| The Kings of the French - Charles IV (Tonto_Marechal) |
| Anno Domini 1195 - Paris Castle, Ile de France |
| Charles IV has ascended the throne upon the death of his father, Louis the Great (VII). France stretches from the Ebro to the Rhine with the English Isles and most of
Scandinavia under her thumb. She is at war with the Turks & Almohads. Charles IV nervously toyed with the diamond-encrusted crucifix hanging around his neck. He anxiously tapped the table with his free hand. The council room was empty except for the king in his great oak chair. A large map of Iberia was spread out over the length of the table with an assortment of colored markers protruding from its parchment surface. Charles reached for his golden chalice. A knock at the door brought the wine into the king's lap. Cursing, he rose from the table and tried to wipe away the liquid. "Forgive me, sire, but stupendous news," the young page took off his green cap. Still focusing on his robes, the king looked up, "Well, out with it boy!" "You now have a son. And your wife, is in good health," beamed the messenger. The king stopped brushing off his clothing. The furrowed brow vanished and a gracious smile overcame the king, "That's fantastic! Fantastic! My son is born! Thanks be to God! Come, come, let us go see my son and the heir of the kingdom!" Charles forgot all about the spilt wine and stained robes as he followed the page out of the hall. As they were leaving the council room, another page hurried in. "Forgive me, sire, news from the front," the page doffed his cap and bowed. He produced a rolled parchment from his bag and handed it to the king. The king paused. Frowning, he put the parchment in one of his pockets and followed the first page out of the room to go see his new heir. |
| Anno Domini 1205 - Outside of Paris, Ile de France |
|
Charles gingerly sipped the bitter, red wine from his goblet. He shifted awkwardly in his excessive robes as a general droned on about the war. The king kneaded his brow in frustration. Several pages silently moved markers around on a large map of Iberia spread out on the table in the tent. Outside a strong breeze rolled over the fields. The multitude of French standards snapped
noisily in the wind. Congratulatory smiles and compliments circulated around the table. Portugal had finally fallen after a lengthy siege. The king's expression did not change. He shifted again in his throne and tightly gripped his chin with his right arm. The fall of Portugal was miniscule. Charles shook his head. Most of the generals at his table were the same ones who had sat at all of Louis VII's military councils. The king had become increasingly disillusioned with their capacity to effectively administer the royal army and win France's wars. "We've got them on the run," the elderly Lord of Bouillon pounded the table in his excitement over the news of the fall of Portugal. "Ack," Charles slammed the table even harder than Bouillon had, cutting short the rest of the council. "We've got them on the run? You've lost your bearings, again, Sir Bouillon. Why you even sit at this table still bothers me. Let me remind you, gentlemen, that you all said the same God-damned thing six years ago in Paris. My father said the same thing to me before he died. Our armies have been in Iberia since the days of my father!" Charles grabbed the empty goblet and flung it to the other side of tent. "Like a bunch of little girls you idiots are grinning and laughing. Portugal?! Portugal!? Tell me, how long ago was Portugal supposed to have fallen and our armies sweep into North Africa?" No one could meet the king's fierce gaze as he surveyed the council. The general reading the report had fallen silent and was too frightened to find his voice. The pages hardly breathed, frozen in the middle of their adjustment of the colored pins on the map. "Ack. Get me some more wine for Chr..." Everyone in the room crossed themselves as one of the pages scampered off to fetch another bottle of wine. This would be the king's second that evening. The tent flap opened and a colorfully attired officer strode into the tent. "Bearing dispatches for the king," he announced. "Sire," the officer doffed his hat and bowed before Charles, handing him a parchment. Charles roughly confiscated the dispatch and waved off the officer. He hurriedly unraveled the parchment and began reading it. The military council sat in expectant silence as their king read the message. "Probably from Cordoba," one of the generals muttered to Prince Henri. The heir apparent was only aged ten, but Charles had already made military councils mandatory for his son. The boy eyed up the map of Iberia to check if he correctly recalled where Cordoba was located. Geography was a favorite subject of his. The king suddenly rose from his chair. Everyone at the table jumped up as the king put the parchment on the table. The color in his face had drained away. Without a word, Charles left the tent with his hands clasped behind his back. The generals looked at each other. Prince Henri left to go see if his father was alright. Bouillon strode over to the king's chair and picked up the parchment. Lord of Bouillon cleared his throat: "To His Majesty, King Charles. From General de Champagne, commander of the Aquitaine Royal Regiment in Cordoba. I regret to inform Your Majesty of a terrible calamity we have suffered here in Iberia. After the conquest of Portugal last year, I was reinforced by several companies of troops from Leon, Castile, and Navarre. Following my orders, I invaded Cordoba and drove the infidel Almohaddens before my sword. Receiving further reinforcements from Valencia, I cornered an army in the southern mountains. Unfortunately, several Almohadden armies appeared out of nowhere and surrounded my regiment. On the twenty-eighth of May, in the blistering heat, we fought a desperate battle against the infidels. They held overwhelming superiority in local cavalry and had several crack regiments of Nubian spearmen. The battle lasted into the evening before my army was finally routed. With a shattered rearguard, I broke through the enemy's left and managed to retreat to Castile. I regret to inform Your Majesty that only one company of my regiment escaped. Although we slew five hundred of the Almohaddens, over thirteen hundred Frenchmen fell at the First Battle of Cordoba on the twenty-eight. I am collecting what troops I can in Castile. I await your orders, Sire. Signed de Champagne." The elderly grand chamberlain slowly lowered the parchment to the table. The only sound was the crisp snapping of the flags overhead. The generals looked at the map in silence, their mouths slightly ajar. "Thirteen hundred lost," was mumbled by several present. Their mutual disbelief lasted for nearly a half hour as the full tragedy began to sink in. "Immediately call up all the feudal sergeants you can muster throughout France. I'll collect the cavalry. Send the Royal Flanders Regiment to Spain," Jean-Philippe, Duc d'Brittany, ordered the generals as he left the tent to find the king. |
| Anno Domini 1213 - Paris Castle, Ile de France |
|
The servants put down the wine bottles on the table and hurriedly retreated to the far corner of the antechamber in the hall. Charles uncorked one of the bottles and poured half of it into his oversized cup. After draining the cup, he slammed it on the table and cleared his throat. "You see, Jean, my father was a great man. He picked up the mess my grandfather had left and annexed the houses of Castile-Aragon to France. He seized the duchies of Sweden-Norway. He even put the French standards over Pomerania," he made elaborate gestures above the map of Europe. "Please, sire," the Duc d'Brittany sighed. "No, no. My father was a great man. Ha, he took up the cause of Christendom. I remember when he declared war on the Almohadden infidels in Iberia. Swore to drive them out of Europe. You know what he told me, Jean? You know what my great father told me?" the king's wild eyes sized up the king's senior military advisor. "Sire, your father had no way of knowing for certain . . ." "Ha! You and the Lord of Bouillon must have been talking to each other. Why isn't that man dead yet? He served both my grandfather and my father. Wretched old man. He can't hide from Navarre," the king laughed as he poured out the rest of the bottle. "That was man years ago, sire," Jean-Philippe unrolled one of the many parchments on the table. "Bah. Like it was yesterday, Jean, like it was yesterday. My father sat up in his bed . . ." Charles trailed off for a minute. "He told me not to worry about the infidels. They were all but defeated and his war over. That's what my father told me." "He could not possibly know of the loyalists or the fleets dropping off the African regiments, sire." "That's what he'd like us to think, I'm sure," the king finished the cup and walked over next to the Duc d'Brittany. "Any news of our crusade in Prussia?" "Yes, sire. A great victory over the infidel Turks in the East. Completely smashed one of their armies on the Niemen." "How many men did we lose?" "Twelve hundred." The king bit his lower lip. He smiled at the duke and nodded as he reached a shaky hand for the second bottle of wine which he uncorked. "Most of those were French boys, too. Not a great army by any means. Arrow fodder, old garrisons, peasant conscripts," he trailed off as he poured himself another glass. "Any news of my son?" "No, sire." |
| Anno Domini 1213 - Cordoba, Iberia |
|
Prince Henri reigned in his horse. The squadron of knights and officers following came to a halt behind him. The fierce
Castilian sun glared down upon the armored men. The French standards were motionless, the cloth tightly clinging to the poles to which they were affixed. A great cloud of dust chased the exhausted French legion as the troops slowly tromped into position to the left and right of the royal squadron of the
dauphin. In the valley in front of them, the infidel horde shifted onto the opposing hillside. Prince Henri leaned over and spat. The blue and white plumes on his helmet fluttered slightly. "I want the men-at-arms on the right, sergeants on the left. Cavalry with me in the center," the young prince ordered his officers. "This field is cursed," one of the nobles spat. "This is the fifth time a French army has taken to this field here," chimed another. "The bleached bones of two thousand Frenchmen lie scattered in the dry grasses here," another gestured over the plain. "Deplorable positioning," one of the generals brought his horse up to the prince. "Those bastards have the hills again. Won't budge from 'em, either. Damned if we go charging up the hills again." "We shall succeed where the others have failed," Henri smiled brightly as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "I promised my father I would end this forsaken war in Iberia. I have the finest regiment in the French army at my disposal. Over one hundred royal knights," the prince nodded to the squadrons arrayed behind him. Trumpets blared as three companies of feudal men-at-arms hustled past the prince's command post. "How many stand under the infidel banner of Mohammed?" "At least fourteen hundred, my lord," answered an aide. A large rock came hurtling past the knights and crashed into one of the feudal sergeant companies, instantly killing a half dozen men. An aide pointed excitedly to several catapults on the enemy's right flank, just under the tree line where a majority of his army had now moved. "Hiding in the damned trees. Bastards," another noble spat. The French infantry was ascending the slopes of the enemy's position by now. Prince Henri and the cavalry remained a ways off in the center, watching the enemy's movements. Suddenly, a hundred horns blared out from across the valley and a great cry went up amongst the assembled infidels. "The Caliph!" "The Ghulams!" echoed the assembled nobles and officers as they watched the infidels charging down the hill. In the center was the banner of the Almohad Caliph himself, with his cavalry bodyguard. "Christe eleison," uttered the prince as he drew his sword from its jewel-encrusted sheath. "Cavalry to the center," he shouted and spurred his horse forward. The nobles and their squadrons of royal knights drew their swords and with the shout "Vive l'Roi!" went crashing down into the valley with their steeds snorting fiercely. The sounds of battle echoed throughout the valley as the infidel barbarians fought hand-to-hand with the solid French infantrymen. The French cavalry bore down hard upon the center and smashed into the Almohadden cavalry on the edge of the hill. In the forefront, Prince Henri in his flowing blue robe & plumes fought desperately with the Ghulam bodyguard that surrounded the Caliph. Confusion reigned as two companies of French infantry were pressed into the swarm of cavalry as the Islamic savages closed in around them, slowly hemming them in. Arrows whistled overhead, hitting indiscriminately amongst the myriad of soldiers. More companies of Nubian infantry appeared from amongst the trees and charged into the mass fighting in the battlefield's center. The French infantry there broke against the fury of the hacking and slashing African troops. Within minutes the entire French cavalry was surrounded in the valley. On the right, the feudal sergeants were gradually pushed back by the weight of the infidel infantry. Prince Henri was bleeding from his side as he plunged his sword into the Ghulam officer who screamed under the metal's bite. The Caliph turned his horse around as he grabbed the crescent banner from the fallen bodyguard and galloped away through a gap in his lines. Henri could not believe the enemy king had just fled. The dauphin turned around and surveyed the scene around him. All around him were the Islamic barbarians shouting and fighting, only a dozen knights were still on their horses. At that moment the prince found himself tumbling to the ground as his horse bolted. Dazed and nearly unconscious, Henri looked up into the red sun high above the Cordovan hills. To his right he could hear a noble quietly talking to himself, "Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis. Agnus Dei." Henri closed his eyes and began to pray. The last thing he felt was a sharp pain in his neck before he found himself in the eternal presence of God. |
| Anno Domini 1213 - Paris Castle, Ile de France |
|
"If we strike Granada with the Valencia Regiment, we can cut off Cordoba and Portugal from the Almohadden Caliphate," a young general made a sweeping gesture over the map on the table. "We lost 600 men in Portugal. We need to shift the Castilian companies through Leon and reinforce our army in the west," another intervened. "Over a thousand dead, in two battles, in one year. How can we keep replacing these men?" "I count at least 8,000 men lost since 1195," an elderly noble bellowed. "Eight thousand! Can you possibly conceive of it, gentlemen?" "Twenty-two years of campaigning in Iberia, and the Islamic crescent is still in the peninsula." "Absolutely incredible." "Perhaps if we would have sent the homeland regiments to Spain in 1200," mused one of the generals. "Has His Majesty returned yet?" asked another. "He's sick at the country chateau. The trip to Rome for his son's coronation nearly killed him." "So we are no longer royal, gentlemen," a young noble rose from his seat. "We are imperial." "Yes, indeed. Philippe was crowned Emperor of the West. Good lad. Rather young, at twenty-one." "Well, if anyone can wrap up the Iberian debacle, it shall be him. God willing he will avenge the death of his brother Henri and finish what his grandfather had started." "God willing, yes." The great doors of the chamber burst open as a captain of the royal bodyguard entered. The nobles and generals fell silent as the breathless man cleared his throat. "The king is dead. He drank himself into a rage and threw himself out the chateau. Philippe is on his way here now. Vive l'Empereur!" "Vive l'Empereur!" roared back the assembled soldiers. |