The Genealogy of the Holy Roman Emperors

Anno Domini 1087
Vienna, Austria
 
"Arise, Lord von Braunschweig."
 
The newly noble Duke of Franconia rose from his knees, bowed to the man on the throne before him, and left the room.  That man, Conrad II, King of the Germans, turned to his Chamberlain and Duke of Swabia, Lord von Holland.
 
"And that's the last of them.  Do you think this is going to work, Wilhelm?"
 
"The titles?  I certainly hope so, Your Highness.  The nobility of this Empire are a pack of wolves.  They'll leap on you at the first sign of weakness.  But throw them a bone, or a juicy hunk of meat..."
 
Conrad laughed humorlessly.  "Wolves indeed.  Wolves that I've been fighting time and time again ever since I was crowned King.  And I was crowned King at the age of six."  Fist slammed into palm.  "That needs to end, Wilhelm.  Look at us.  Look around us.  Innsbruck is a pesthole little city, ravaged by a century of warfare.  My castle, such as it is, is an inn.  My throne, such as it is, is a chair from the common room.  We've been reduced to fighting each other with hordes of peasants armed with pitchforks.  What's next?  Small children with rocks?  We've been fighting and fighting and fighting each other for the rulership of a mudhole."  Striding to a side table, he grabbed a flagon of beer, drank half of it in a gulp, and continued.
 
"But we make good beer, I'll give us that.  But look at us!  We're the laughingstock of Europe!  The mighty Holy Roman Empire fights itself for castles made of sticks, while they eye us greedily in their stone fortresses.  No, Wilhelm, that must end.  Here are your orders.  First, construct more of our wooden forts where we need them.  It will give our nobles something to do.  Second, build militia outposts and armories where we can, and train us some professional soldiers.  With those, we'll strengthen our armies and keep the borders secure.  Hopefully we can secure them from ourselves."
 
Wilhelm von Holland bowed shortly.  "Yes Your Highness."

Anno Domini 1091
Vienna, Austria
 
Conrad folded the letter carefully and set it down.
 
Four years, he thought, four years we have searched high and low for an ally in this world, a friend.  And now this.  He picked up a goblet, drank.  A letter, in the Pope's own hand.  Come to Rome, it says. Let the Pope crown you imperator Romanorum.  Just what I needed.  being crowned the Roman Emperor gives me that much more power over my nobles.  But what does he want from me, I wonder?
 
Nevertheless, it had to be done.  Conrad picked up a piece of parchment, and began writing his reply.  He had his ally.

Anno Domini 1092
The Vatican, Rome
 
Conrad II, newly crowned Emperor of the Romans, smiled as he watched the man at the altar kiss the woman at his side.  The man was Roger, heir to the Norman kingdom of Sicily.  The woman, Conrad's daughter Dorothea.  Watching from behind the altar was Urban II, the Pope himself.  Conrad smiled again.  I've done it.  No matter what Urban wants, I have my allies.  But what does Urban want, I wonder?
 
It became clear after the ceremony, when Conrad stood together with both Urban and Roger I, King of Sicily and his daughter's new father in law.  Folding his hands together, Urban spoke to both monarchs.
 
"Ah, my friends.  Now that the marriage is concluded, I thought we might discuss business.  You see, I have just heard that the Byzantine governor in Naples has been forced to withdraw back to Constantinople...
 
Ah, that's what he wants, Conrad thought.  Naples.  Urban wants land.
 
"...and now lawless bandits roam the countryside, terrorizing the people, sacking towns, looting churches, even.  This cannot continue.  Why do I tell you this?  I want your support.  Do I have it?"
 
Or he wants Roger's support, anyway.  And at a guess, he's using me to get to Roger.
 
"What about Doge Vitale?"  Roger was asking.
 
"What about Doge Vitale?  All the northern Italian cities are occupied in Serbia.  They're not here."  Urban said.
 
And if I remember correctly, you persuaded Vitale to lead that expedition.  Odd how that works.
 
"I see," said Roger.  "Well, Sicily has no objections to your restoring order."
 
Oh, I'm sure you do, actually.  But after Urban's placated you, it would be impolite to say otherwise, wouldn't it?  But I'm sure you're his next target.
 
"The Holy Roman Empire has no objections, either."  He said aloud.
 
Urban smiled thinly.  "Excellent."  Then he frowned.  "One last thing.  Conrad.  It would wise of you to conclude your war with the Danes...swiftly.  In these trying times we cannot be fighting amongst ourselves when there are infidels to fight, as our Spanish brethren are doing."
 
Conrad nodded.  "We will obey the Church, of course."  Inwardly, he was fuming.  And my fate is to be Urban's lapdog?  I think not.  But for now...
 
The gathering of kings broke up, and Conrad began walking towards the bride and groom, but was intercepted by an aide.
 
"A note for you sire, from Denmark."  He handed it over, and stood to one side while Conrad examined it.
 
Your Highness, we are in dire straits in the north.  We met the King of Denmark in battle, if it can be called that.  A massacre, more like.  Lord von Holstein charged, but ran headlong into the King's bodyguard and was slain.  I'm afraid our soldiers ran like girls.  We lost one hundred and ninety of them to the enemy's 40.  Saxony lies open.  I've sent reinforcements, but it may not be enough.
 
---Von Holland
 
Conrad crumpled the note in his hand and silently cursed.  The northern gambit had failed, for the time being.

Anno Domini 1095
Imperial Camp, Lorraine
 
Prince Conrad, eldest son of the Emperor, sat wearily in his tent, head in hands, trying to get the visions out of his mind.
 
They came over the hill like a tidal wave, dozens of horses thundering across the grass as they came closer to the Imperial lines.  But not faster than the arrows that came whistling from the sky, piercing shield, armor, and skin.  Then the horses struck, tens of men dressed in blue, hacking their way into the German spears.  Led by the King of France himself, they cut down any German who stood in their way, carving a trail of blood and death through the Imperial ranks.  Many had despaired.
 
Conrad smiled grimly.
 
Then I came.  My knightly bodyguard with me, we charged the other way, cut down the French archers, then circled around behind and slammed into the rear of the King's bodyguards.  They never saw it coming.  Died almost as innocents.  The king, though...
 
King Louis had died well, fighting Conrad himself as dozens of Imperial spearmen looked on.  And, Conrad noted, fingering a bandage on his arm, he was a good swordsman.  But not good enough in the end.  Not quite good enough.
 
The tent flap opened, and a soldier stuck his head in.
 
"My Prince?  I have dispatches from the front."
 
"Very well, leave them with me."
 
The news was mixed.  Ile de France had fallen, and with it the palace of the French kings along with the recently recovered True Cross.  Too, the year before Burgundy and Swabia had successfully been defended against French invasion, and now Conrad had recaptured Lorraine, the French assault on which two years previously had started this war in the first place.  But there was also bad news.  Provence had fallen, and Lord Holstein killed.  A titanic battle involving almost a thousand Imperial troops versus seven hundred Frenchmen had gone against the Imperial forces in Flanders after Louis' son had killed Lord von Schwaben.
 
The new French king is at least better in combat than his father. Conrad noted grimly.  But he will die too, some day.  We did not ask for this war, but if we must reunite the empire of Charlemagne, then we must.  God willing.

"Prince Conrad Fighting The French King", tapestry in Stuttgart Castle, Swabia

Anno Domini 1096
Aachen, Lorraine
 
Prince Conrad rolled a golden circlet around in his hand as he stood gazing at the tomb of the first of the Holy Roman Emperors.  This is getting to be a habit, mused the prince. The French keep sending royals, I keep killing them off.
 
The last one had been a son of the latest French king.  Conrad hadn't bothered to learn either name yet - probably Louis.  They're all named Louis - but he had died fighting Conrad in single combat on yet another French invasion of Lorraine.  Died fighting, indeed.  They don't make swordsmen like they used to.
 
And he had just received word from Lord von Braunschweig in Paris - the castle had fallen.  France was all but back in the Imperial fold.  France's dreams of empire would be fulfilled, one way or the other.

Anno Domini 1097
Vienna, Austria
 
Conrad II, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, sighed.  I hate this mudhole.  Then he smiled, read the note from his son once more.
 
Father,
 
France has fallen.  The Holy Empire of the Romans has been reunited, and you stand at the head, a new Charlemagne.
 
You know the events of last year, of course.  This year, I invaded Flanders at the head of most of our western army.  The French dogs ran like little girls.  As they always do.  Lord von Habsburg invaded Toulouse in the meantime.  They fought, there, encouraged no doubt by their king.  Why is beyond me - he was a horrible general, yet insisted on taking command even when a much better one, the infamous Lord of Bouillon, was present.  In the end, they were defeated, though at great cost - over 400 Imperial troops for 80 of their men.  Fortunately, most of ours were peasants.  And in any case, France is finished.
 
I have enclosed two sketches.  The first is a charcoal that's been posted all over our new territories.  Very dramatic, isn't it?  The second, color sketch, is the truth.  Not quite so flattering, is it?  Their king died badly.
 
---Conrad

"The Death of King Louis", charcoal sketch, artist unknown

"The Death of King Louis", painting in Stuttgart Castle, Swabia

Anno Domini 1099
Gluckstadt, Saxony
 
For all that we're the Empire of the Romans, we have a depressing amount of mudhole little villages, thought Lothair der Stoltze, Knight Commander of Dresden Castle.  He looked over the Elbe into the distance.  This will not go well.  Across the river, King Olaf of the Danes, both his sons, their cavalry retinues, and a unit of spears were approaching.
 
Lothair turned to his aide.  "I want you to watch the battle, then ride for Prince Ludwig in Prague.  Don't stop.  Tell him what happened here, and tell him to raise an army."
 
"But sir," the aide protested, "certainly we can win!  Look, they have to cross a bridge, with cavalry, and we have spears and urban militia on the other side waiting!  It'll be a slaughter!"
 
Lothair sighed.  "Just do as I order."
 
In the end, Lothair was correct.  King Olaf and his sons charged the bridge.  Sixty heavy cavalry smashed through the Imperial spears, routed the urban militia, and chased down and butchered the peasants.  Four hundred and fifty Imperial soldiers, including Lothair der Stoltze, lost their lives, compared to ten Danes.  All Saxony lay open before the invader.

Anno Domini 1104
Stuttgart Castle, Swabia
 
Conrad grimly noted the approach of the Papal legate.  I wonder if he saw this coming, ten years ago?  Perhaps.  Ah well.  We are all actors in a play, anyhow.  The legate will shout and scream and ask me why I dare do what I did, and I will shout and scream and ask him why he thinks he has any business keeping me from what needed to be done.  And then we shall see.
 
The legate strode up to the Emperor.  Conrad inclined his head slightly.  "Cardinal." he said.
 
"My son, why have you made war on your fellow Christians?  We thought you would understand this ten years ago, but you did not."  My son, indeed.  I'm older than he is.  Older than Urban, if it comes to that.
 
"Cardinal, why does the Pope think he deserves to interfere with my business, my defense of my realm?"
 
"Your defense?  Defense?  Why, just last year, your son Ludwig invaded Denmark, put the defenders to the sword.  This year he captured poor King Olaf, and had him barbarously slaughtered in his own dungeon like a common criminal.  You lack Christian decency, my Lord."
 
"My son merely visited upon King Olaf what King Olaf visited upon my people in Saxony."
 
"Saxony?  You blame this on Saxony?  More you should blame it on your invasion of Denmark ten years ago.  But I can see that arguing the point is lost on you."  He paused, continued.  "You...you are excommunicated for your crimes against Christendom!"
 
Conrad snarled.  "So be it.  I'll not be a Papal puppet!  Let your master look elsewhere for his minions, his dogs!  Now begone, dog!"
 
The cardinal fled.

Anno Domini 1106
Stuttgart Castle, Swabia
 
The crowd gasped and cheered as the armored knight flew backwards off his horse and fell with a clang to the ground.  His opponent threw down his splintered lance, dismounted, and took off his helmet before walking to the Imperial box.  Only a few saw the smile he gave to a particular lady in the box.
 
"Well done, my son," said Conrad II, Emperor of the Romans, as he placed a ribbon around the neck of the knight.
 
"Thank you father," spoke Conrad, prince of the realm and victorious jouster as he bowed his head to accept the honor.  "Though these English knights are all amateurs, really.  Not enough seasoning."  He grinned, bowed again, and strode off to prepare for the next fight.
 
Jousting to impress his new English wife.  Fool actually believes in this "chivalry" nonsense.  Some things were maybe better left to the French.  Still, it does impress his bride's people.  And the bride, Conrad thought, with a glance to where young Princess Elizabeth sat, barely able to contain herself as her new husband soundly thrashed the cream of the English nobility.
 
And perhaps a few others, as well...
 
The man next to the Emperor, an Italian, turned to Conrad and spoke.  "Well, your Highness, it would appear that German martial prowess is everything people say it is.  I dare say that the Doge would be most happy to make an alliance with you."
 
The man on the other side of Conrad, a Pole, nodded.  "And the king, I think."
 
Conrad smiled.  England, Poland, and Venice.  If we cannot sway them with our piety, we will sway them with our arms.  Invade us, and the Hammer of God falls on you.  Ha!

"Prince Conrad Unhorses An English Knight", illustration from "A Children's History of the Holy Roman Empire", 1832

Anno Domini 1110
Vienna Castle, Austria
 
Back to this miserable place again.  Oh, how I hate Austria, thought Conrad.  It does nothing but rain here.  At least we're out of that bloody inn.
 
Conrad pondered the maps for a moment, then waved his son over.  "Rudolf, this is what I want you to do.  Send a message to your brother Ludwig in Brandenburg.  Have him divert all the troops he can from there, Franconia, and Denmark.  Send them to Bohemia.  We need to drive out the damnable Hungarian invaders."
 
Rudolf nodded briefly, then left the room, passing a messenger, who hurried in and handed the Emperor a number of messengers.  Conrad grabbed a tankard, and sat down to read.  The first was brief.
 
The King of Poland regrets to inform you that due to Imperial inability to maintain their own borders, our alliance must be canceled forthwith.
 
Conrad snarled.  Didn't even bother to sign it.  Some ally.
 
The second was almost as brief, and much the same.  Since the Empire couldn't defend it's borders, how could England expect it to be any help?  King William, however, signed.  Blood ties evidently meant something.
 
Fortunately, Elizabeth is much too taken with my son to plot against us.  We have that, anyway.
 
The third message, however...
 
Your Imperial Highness,
 
I trust this finds you well.  As you may already know, Pope Urban has put out a call for a Crusade against you.  He finds your lack of faith...disturbing.  Regretfully, I find it impossible for Venice to maintain our alliance in light of this.  However, as your daughter Hedwig has recently married my son and heir, I do not see the need to send her home.
 
---Vitale, Doge of the Venetians
 
Conrad fumed.  What did Urban bribe that fool with?  Venice!  Bah!  Italians are all too corrupted by the blasted Pope to trust.  Well, we'll deal with them in good time.  Each and every one of them.
 
He glanced across the room, where a Russian princess sat knitting.  At least we have a few friends.  Useless friends, but friends.  Perhaps it was not unwise to wed Ludwig to Anastasia there, after all.  Especially, he thought as he read the last message, now that the Sicilians have deserted us as well.  What next, I wonder?
 
His answer came in the form of another messenger, this time a guard, careless of the mud he was tracking on the carpets.
 
"My Lord!  The watchmen report an enormous army headed this way!  And it flies the banners of both the Hungarians and the Italians, my Lord!"
 
Anastasia gasped.  Conrad fumed.  "Papist bastard!" he screamed, and hurled his tankard against the wall.  He pointed at the guard.  "Summon my sons, and get somebody to round up the troops.  We'll deal with these scum."
 
And then we'll deal with Urban.  I'll see him dead, no matter what it takes.

Anno Domini 1110
Outside of Vienna Castle, Austria
 
Conrad gazed down the hill at his troops.  Spears to the center, urban militia raised from the town in haste to the flanks, a token unit of archers behind, and an unruly mob of peasants, all that could be armed on short notice, to the rear.  And the royal bodyguard, sixty armed knights, including Conrad and two of his sons, looking over it all.
 
But the other side... A huge groan went up from the Imperial troops as the combined enemy force came over the hill in the distance.  Spears.  Archers.  Horse archers from the plains of Hungary.  Cries of "God in Heaven, look at them all!" and "We're doomed!" rose from the ranks.
 
Conrad looked over at his son Herrmann.  "Your eyes are better than mine.  But it looks to be about thirteen hundred of them, yes?"
 
"Yes, father.  More or less.  And we have seven hundred men ourselves.  On defense.  We should prevail, though our lack of archers worries me some."
 
Conrad nodded.  "Difficulties with the armorers, of course.  That will be...fixed, after.  And I don't like the grumbling in the ranks.  But that can't be helped, now.  They're almost upon us."
 
At that, the Imperial archers began firing at the approaching spears.  Ineffectively.  They kept coming.  And coming.  And then...
 
"Cowards!  Stand and fight, and you dogs!" Conrad screamed at the backs of his retreating soldiers.  They failed to heed his call.
 
He sighed.  "Well my sons, it seems that we are the last hope.  If we are to die, let us die like men."  With that, he slammed the visor on his helmet down, lifted his lance, and spurred his horse downward into song and legend.
 
After, they would say that Conrad fought like a man possessed, killing with his lance, and when that broke, laying about himself with his sword in great bloody arcs, killing men by the dozen.  His sons, Rudolf and Herrmann fought at his right and left, and their bodyguards as well.  Charge after charge they made, killing the Italian general, the Hungarian general, and more besides.  They charged and fought until they were exhausted, and then they kept fighting.  The guards fell, then Rudolf, then Herrmann, and still Conrad fought, until finally none of the enemy dared to approach, and Conrad returned alone, under the blood red sky of dusk, to the castle.

"The Charge of Conrad II", tapestry in the Hall of Conrad II, Vienna, Austria

Casualty report presented to Conrad II after the defeat at Vienna, 1110

Anno Domini 1112
Venice Castle
 
Conrad noisily slurped his beer.  Around him, the generals of the Holy Roman Empire sat slumped in their seats, barely concious.  Tankards and goblets and other instruments of drinking lay overturned all over the table and the ground, amidst puddles of beer and other...liquids.
 
Conrad roared with laughter, and raised his tankard high.  "I've got to hand it to you, von Jungingen!" he boomed, "You've handily crushed the Italian dogs here!"  He'd been saying as much for the last two hours.  "And you, von Felben!  Well done taking and holding Provence!"  He'd been saying that, too.  Truth be told, the two years since the Battle of Vienna had been good ones for the Empire.  Bohemia reconquered, Austria relieved.  Venice and Provence taken.  And best of all, Novgorod had stayed allied, due to the efforts of Princess Anastasia, who had been much impressed with Conrad's exploits, even if her husband Ludwig had been doing almost as well in Bohemia.
 
Yes, a very good year.

Anno Domini 1114
Vienna Castle, Austria
 
If I'm not careful, I might grow to like this place, thought Conrad.  We can still fund a castle here and there, even if we are constantly at war.  He shifted his one year old son, Otto, in his arms, and sighed contentedly.
 
Life is good.  The mercenary army we hired in Provence took Milan, Genoa, and Tuscany with no problems, and the foolish Italians are exiled to Serbia and the islands.  And I had the pleasure of throwing it all in Vitale's face when he was in our dungeons. That was certainly sweet.  He smiled savagely, and sipped some beer.  And the French pretender in Brittany "agrees" that an "alliance" would be in our best interests.  Hah.
 
Conrad frowned.  But I haven't had my revenge on Urban.  Not yet.  That displeases me.  Still, God will take his revenge for me soon enough if I don't act.  Urban's sixty-seven years old, he'll die any time.  For that matter, Vitale's seventy-three, and looking older by the day.  Lazslo of Hungary's sixty-seven.  I'm only sixty-four.  And unlike them, I have a whole host of sons to follow me.  I'll get them, one way or the other, in my time or another's.
 
He smiled down at his son.  A savage, feral smile.

Anno Domini 1115
Deinze, Flanders
 
William III, King of England, continued on.  "...and we humbly petition the Holy Roman Emperor to consider our rights in France.  To Normandy, and Aquitaine, and also Flanders.  A small gift to a friend."
 
Prince Conrad snarled at his father-in-law.  "Rights!  You haven't got any "rights" here!  They died when the French of all people sent you packing.  We won't give them to you now, even if you do come at the head of an army.  And as to your being a friend..." He spat.
 
William did not reply, but simply rode straight back to his lines.
 
Conrad returned to his own, stopped before his troops.
 
"Listen, boys.  Yon King of England, there, thinks he's got claim to our lands.  Our lands, boys.  We're not going to allow that, are we, now?"
 
"NO!"
 
"No, we're not.  Now listen up, boys.  The King there's got a lot of heavy cavalry, so you spearmen are going to have to be all over the field today.  And watch those archers.  Good luck."
 
Conrad rode to his own place, and watched the enemy come.  He's going to soften us with archers, and finish with cavalry.  It's what I'd do, in his place.  And us with no archers.  Damn the bowyers!
 
Soon enough, the sky was black with arrows.  True to the words of a Spartan centuries before, the Imperial troops fought, but mostly died, in the shade.  Then came the cavalry.  It was the cavalry that ended it, broke the Imperial line, and sent them fleeing.
 
"Come on!"  Conrad spurred his horse, lowered his lance, and headed straight for the enemy cavalry.  He fought as he imagined his father had fought five years before, inspired by his words - "If we are to die, let us die like men."
 
Conrad died like a man.

"Prince Conrad's Last Stand", tapestry in Stuttgart Castle, Swabia

Anno Domini 1117
Stuttgart Castle, Swabia
 
Princess Elizabeth gazed sadly at her father, kneeling and in chains.  Then she wheeled and left the room, leaving him alone with her father-in-law.
 
Conrad II, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire and the victor of another war, sighed, then spoke.
 
"Your son declined to ransom you, you know.  You know what that means."
 
"I am to die."
 
Conrad nodded.  "You are to die.  But not in the usual way.  Elizabeth insisted.  Why, I have no idea.  Terrible to be her, after you had her husband killed.  I don't believe I'd have had her mercy, were I here.  Nevertheless."  He produced a small vial, handed it to William.  "Poison.  Quick and painless, I hear.  More than I would have given you."
 
William sighed, nodded.  It was a grand try, he thought.  We were so close!  So close to retaking what was ours!  Even if the blasted French did interfere, with us and the Germans.  We smashed them all in Flanders, smashed them in Lorraine.  We were a puppet no longer!  To fail like this!  He drummed his heels on the floor, roared with laughter (so close!), and toasted Conrad with the vial.
 
He drank.

Anno Domini 1121
 
From a letter to Prince Ludwig by Conrad II:
 
...this letter should be accompanied by a fresh levy of troops from Swabia and Tyrolia.  You'll need them.  You've inherited a morass - fighting in Toulouse and Ile de France in 1117, those two, Flanders, and Anjou in 1118, Flanders and Ile de France in 1119, Normandy, Anjou, and Toulouse last year, Normandy and Anjou in this... And Friedrich dead on the field in Anjou.  Meanwhile, Hungary has been probing Venice and Bohemia, and of course you know about the English in Flanders.  Hopefully I've sent you enough troops to make an end of the French.  We need an end, and to war, so we can build ourselves, and bring prosperity to the land.  In truth, though, I despair.  In the grim future of the Empire, I can see only war, blood, and death...

Anno Domini 1122
 
From a letter to Conrad II by Prince Ludwig:
 
...will prove difficult to end this war with the French quickly.  We've recaptured Anjou, but Aquitaine eludes us.  What's more, I'm worried.  The Pope has convinced Sancho of Aragon to declare a Crusade on us.  Preparations to crush the French must be stopped while I deal with that threat.  Even now, my men report them crossing the border into Toulouse...

Anno Domini 1127
Execution Grounds, Venice
 
As the ragged-looking man was brought out into the square, the people of Venice cheered.  The man who had been responsible for years of pain and misery, caught and collared like a dog.  They spat on him and threw offal at him, hurled curses at him.  For one who had been a king, it was a bad end.
 
As the former king was brought to the platform that would be his death, another monarch stood from his seat in the balcony above, and raised his hands for quiet.  As the crowd grew silent, Conrad II began to speak.
 
"People of Venice!  Behold!  Before you is the villain responsible for your suffering, for the Empire's suffering!"  He waited for the cheering to quiet down, and continued: "King Sancho of Aragon, he styled himself, 'King' of a petty nation of thieves and rapists, bought by the gold of a corrupt Pope to do the Devil's bidding.  No more!  For five years his 'Crusade' has ravaged our lands, brought death and misery and sorrow to our people.  Toulouse felt his hand.  Burgundy, Milan.  Now Venice.  But no more!  His 'Crusade' has been shattered, and the thieves and murders that peopled it have been dealt with!"
 
Indeed, the people noted, somewhat uneasily, there was a forest of crucifixes outside the city to tell the truth of that.  The Emperor had an...interesting sense of humor.
 
"And now, People of Venice, before you kneels the archmurderer, the archrapist himself, for your judgment!  What say you, People of Venice?  Shall he live, or die?"
 
The crowd screamed their answer with one voice.  The torturers started forward, and Sancho of Aragon met his end, badly.

Anno Domini 1129
Imperial Chambers, Vienna Castle
 
"Your Highness, you asked to be informed.  Princess Anastasia has had her child, sire.  No complications.  And it's a male child, sire.  Heinrich was the name she gave him."
 
Conrad smiled.  "Thank you.  Was there anything else?"
 
"Yes sire.  Word has just come from Rome.  The Pope has just died.  Indigestion, they say."
 
Conrad's smile widened.  "I see.  Thank you."
 
As the messenger left, Conrad got up to pour himself some wine.  It was time to celebrate.  His plans were working perfectly.  Finally his courting of the cook had paid off.  A thousand florins, it had cost, but a thousand florins well placed.  And Nicholas, they would elect Nicholas, would be more easily dealt with.  The excommunication lifted, and no more troubles.
 
And the child, of course.  Hopefully Ludwig would inherit, but...
 
France.  France was the only problem.  Back and forth over Brittany, back and forth over Aquitaine.  Blasted Louis just wouldn't DIE.  Despite all of Ludwig's best efforts.
 
But Urban, now.  That was something.

Anno Domini 1132
Imperial Chambers, Vienna Castle
 
In the waning hours of the night, just before dawn, they gathered to watch the old Emperor die.  Anastasia and Ludwig, Elizabeth, Charlotte, Lothair and Otto and Claudia, all the children of the old man.  Others were missing.  Conrad.  Rudolf and Herrmann.  Friedrich.  All fallen on the battlefields.  Dorothea and Hedwig, fallen to the courts of nations, to their father's intrigues.  
 
Others were here, too - the nobles of the Empire.  They would play their part later.  For now, they watched.  And waited, patiently.  They were a different breed that their predecessors of half a century previously.  Loyal, these men were.  They would do what they were required to, vote how they were required to.  Ludwig would be Emperor as his father wanted him to.
 
The end, when it came, was almost anticlimactic for the man who had straddled the Empire like a colossus.  Conrad raised his head slightly for one last gaze at his watchers, and then his eyes closed.  He grunted weakly, as if in pain, but that too was brief.  And then Conrad II, Holy Emperor of the Romans, fell into silence forever.

The Holy Roman Empire At the Death of Conrad II

The Holy Roman Empire and Europe

1087

1098

1133

The Tavern, 1134

Ludvig sat alone in the room above the tavern, slumped heavily in his chair. Faintly through the floorboards the sounds of merriment permeated. But that was another world, Ludvig was not here for fun. In front of him were strewn maps of all Europe. In recent months Ludvig had taken to conducting his affairs from here, it was simple, it was discreet and it was away from the rigours of court.
      
The last year had not been kind to Ludvig. His health had deteriorated rapidly. However, he had long ago decided that he would take no more part on the battlefield. It was not how he had imagined being ruler, but then he had never thought that money was that important. How differently he knew now. Conrad had bankrupted the empire. Where cash should have been given to infrastructure it had been squandered on more mercenaries to fight the war with France. Never had Ludvig’s contempt for his father been greater. All farming methods dated back to the 9th century, Germany owned not a single ship, and the mercenaries had gone so long without pay they were on the point of mutiny. Ludvig shuddered at the thought of the south of France in revolt. Still he had plans to deal with them. Already he had put all his resources into building. Although his Generals clamoured for more men, they would have to manage for now.  
      
Ludvig wondered how his father had managed to live so long, already he thought he’d be lucky to reach 60 with going insane.
      
There was good news however. He had patched things up with Lothair and dispatched him to finish off Henri of France. Word should be reaching his of that any day soon. Also he was moving troops across France towards Aragon. He intended to finish off Fernando II of Aragon before the end of the year.
      
In the East plans moved ahead apace. He had dispatched Catherine to Hungary to attempt to seal peace there. He had no idea how Conrad had annoyed the Hungarians so much but they had refused to see all his messengers so far. Perhaps a visit from Royalty would convince them of his seriousness. Anyway, Catherine looked far too much like her mother, it would be good to get her out of the castle. And she WAS nearly 18, no man would have her soon.
      
Ludvig studied the list of nobles in front of him. He was in the process of choosing nobles to maintain the provinces. Conrad had been too busy it appeared to properly see to it. As a result many provinces were paying little or no tax. Ludvig intended that his nobles or intendants would sort it out.  
      
The sound of rushing footsteps was heard outside the room. Ludvig looked up in annoyance, he had specifically demanded silence. However, his angry lecture died on his lips when Lord Chancellor Von Frausenberg burst in.
      
“Francis, what is it?” Asked the Emperor.
      
“News my lord, news from the West…”

Brittany, 1134

Prince Lothair stared at the French entrenchments dug into the cliff above. Ordinarily he’d just ignore them, but that was not an option today. Such a large force would fall upon his rear and massacre his proud army in a flash if he let it.
      
A flicker of movement to the East caught his eye.
      
“Captain!” He shouted, “5 men to scout that wood over there!”
      
He watched tensely as the men approached their target. When they were a hundred metres away a hail of arrows darkened the sky before plunging into the hapless scouts.
      
A war cry erupted from the dark mass of trees, followed almost instantly by a fluttering blue banner depicting the French King’s Fleur-de-lits. Suddenly the brow of the hill was lined with Archers and cavalry were plunging down into the heart of the German position.
      
“My lord, retreat, RETREAT!” Pleaded a staff officer clutching at Lothair’s arm. “The day is lost.”
      
Lothair shrugged him off, his mind whirling furiously. He was surrounded, cut off from his support and yet all together his force outnumbered those of the rapscallion King. If he could just hold long enough for his cavalry to arrive they could still win the day.
      
“Lieutenant von Trapp!” He called, “Signal to the troops, close ranks and form square. Captain Rosenborg, order to cavalry to circle round and attack from the rear.”
      
“Sir,” Began von Trapp, “If we close ranks we’ll be vulnerable to enemy missiles…”
      
“You leave the thinking to me boy.” Interrupted Lothair.      
“Sir.” Replied von Trapp stiffly, years of military breeding taking over as he snapped off a salute and turned to relay the orders.
      
A loud bugle followed by a sickening crash hurled Lothair’s attention back to the battle in time to see the French cavalry hit his flanking spear hard. A figure in silver and Gold armour caught his attention as he smashed his way efficiently through the massed ranks. A sneaking memory of the rumours regarding Henri’s fighting ability snapped trough Lothairs’ mind.
      
“I’ll be,” He breathed, “He’s here in person!”  
      
Lothair sat up in his saddle and drew his sword. He’d always envied Ludvig’s killing of Oleg of Denmark in battle, this would top even that.  
      
“Follow me men!” He cried digging his spurs into his horse’s flanks. Then Lothair was gone, lost in the middle of the heaving roaring mass of fear, blood and death.

The Tavern, 1134

“…all in all, total victory Sire.” Concluded Von Frausenberg excitedly. “Lothair killed Henri in personal combat that lasted for hours many say.”
      
Ludvig was shocked, Lothair was rarely so rash, still he kept his face smooth as he replied.      
      
“I would expect no less of my blood kin.”
      
Von Frausenberg was already bowing and making his exits, Ludvig absentmindedly waved him off. Once the door shut behind him, Ludvig allowed a small smile of triumph to spread across his face. It was all falling into place. This Emperor thing wasn’t so hard after all.  
      
He looked down at the maps, mentally colouring his parts in black, when a terrible throbbing starting up in his mind. Forcing it to the back he continued to look at the maps in front of him, but the pain was persistent. Suddenly, Ludvig realised that it wasn’t a headache at all, but someone hammering on his door.
      
“What now?” He thought.
      
“Enter!” Ludvig called and was startled to see his English emissary step through the door. “Good Lord man, what are you doing here?”
      
Then the full implications hit him.
      
“Do you bring news from Alfred?” He asked fighting to keep the excitement out of his voice.
      
“I do.” Replied the emissary heavily.” King Alfred rejects your peace proposals on all accounts. He cites atrocities committed by Conrad II and says this war will only stop when one of you dies.”
      
Ludvig felt as if he’d been hit in the stomach. Still, he had bought time at least, now the French were defeated he could move troops to bolster the burgeoning breastworks at Flanders. That was one of his proudest achievements. I one year alone Ludvig had increase Flanderian productivity by 200%.  
      
Ludvig realised the emissary was still nervously waiting in he room. He put on his best manner and charm.
      
“It is ok my boy, I hold no grudge against you, I’m sure you did your best.”
      
However, far from relieve the emissary’s tension this merely seemed to increase it. At last, following a lengthy silence in which Ludvig grew increasingly frustrated e blurted out,
      
“My Lord there is more.”
      
“Well, spit it out boy.” Replied the increasingly irritated Emperor.
      
“When I left Flanders, I left it with an army on my heels. The English have crossed the channel and stormed Ypres.”
      
Ludvig felt stunned. Swaying slightly where he stood he managed to gasp out.
      
“General Trummp?”
      
“Completely overrun My Lord.” Said the emissary.
      
Ludvig was spared further comment by the reappearance of Von Frausenberg.
      
“What? What now?” Cried Ludvig, still in shock.
      
“News from General Holsten,” Said Von Frausenberg. “From the Aragonese front.” He continued when faced with Ludvig’s blank stare.
      
“My God get a grip,” Thought Ludvig, pulling himself together.
      
“What news?” He asked with forced joviality. Silence greeted his words. Gathering is courage he looked into Von Frausenberg’s eyes. What he saw confirmed his doubts. Ludvig say down heavily. Suddenly, being Emperor didn’t seem so easy after all.

The Brothel, 1135

“…and you are sure of this?” Asked an ashen faced Ludvig IV.
      
“Yes my Lord.” Replied the Spy, “The Pope will announce the excommunication by the end of the month.”
      
“Well,” Said the Emperor, “We’ll just have to see that the end of the month never comes for him…”

The Tavern, 1135

“Are you sure of this?” Asked Ludvig again several days later.
      
“Yes My Lord, your recovery force so outnumbered the English that they retreated across the channel to their stinking island.” Said the scout.
      
Ludvig sighed and dismissed the man. The price of recovery had been high. All his hard work had been undone. Flanders was once again little more than a potential building site.  
      
Standing he paced the room, feeling with sorrow and anger how weak his knee joints had become. Then he strode to the door and flung it open.  
      
“SCRIBE!” He called, “BRING ME PEN AND PARCHMENT!”
      
A livery clad scribe scrambled into the room at a rate of knots, his arms overflowing with parchment and ink.
      
Ludvig sat down and quickly scribbled a short note before sealing it with his heavy gold signet.
      
“Here,” He said thrusting it into the servants hands, take that to the Lord Chancellor.”
      
The scribe bowed and hurried off to deliver his charge. As soon as he was out of the door he glanced at the still wet ink on the letter. It was a reconstruction order for Flanders. His eyes widened as he saw the sums involved. Tens of thousands of Florins were to be poured into the region. For a moment the Scribe was struck still. Then he regained himself and dashed off to seek the Chancellor.

Aragon, 1137

Men lay everywhere. No, bodies lay everywhere, the men who had inhabited them have left for a better place now. General Von Haug crouched behind a ruined castle wall for shelter as the rain hammer down slanting across what had been the Stronghold of the late Fernando II. Heavy losses had been sustained in taking the castle and Haug would have loved to have been able to billet in the structure itself except the Emperor had ordered it be dismantled and so tomorrow it was to be raised to the ground. Barrels of naphtha had already been stowed away in what remained standing of the castle.
 
The rain began to ease and Von Haug stood and strode on, eager to reach his staff tent. As he passed the former courtyard of the King he paused, startling off several crows who fed off the body of a man swinging from a crudely erected gibbet. His formerly fine clothes were now in shreds or stolen, but it was just possible, with imagination, to discern the pallid features of the last King of Aragon. Personally, Haug would have preferred to have ransomed him, but the man had had to put up a fight, so when he was dragged screaming from his castle, there had been little anyone could have done to prevent the drunken troops from hoisting him up.
 
Shaking his head, Haug moved on, he could see the glow of his tent ahead and was already imagining the delights of the warm rum awaiting him there.
 
In the dark behind him, the ravens returned to feast…

The Castle, 1138

“Are you sure of this?” Asked the Emperor.
 
The Lord Chancellor’s mouth writhed in distaste. In his old age the Emperor had become suspicious and cynical. Von Frausenberg could bear this, what he couldn’t stand was his master’s constant questioning of his information.
 
“Yes sir,” Sighed Von Frausenberg, “ The news came in with the last dispatches. Lothair is a father, Conrad was born on the 11th of August.”
 
“Well, well, well.” Said the Emperor cryptically, “this changes everything.”
 
Von Frausenberg said nothing and the silence stretched as in the corner, the Emperor began to brood…

The Streets of Saxony, 1139

Ludvig listed to one side as his horse trotted through the streets. Only a few years ago the trip from castle to tavern would have been a thing of no consequence. Now, the 4-mile trek sapped his strength and caused him to have faint spells. The last one he had experienced had made him so dizzy he had nearly fallen and only his Captain’s quick thinking had saved his dignity.
 
People began a faint cheer when they saw his banner moving down the cobbled roads. Ludvig smiled wryly. Conrad would have received a roar. He wondered what it was that made people cheer a man who had financially ruined the nation, got their sons slaughtered and turned Europe against them, yet been so lukewarm to a man who had brought them wealth and riches.  
 
“Maybe I am just a subversive influence.” He mused to himself.
 
The Farmer King they called him. Wrong on two accounts because he was neither Farmer nor King, but the name had stuck. In its own way it was apt for just this morning news had reached him of the completing of 6 irrigation schemes throughout Germania. Further enrichment would be the result, and with the Flanders scheme going so well, Ludvig would have enough money to finally ditch the mercenaries that had been the ruin of his father. Yes, things were finally turning around for him.
 
With this thought in mind, Ludvig barely noticed the assassin stand up from behind a cart and aim a crossbow at him. Neither did he feel the bolt as it entered his lower back. The first thing he noticed was the he was lying face down on the cobbles with people screaming all around him. Faintly he could hear the Captain of the Guard shouting orders, then he passed out.

It took Ludvig another fourteen years to die from the assassin's bolt; fourteen years of paralyzation and fear and agony.  But that is another story, for another time.

The Holy Roman Empire and Europe, 1087

The Holy Roman Empire and Europe at the Death of Conrad II, 1133

The Holy Roman Empire and Europe at the Death of Ludwig IV, 1153