Bar-le-Duc in the Barrois, France - House of Lancaster in Exile

[Dirty Chai]

Bar-le-Duc is thus named for being the caput of the Dukes of the Barrois; it is split into a ville haute and a low city, with the former housing the chateau of the duke and the latter sitting in the vine-clad valley below. A grand tower erects from the chateau, visible from a mile or two away.

Here is where Edward of Westminster (or, Edward of Lancaster) has made his designated residence since the late winter of 1480, when he became Duke of Bar. Edward is, by claim, King of England, King of Jerusalem, King of Naples, and King of Ireland.

Demesne yearly income: £4,000

Soldiers

Main host, located in Barrois c. 1483
- 400 Yeomen Foot
- 400 Yeomen Archers

[Gandalfus]

Earlier in the year - perhaps in the spring, when word reached the world of York's demise - a large hulk sailed into the harbour of Le Havre. It looked too large and well wrought to be a merchant's vessel, and it stood out like a wolf amongst sheep as it anchored itself amongst the sleeker vessels used to transport good across the narrow sea and beyond. From down the quay stepped one who was undoubtedly wealthy or of noble birth; a man of middling height, dressed dark in the sleek Burgundian fashion. Tawny curls poked out from under the square hat, framing a lined but not unhandsome face that was set around two sky-coloured eyes, which in turn stared down a pointed nose at the stinking port. Though his clean shaven visage gave him the impression of youth, he was in fact four or so summers older than the King of England that had passed away a month or so previous. The sole indicator of his identity was the ornate collar that hung about his neck, carrying the image of a portcullis.

The same man rode for Bar-Le-Duc, by the way of Paris, accompanied by a retinue of servants, armed men, and other similarly dressed nobles. It took them some days of travel to arrive in the Duchy, carried upon horseback, where the new arrival knew the King of England hid himself. By now, he reckoned it was safe to unfurl the banner; and so trailing in their wake was the royal arms of England, differenced by the bordure that denoted the heraldry as belonging to the House of Beaufort, or, more specifically, the Dukes of Somerset that had fought for their cousins of Lancaster. From Bar-Le-Duc this banner would now be visible. The rider clearly had a taste for the theatrical, making himself known, in accented French, as "Edmund Beaufort, fourth Duke of Somerset". He wished to see His Grace King Edward of Lancaster... At his convenience, of course.

[Jokern]

Among the many servants and retainers that followed Edmund Beaufort rode Tristan Tanet, wine sack in hand and already drinking. The Breton, as he was called, was in his mid-thirties though looked older than that, grizzled by his years on campaign. Dark of hair and eyes, with a face a slightly gaunt and scarred, he was not pretty by any standard. However, behind him followed his family, a loving wife from Glasgow and three healthy sons.

Tristan came from a long line of mercenaries who had fought through most of the dynastic war between France and England. Now he had come into the service of the exiled Duke of Somerset, and had stayed despite suffering grievous losses at Towton and in Northumberland. Many men in his trade would have left for better work, but for some reason Tristan had stayed with the Beauforts. He always wondered why, and had no real answer to it. Maybe he had grown fond of the English nobles, however much his Breton soul would scoff at that. Whatever his reason had been before, it had grown into a loyalty backed by the four people riding behind Tanet.

The party rode up to the seat of the Duke of Bar, waiting to be allowed in. Tristan was curious to finally meet the king that Lord Beaufort had sworn his allegiance to - my king now, he corrected himself. His mercenary ways were still ingrained in him, when he had only served his contract and ultimately only himself. The Breton was not really presentable for royalty - scraggly beard, dirty breastplate and gambeson and a kettle hat that had more than a few bumps in it - but then again, he was but a lowly sergeant that only followed the dukes and the kings into battle. Tristan took another swig and waited with the rest of the Beaufort party.

[Mary The Quene]

At some point Sir George Neville accompanied by several riders return from King Louis' favorite residence outside of Paris. The group seemed to be quite enthusiast in appearance, generally a good sign of success. After all they had completed their job with satisfaction. Thus so after arriving in Bar Le Duc, the Bastard Neville wishes to speak with the King, to report his conclusion.

[The Mad Skylord]

The grandest entry into Bar-Le-Duc belonged to the Baron Clifford. He had left with two footsoldiers amd De Vere, and returned at the head of a column of 1200 men. The Lancastrian forces shown proudly in their English coats of arms - many had been previously in Lancastrian service and were glad to return the Red Rose to their livery.

At least 200 of them bore the livery of Clifford - he had been delighted to discover that many of his men still lived, and had simply been scattered after Wallingford, only to be summoned to France. It was an excellent discovery. For once again, there was a Lancastrian army.

[Dirty Chai]

The one who arrived first was the least of them - George Neville, who Edward had been told would portray himself as some Sir Esturmy before the King of France - and found Bar-le-Duc a quiet town. Sizable, but quiet. It didn't smell like Paris. And the duke's palace tower seemed quaint and charming, even if old in structure.

A spiraling pathway lead up the backside of the steep hill where the castle and abbey sat, and then led up through a rich area where the most fat of the burghers likely lived. The small castle at the peak of hill and end of the avenue - graced with a salient tower with a black tip - hung George's master's banners.

Entering into the hall, Edward of Lancaster was walking down a small flight of carpeted steps to meet him. He held his hands up into the air as the bastard came into sight and gave him a cursory glance, observing what aura he might bring with him. The pretender king himself seemed to find his life as a rich prince quite well - dressed in the finest clothing Neville had ever seen him in, and what were likely the softest shoes ever to grace an Englishman's feet.

"You bring good news, I presume, sir Neville?"

---

Royal arms - the Beaufort difference being almost invisible from afar - were indeed signalling for the chateau overlooking the Bar-le-Duc. On his approach, a small crowd of burghers had gathered inside the gates of the high city, and watched curiously - likely curious as to what kin had apparently flocked, carrying one English set of arms to another.

The duke ushered into and under and through the narrow gatehouse, and allowed to dismount before the steps of the hall - to prevent the soiling of his boots - and pointed inside. He is allowed to take a couple of his most noble followers, but none else. It is clear he is not quite taken at his word - "Duke of Somerset".

The hall is a narrow but long place, shaped rectangularly. The ceiling gives way in the back to a tower, stairs visibly leading up and out of sight. A voice calls from the other end, coming from a mouth set underneath an alert set of eyes. Tawny, curly hair frames eyes and a pointy chin, a rounded plump nose.

"Who are thee, to call thineself Beaufort? Only ghosts have that name," the prince's voice was quite hostile, in disbelief, "I will not have imposters soiling the name of the honorable dead."

[Mary The Quene]

The one who arrived first was the least of them - George Neville, who Edward had been told would portray himself as some Sir Esturmy before the King of France - and found Bar-le-Duc a quiet town. Sizable, but quiet. It didn't smell like Paris. And the duke's palace tower seemed quaint and charming, even if old in structure.

A spiraling pathway lead up the backside of the steep hill where the castle and abbey sat, and then led up through a rich area where the most fat of the burghers likely lived. The small castle at the peak of hill and end of the avenue - graced with a salient tower with a black tip - hung George's master's banners.

Entering into the hall, Edward of Lancaster was walking down a small flight of carpeted steps to meet him. He held his hands up into the air as the bastard came into sight and gave him a cursory glance, observing what aura he might bring with him. The pretender king himself seemed to find his life as a rich prince quite well - dressed in the finest clothing Neville had ever seen him in, and what were likely the softest shoes ever to grace an Englishman's feet.

"You bring good news, I presume, sir Neville?"

The Bastard Neville bowed before his king as is expected from him, Neville apparently looked quite content, no doubt the successful completion of his mission had given him back his natural confidence in him after all these years of hardship.

''Ah Your Majesty, i am happy to tell that the French King has indeed confirmed the good René's will and that His Majesty is the sole undisputed Duke of Bar.'' It was a first good step to set Lancaster back on the throne.

[Gandalfus]

Somerset did as he was bid, entering the hall accompanied by a former few Lancastrians of note as well as a Scot or two - Edward would likely not recognise these fleeting faces of the past, though one or two certainly recognised him, having bled for Lancaster at Towton. Beaufort was quite offended at the mistaken identity, being under the impression his similarity in appearance and fine clothing made him unmistakable; indeed, when paired, the Duke and King certainly had some passing resemblance to each other.

"Majesty, I greet thee as thy cousin"

Beaufort addressed the monarch in English, accompanied by a flamboyant bow. His gestures were wild, superfluous.

"I am brother of Henry Beaufort, the third Duke, who you surely knew as a close friend and companion of your royal father Henry, God rest him."

Margaret had apparently been fond of Henry, too, but that went without saying.

"I assure you, there is no mistaken identity. I and my dear departed brother, John, were forced to flee to Scotland following the betrayal of the vile Lord Percy..."

His voice trailed off, though the bitterness remained.

[Dirty Chai]

Westminster was silent at the other side of the hall, balking from speaking further, either confused or in disbelief. A handful of servants that had been attending to him - holding platters of food or something - were now frozen in place, waiting for their master to bid them more instruction.

"How?" came his voice finally, the shroud of suspicion beginning to dissipate. "But the Beauforts have all been slain, my cousins are dead."

[Gandalfus]

"No, Majesty, I persisted in exile at the court of mine royal nephew, the King of Scots. I have lived at his leisure for many years."

He didn't know whether to be relieved or irritated that his survival was not common knowledge. It would suffice, he supposed, for the Yorkists to believe him to be dead, though it did wound his pride that many thought old Gaunt and Swynford's line extinct.

"I have even brought my wife, alongside my son and fair daughter with me to join you, majesty."

He said, brightly. It took some convincing for Margaret to leave the court of her nephew, but Edmund had promised to furnish her with the finest lodgings in Bar-Le-Duc... Though it would do his finances no good. Somerset was already indebted to several Parisian creditors already.

[Jokern]

While the duke was ushered in to see the king, Tristan thought it was an excellent opportunity to have another drink. It was a hot summer day and some cooling wine was the perfect answer. But when Tanet raised his wine sack, no wine flowed from it. He cursed silently in his Breton tongue. Looking around, there was no drink in sight, except for a barrel that a few of the local garrison were filling their cups from.

As Tristan leaped off his saddle to fetch his wine, he did not notice that one of his boots was stuck in its stirrup. Before he had a chance to react, the stirrup twisted his leg and he lost his grip, falling hard to the ground. A loud thud could be heard across the courtyard as his back connected with the dirt. Thankfully he had remembered to pull his head forward in the nick of time, but he was still slightly disoriented from the fall.

At this point his horse had been startled by the ordeal and began running around, dragging the Breton behind him in the dirt. The local garrison and servants, along with Clifford's newly-arrived army, roared with laughter while the other Tanets tried to catch the horse and calm it.

[Dirty Chai]

Lancaster stepped forward, slowly, closer and closer, cautious, unsure steps, until he stood close enough for the two men to regard each other with their blue eyes.

"We are a persecuted race, we of Lancaster," he said, holding out his ringed hand, though it was unclear what he intended for it. "You live... to mine eyes, I see something too strange to be true."

Ed withdrew the hand suddenly, as if protecting it. Then he pointed at Beaufort.
"Why now? Why not earlier? Why abandon your king? No wonder I assumed your death by persecution."

[Gandalfus]

Lancaster stepped forward, slowly, closer and closer, cautious, unsure steps, until he stood close enough for the two men to regard each other with their blue eyes.

"We are a persecuted race, we of Lancaster," he said, holding out his ringed hand, though it was unclear what he intended for it. "You live... to mine eyes, I see something too strange to be true."

Ed withdrew the hand suddenly, as if protecting it. Then he pointed at Beaufort.
"Why now? Why not earlier? Why abandon your king? No wonder I assumed your death by persecution."

Beaufort grimaced, as if afraid of the truth that he would tell. But it was better spoken than left unsaid.

"I thought you dead, and Lancaster's cause lost. When Henry, I mean, my brother died, we lost all hope... York seemed invincible."

Beaufort shook his head. It was cowardly, to abandon his own blood and king. But for nearly twenty years, he had done so.

"Now, York is dead. My other brother, John, also passed, and I made a vow to him upon his deathbed that I would restore our house from disgrace."

Some slight embellishment, but the sentiment was true enough. Mortality was catching up to the would-be Duke, who had realised in his brother's entire lifetime he had done little more than wait in exile for something. Waiting for some inexplicable, unlikely event to take place. But of course, these things did not happen without the will to make them so.

Edmund, after some moments of silence, then knelt before Westminster, bowing his head... Perhaps in shame.

"I pledge my life and loyalty to thee, Edward son of Henry, King of England." ​He did not rise, waiting for approval, forgiveness, vindication.

[Barry Goldwater]

George de Vere returns to Bar, looking as cheery as Neville had. He carries with him a letter of credit from the Barrois moneylenders, good for £2000 loan.

[The Mad Skylord]

Early in 1481, the Baron Clifford took a sudden illness. The longtime and loyal Lancastrian was swiftly left bedridden, languishing in a horrific fever for days and days. He was unaware of the men and servants who came and went from his bedside as he lay and shivered in sheets soaked through with his own sweat. To touch, his skin roasted, yet he lay and shivered as if submerged in ice.

Finally, after struggling on against death for weeks, Sir Roger de Clifford succumbed to his fever and died, on 19th of February, 1481. He is succeeded as Baron Clifford by his heir, Sir Henry de Clifford, his nephew and the son of his older brother, John.

-------------------------

With great weariness, Sir Henry arrives to see Prince Edward, who would not yet be aware of the death of his most faithful follower.

[Dirty Chai]

"Good news, indeed," Lancaster nodded. "I have another task for thee, George Neville, if thou will take it."

------------------------------

The last of the de Veres is led up into the hall of the old castle. Edward of Westminster looks pleased at the return of yet another of his vassals.

"Sir George de Vere, how much do you bring me?"

------------------------------

"Sir Henry,"

The king in exile had concerned brows.

"Where is Sir Roger, your uncle? Is he still with fever?"

He sat down. "He must recover and return to duty soon."

-------------------------

Westminster let the Beaufort kneel before him silently for a time, the air hanging over them both with a swallowing sense of anticipation.

"I accept your fealty, lord Somerset," Ed said after a time with a tone that suggested he'd weighed it out already in his head, "Rise and be welcome back into the fold."



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[Barry Goldwater]

The last of the de Veres is led up into the hall of the old castle. Edward of Westminster looks pleased at the return of yet another of his vassals.

"Sir George de Vere, how much do you bring me?"

"The equivalent to £2000 in livres, marks and thalers, my king." George announced, tersely but boldly and proudly, as he presented the letter of credit.

[Dirty Chai]

"The equivalent to £2000 in livres, marks and thalers, my king." George announced, tersely but boldly and proudly, as he presented the letter of credit.

Edward of Westminster stood up from his seated position, surprised.

"Good de Vere, your family name never ceases to bring me good news in service."

Sir Henry was slightly shell shocked, but mostly tired. He had attended his uncle for most of his illness, and he felt the shock of his death keenly. "He is dead, Your Grace, he passed but a short time ago."

Ed was frozen in his chair for a moment, mouth agape.

"Ah?"

His lips moved a little.

"Dead?"

A little more. He blinked.

"Roger is dead, you say?" By fever?

''And what may that task be, Your Majesty?'' The bastard Neville asked with a smile, brimmed with confidence.

"I would send you, sir, to England," Lancaster said, watching Neville's reaction with every inch of his attention.

[Mary The Quene]

"I would send you, sir, to England," Lancaster said, watching Neville's reaction with every inch of his attention.

''Hmm, oh, ah'' Now that surprised Neville, he had left England long ago ofcourse and had vowed not to return until Lancaster was back on the throne. ''As spy?'' Neville asked, that was the only logical conclusion behind that apparent task.

[Barry Goldwater]

Edward of Westminster stood up from his seated position, surprised.

"Good de Vere, your family name never ceases to bring me good news in service."

"We live to serve, Majesty." De Vere replied with simple cheer. "Have you any other tasks for me?"