

Suffolk looked sincerely exhausted for the first time, he did really miss the pleasantries that had gained him his nickname. De la Pole had even defeated the Bastard of Burgundy in a tourney some years ago, but war was no tourney, despite what the pleasant-loving peers wanted to pretend and think. Blissful ignorance, in a tourney you couldn't contract dysentery and literally yourself to death.

Stafford's eyes blinked a few times before he turned back to his left and gestured at one of his closest retainers.

"Latimer," Buckingham called out, soft-spoken. A man half-rose, curiously looking at his lord for a moment - then quite quickly realizing he was needed and pulled himself out of his chair just as soon as he had pushed himself into it.

"Sir Latimer, find that German that was just spewing at me on our way here. Sir Catesby here would like a word with him."

The silvered man wearing a simple red jacket (for he was no armiger and it was actually illegal of a lord to dispense badges and livery of his own) nodded with relaxed understanding and then gestured with his head after greeting his counterpart quietly. The two men began to walk away, murmuring as they aimed for the slits at the far side of the pavilion.

Harry sniffed, twitching his nose with a slight tickle, and transitioned from one matter to another.. conversation. Unlike Suffolk however, he seemed to grasp that this feast was not intended for talk of everything around them. Buckingham seemed to arrive into the tent with the awareness that inside this pavilion, they were in England, or far from here at least, and that the war outside may as well not exist. A poor job he was doing of pretending so far, though.

Something... something.. come now, what saint must I pray to, to become a savvy conversationalist?

"John," he said, instinctively referring to the other duke without his title, "Your mother was Great Chaucer's daughter wasn't she?"

He knew this, of course. If anyone had ever met the Duke of Suffolk, he'd not let them go without knowing who his grandfather was. It was a conversation starter. De la Pole liked to talk about Chaucer, his mother, his ancestry. Perhaps it was the low birth of his forefathers that made him so proud, Harry suspected, of what claims to legacy he did have. However, with that being thought, being Chaucer's grandson was no small legacy.

The Duke of Buckingham quickly added more to his query, so that de la Pole would go into the direction desired, rather than chide his much younger comrade-in-arms.

"That must come with a lot of tales."

"Granddaughter actually"

He pointed out with a scowl.

"She was born few years after he died, but my grandfather, Sir Thomas, had plenty to tell about him, indeed"

Suffolk raised an admonitory finger.

"But... they were not inferior in intellect, my mother and grandsire, to the Achilles of letters! The chosen of Apollo and the Muses! Simply, they couldn't indulge in the letters like he did"

He scratched his chin.

"I remember one episode. Old King Edward was said to enjoy Chaucer greatly, and thusly, he granted him a daily gallon of wine for the rest of his life! It was some sort of private joke, because his father was a vintner and..."

De la Pole coughed, he had talked too much and revealled himself as the great-grandson of a wine-maker. He changed topic abruptly.

"Eh... my grandfather used to say that his sire hadn't met greater rascals than those he met in Italy. John Hawkwood, who hadn't still married the duke of Milan's daughter and was just a young Englishman as ugly as the devil, but craftier, made quite an impression on him. He said he hadn't met such a ruffian in his whole life. A man so sly that he pretended to be illiterate to fool his foes and who looked every inch the son of a tanner he was supposed to be. In fact, my great-grandsire verily knew he was no tanner's son: the Hakwood was a son of a noted landowner, but one who was so miserly and mean that he was known to 'skin' his debtors, thus the nickname"

Suffolk chuckled. He seemingly enjoyed telling tales. Certainly, Suffolk was verbose when wine and stories were involved.

"But, apparently, my great-grandsire was terribly scared by Visconti once, and he was such a villain that he mentioned him in a tale as villanous god of villany. My grandfather liked to remember how Chaucer used to threaten him with the 'Duke of Lumbardye' if he did anything bad as a child. My mother was also scared to death, when a mere toddler, by that unnamed Lombardian and, very ironically, she spent many of her days at mine house of Lombards' street"

He laughed at his own private joke.

[Barry Goldwater]

Richard nodded and exhaled slightly at Suffolk's words. He wasn't nearly as flashy and prone to hogging the spotlight as the flamboyant Trimming Duke, but he had long ago come to the conclusion that he'd rather sit through a million frivolous tourneys than fight Switzers again. Unfortunately, his duties required him to fight Switzers the day after that, and the day after that, and..."So do I, Lord Suffolk." Gloucester admitted. "When this all began I thought I would appreciate a change in scenery, away from England." And away from my brothers, that I might make something of myself out from under their shadows, he had thought but dared not say. Edward had been a generous patron and respected leader in his own right while George had been away making a name for himself in Ireland, leading Richard to believe he needed to match their accomplishments on his own, so that someday people would look past his scoliosis and his place in the House of York's birth order and respect him as a great man in his own right. He just hadn't imagined it would be this bloody difficult. "And an opportunity to prove myself equal to my brothers in ability. Yet now, there are only a few things I wouldn't give up if it meant I could go home tomorrow."

----------

Richard listened as Suffolk regaled them with tales of his Chaucer ancestors and the mercenary Hawkwood and finally Visconti, the baleful Duke of Lombardy. For a time he did so in silence, though that was out of politeness - he was eating something at the time, and in any case, he also knew it was rude to interrupt someone else. Once Suffolk had finished and he himself was done with his crisped anchovy he asked, "What did this Visconti do to earn such ill-repute?"

[Oznerol]

Richard nodded and exhaled slightly at Suffolk's words. He wasn't nearly as flashy and prone to hogging the spotlight as the flamboyant Trimming Duke, but he had long ago come to the conclusion that he'd rather sit through a million frivolous tourneys than fight Switzers again. Unfortunately, his duties required him to fight Switzers the day after that, and the day after that, and..."So do I, Lord Suffolk." Gloucester admitted. "When this all began I thought I would appreciate a change in scenery, away from England." And away from my brothers, that I might make something of myself out from under their shadows, he had thought but dared not say. Edward had been a generous patron and respected leader in his own right while George had been away making a name for himself in Ireland, leading Richard to believe he needed to match their accomplishments on his own, so that someday people would look past his scoliosis and his place in the House of York's birth order and respect him as a great man in his own right. He just hadn't imagined it would be this bloody difficult. "And an opportunity to prove myself equal to my brothers in ability. Yet now, there are only a few things I wouldn't give up if it meant I could go home tomorrow."

----------

Richard listened as Suffolk regaled them with tales of his Chaucer ancestors and the mercenary Hawkwood and finally Visconti, the baleful Duke of Lombardy. For a time he did so in silence, though that was out of politeness - he was eating something at the time, and in any case, he also knew it was rude to interrupt someone else. Once Suffolk had finished and he himself was done with his crisped anchovy he asked, "What did this Visconti do to earn such ill-repute?"

"Oh, living under someone else's shadow is troublesome indeed, my Lord of Gloucester. However, fear not, many will talk with awe of how Richard of York could stop the French and save Burgundy from a total collapse"

He replied, trying to comfort the duke.

"After Rutland himself, my wife always had you in great esteem, my Lord. You have to fear not about chafing under your brothers' heels: who will remember Clarence's exploits in Ireland when yours in France are sung in ballads? None"

----------

"A bit of everything I guess. From killing his brothers to rape and every sin known to man and devil alike"

Replied Suffolk with a shrug.

"My great-grandfather didn't like to talk about it, but I suspect it had something to do with Lionel of Antwerp's untimely death. A heavy silence weighted over that topic, both at court and at Ewelme. Before being in Gaunt's entourage, Chaucer served for many years in Clarence's household. He had get to know him well"

He wavered a hand.

"However, that tale is old as the root of the mountains already, and too sordid. There are more entertaining stories to be told and to be heard"

Suffolk really enjoyed Burgundian wine and the meals served before them. The duke stuffed his mouth frequently with the finest dishes, which he swallowed with the invaluable help of pouring down red wine down his throat.

[Barry Goldwater]

"Oh, living under someone else's shadow is troublesome indeed, my Lord of Gloucester. However, fear not, many will talk with awe of how Richard of York could stop the French and save Burgundy from a total collapse"

He replied, trying to comfort the duke.

"After Rutland himself, my wife always had you in great esteem, my Lord. You have to fear not about chafing under your brothers' heels: who will remember Clarence's exploits in Ireland when yours in France are sung in ballads? None"

"...thank you, Lord Suffolk." Gloucester said sincerely with a nod. It wasn't every day that someone told him he stood apart from his brothers, both great men in their own right. "And that is exactly why I cannot and will not leave for home, no matter how much I wish to some days. I've a duty to Edward, as both brother and leal subject, to see this war through to the end. And ensure that my nephew of Burgundy's demesne does fall apart, of course." And thus, the dutiful and serious part of Gloucester's character had reasserted itself. Though, at least he was still smiling.

"Elizabeth was closest to Edmund, but I remember her fondly all the same." Richard had answered when the topic changed, sounding wistful. "When I was young, she told me that instead of moping about my...condition," He cast a glance at his shoulder, concealed though it may have been under much heavy padding and black Burgundian cloth, "I should work to fix it instead. Hence, all of those intense sparring sessions I undertook from the age of seven. Obviously it didn't work, but it was thanks to her words that I am as strong as I am today. And that I don't obsess over this shoulder as much as I used to." It would seem Gloucester's memories of Elizabeth of York as a girl featured her being almost as proud and formidable as she was the day she helped cast down Margaret Percy.

------

"I cannot imagine Corvinus' lords gave him the funds to support such a magnificent, and dreadful, host easily. Especially not the Hunnish lords. A king like him must surely run a tight ship, so to speak." Gloucester commented as he sliced and devoured some boar meat. He washed it down with a chalice of claret - hogs like their swill after feeding, after all - before continuing, "I heard he married the daughter of the King of Bohemia before the Neapolitan princess. A heretic. Not that this marriage bore him any fruit, nor stopped him from making war on her father a few years after her death." The duke helped himself to a second serving of pork and beef, accompanied by a trencher of oxtail stew. "I wonder why His Holiness hasn't called another crusade to cleanse Bohemia of the heretics, actually. It's been nearly...fifty years since the last one, no? And these 'Hussites', who have much in common with the Lollards that troubled our kingdom, are a much closer foe to the heart of Christendom than even the Turk."

[Dirty Chai]

"What about Corvinus?" Harry asked

His attention was immediately drawn away by a platter of savory meats being placed before him, and Bucks' eyes went wide a little in some sort of delight. Stafford followed that up by giving his peers a knowing grin.

"He's devouring the emperor and the heretics the way I'm about to devour this pork."

[Oznerol]

"No mistery in eating Frederick: I've heard he's called the Arch-sleepyhead of the Empire. He takes his time to do everything, it seems he's not very impulsive"

He chuckled again.

"I've heard Corvinus is quite a man, though. Quite impresive. I've heard his court is so lavish that he could make most kings in Christendom pale with envy"

Corvinus was said to have a court following the new fashions and styles born in Italy, instead of the more formulaic and rigid Burgundian fashion ardently followed by Edward's own court.

"But"

He raised his finger again.

"He has no heir. A king with no heir"

[Dirty Chai]

"And no royal blood." Harry added, raising an index finger. "But a king none the less!"

"Does he have a queen?" He glanced over at Gloucester briefly, curious of what Richard thought of the Huns. "Corvinus strikes me as a man fighting on borrowed time. That army of his must cost a king's fortune."

In reality, Stafford found the lowborn king reminded him of his in-laws, and how already scandalous that's marriage was. It must be a vastly different place in Hungary...

Then he thought of his wife, a small, timid, inelegant woman, lowly daughter of a knight... he imagined her at the northern windowsill of his house in London, perhaps reading. It was impossible to hold anything against her.