| The Kings of the French - Philippe II (Tonto_Marius) |
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| Anno Domini 1137 - Paris Castle |
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"Louis, my brother. Welcome." Phillipe II, King of the French, raised a hideously scarred hand, the legacy of a jousting accident when he was 20, gesturing at his brother. "<cough> Come closer, brother. <cough> We must <cough> speak." With that, the king broke into a coughing fit that lasted for minutes, despite the efforts of his nurse. "<cough> Listen, brother. How goes the realm?" Louis, a tall, thin man of 46, laid a hand on the king's. "It goes well, my lord. We currently lack only for archers and horses, but both are being trained, both in this castle and in Normandy. The spears you ordered trained are all ready now, and your goal of having three regiments of archers, three regiments of spears, and a regiment of hobilars or royal knights in all the border provinces is almost complete. The mercenaries, of course, are all but disbanded. What's left of them." Ah, the mercenaries. They were the reason for everything he had done. The mercenaries that had been left him by his father, Phillipe I. Whole armies of them, sucking the royal treasury dry, causing disturbances in the towns where they were garrisoned - they had had to go. And go they did. Not discharged, no. Phillipe had seen what to do. The voices had told him what to do. War on your neighbors, they had said. But not the Germans, like his father had wanted. No, never the Germans. They were far too strong. No, it was his English "allies" who would taste the steel of the French. And so it was - the mercenaries had fought and died for France, and well. Normandy and Anjou had fallen, then Wessex, then Mercia and Wales. And the Pope had done nothing. Nothing, that is, until the French and their mercenaries had invaded Aquitaine and put the English king under seige. Then the Archbishop of Paris had called upon him, and delivered a letter. Cease your attacks, it said, or be excommunicated. Such threats had meant little to Phillipe, but his people, well, they were a superstitious lot. And so the King of the English had been taken from his castle, ransomed, and exiled to Northumbria. That had been in 1131. Not until 1143 would the French be able to put King Stephen to the sword and claim to be Kings of France and England. But wait, Louis was speaking again. "...the people grow ever more prosperous, my Lord. Better farmland and new farming techniques have spread throughout the realm, and the treasury verily overflows, despite our spending the gold we looted from the English dogs on more troops and more buildings to train them in. Throughout France, you are known as a great builder, my Lord." Phillipe coughed once, and sat silent for a moment. What he had to say pained him, but it had to be said. "Listen, <cough> Louis, brother. It is near <cough> my time. I will <cough> soon go to God, and you are the last of us. My son..." His son had died well, leading the charge in Mercia, killing the old King of England in single combat before being killed by one of his retinue. One by one, Phillipe's brothers had died, leading their own armies against the English to feed Phillipe's ambition. All but Louis. He had held court in Champagne throughout Phillipe's reign, overseeing the great projects of his brother. No king had ever had a more loyal servant. "<cough> Here, take this ring. <cough> Yes, this is the signet of the <cough> King. <cough> Hail Louis, King of France!" With those words, Phillipe II, Phillipe the Great, King of the French, closed his eyes and fell into darkness. |