| The Kings of the French - Philippe III (Tonto_Marius) |
| Anno Domini 1210 - Garrison, Paris Castle |
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"Oh, come on then. Just one more round, you'll win it all back." The speaker was a large man, dressed in the uniform of the French Emperor's household guard. Clustered with him around a small table were a number of others dressed the same way, and a young boy, dressed in a much finer fashion. In the center of the table sat a dice cup, and in front of the man speaking was a rather hefty pile of coins, the faces on which bore a striking resemblance to the young man. "Yeah, yeah, sure, one more. I've got watch soon, though. And hey, the Prince's cup is empty! Somebody pour him some more ale, eh? Anyway, lad, like I was saying. Here we were in this brothel in Navarre, see, and this Spanish wench..." "The boy might be a bit young for all of this, don't you think, gentlemen?" All at the table looked up, startled by a man in red robes and a crucifix. "Well, yer Worship, we was just...uh...furtherin' his education. Yes, furtherin' his education." "With ale, harlots, and gambling, gentlemen? Hardly a good Christian upbringing, now is it? Speaking of which, when was the last time any of you set foot in the chapel?" "Ah, well, that is, you see, there were gates what needed guardin' an' such. Gotta protect the city from those heathen Islamers, eh?" "Yes, well, despite rumors to the contrary, I think that the armies of Islam are in, oh, Spain, wasn't it? Anyway, come along, lad. It's time we got you a better education." "What kind of education, Archbishop Marigny?" "Oh, the usual. Mathematics, theology, Latin." "LATIN!? Who would want to learn LATIN?" "Why, all priests should know Latin, young Phillip. It's the only way to communicate, in this day and age." "Priest!? I don't want to be a priest! I want to be a soldier, and go kill Islamers like Henri and my father!" "I'm very sorry, but you have a certain duty as the second son, and that duty is to be my successor as the spiritual leader of France. It is a duty you cannot run away from, and one, I might add, that is ill served by your learning bad habits from the soldiers. Now then. Latin, you will find, is much like the crude French dialect we speak now..." |
| Anno Domini 1213 - Monastery of St. Louis, Paris |
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Philippe shoved the book - Caesar's Gallic War under his blanket as the door opened and Archbishop Marigny entered the room. "If this is about the Latin work, I've already recited it to Brother Jea..." "Be quiet, lad. No, it's not about the Latin. I'm afraid your time with Latin is over, and indeed your time in this school. You've another school waiting now, though I dare say you'll enjoy this one a bit more. More Caesar than Augustine, I'm afraid." "Wha...what do you mean?" "I mean that there has been news from the wars in Spain just delivered. Your brother Henri has fallen in battle against the Almohad caliph, and your father has just named you his heir." Phillip was stunned by the news. He suddenly felt very old for his sixteen years. He remembered listening to his brother's stories when he was home from the wars - it seemed so very long ago now. "I thought my duty was to the Church and God, Archbishop." "And so it is, my son. So it is. There are many ways to fulfill that duty, however." |
| Anno Domini 1218 - Great Hall of the Privy Council, Paris Castle |
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The doors to the council chamber slammed open and a small man, noticeably darker than the average Frenchman and wearing ratty, travel-stained clothes, strode into the room. This might have led to the generals calling in the guards, but for the fact ten of the Imperial bodyguard were right behind. Gesturing at the guards to close the doors, Philippe III, King of France and Emperor of the West, smiled grimly at the assembled generals of the realm and then spoke. "So, my Lords, have you had a good time ruling France in my absence? Driven off the Almohad infidels, filled the coffers? What? You mean you haven't? You mean the year in which you've been running the realm while my father was locked up raving mad from drink and while you conveniently "neglected" to send somebody to Rome to inform me of any of this. So sure that you could direct the realm, were you?" Lord de Bourbon, Chancellor of the Realm and almost as notorious a drunkard as Charles IV had been, opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by a glare from Philippe, who spoke again. "No, my Lords, I've afraid you've got it all wrong. Obviously you've got it all wrong, because we've been fighting in Iberia SINCE THE TIME OF MY GRANDFATHER! That accursed land has killed my brother, and drove my father to drink and death. That will end. In Spain, we ought to be like Caesar, like Sertorius. Like...you fools haven't got a clue what I'm talking about, have you? Have any of you so much as glanced at Caesar's works? I thought not. Do you even know who Caesar IS? You do? Oh good. Hold on to that name, my Lords. For we are the heirs of Caesar, of Rome. My coronation has proved that to me. Have any of you seen Rome, seen the decay and ruin that has befallen it? We're going to change that. I shall make Paris the Third Rome, and France shall prove itself worthy of the name. And we shall do so beginning with Iberia." Philippe gestured at Lord de Bourbon and four of the other ranking generals, and the bodyguards started forward. As the bodyguards clapped irons on them, Philippe continued. "My Lord de Bourbon, you and the others are hereby divested of all titles and responsibilities to the realm. Your holdings are confiscated by the Crown. As for yourselves, you can still help France, never fear. You shall be sent to the front in Cordoba along with reinforcements, to get a more...personal look at the state of our war there." Philippe turned to one of the younger generals. "Lord Richelieu, you are hereby declared Grand Chamberlain of the Empire with hereditary title and estates in Ireland. Save for you, I never would have known about this little...gathering. That deserves to be rewarded, and rewarded you have been. It is a reward with teeth, however. Remember, Lord Richelieu, and the rest of you, that you all have a duty to this realm, a responsibility to see it and its people prosper." Philippe gestured again, and one of the bodyguards brought forth a map, which was unrolled on the table. "And this, my Lords, is what we shall do. Direct the shipbuilders in Ireland and Brittany to begin work on more barques and caravels. France must have a navy in order to trade with the world and to support our empire. Next order conscriptions - throughout Britain and Flanders. Send them straight to Spain. See it done, my Lords." Left unspoke was a warning each of them felt: Do my will, or your head will be the next one on the block. |
| Anno Domini 1219 - Angers Castle, Anjou |
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Philippe stood on the platform with Archbishop Marigny gazing out at a vast sea of faces - young faces, old faces, rich faces, poor faces. Some wore armor, carried swords. Most did not. A ragged host, but it was what France had to give. The Archbishop stepped back, having finished blessing the troops. Now it was Philippe's turn. He strode to the edge of the platform. For a moment, the sun broke through the clouds, and glittered from the Emperor's chain mail, surrounding him with an aura of light. The Soldiers of God cheered. Philippe raised his arms, and the cheering raggedly broke off. "Crusaders, hear me!" he cried, "You are here in Christendom's darkest hour! On all sides we are assailed by the dark forces of Islam. Our brothers in Byzantium have fallen to the Turks, reduced to exile in Crete and Malta. Our brothers in Spain and Aragon have fallen as to well, to the Almohads." Never mind that France was forced to destroy them both after they invaded. It was the Almohads that started it. Philippe thought, and continued. "Only our brothers in Hungary in Poland remain to combat the infidel tide. And they have failed! The King of Poland lies dead, and Poland is now ruled by the Turkish Sultan. And they have not stopped there! Even now their forces have attacked the Holy Roman Empire in Brandenburg! But they have neglected their true foe! For we French are also part of the bulwark behind which Christians are protected from the infidels! Was it not an army of French Crusaders who drove the Turk from Pomerania and Prussia, and have not French armies protected those territories ever since, though they are more properly part of the Holy Roman Empire?" Or more properly part of France, but why antagonize the Germans? We'll need them later. "And are not French armies at this very moment driving the Almohads from Spain, where they have been a plague for generations? Why, even now French armies have driven the infidel from Portugal and Grenada, and stand poised to drive them from the peninsula completely! Under the shield of God, we shall ever be victorious, in the East as in the West!" Or the steel of our swords, more's the point. But this is a religious occasion, after all. Philippe, the not-so-pious former priest, reflected before continuing once more. "Crusaders, you go now to Poland, to save it from the ungodly forces of the Turks. And never forget that it needs saving! When they captured the Polish King, they took delight in torturing his sons to death in front of his eyes before he himself was killed by impalement. His wife and daughters are even now forced to serve the Turkish Sultan's perverted sexual desires." Or maybe they do not, but a man will always fight harder for his family than for himself. "That is what awaits us if we fail, Crusaders! But we shall not fail, for God is with is, and all who are friends of God are with us! We shall drive the Turk from Poland and from wherever he might be found, and we shall make all the world safe from their scourge forever and ever!" With that, Phillipe strode from the balcony, leaving the cheering Crusaders behind. The Crusade will fail, of course, or it will not succeed without the help of other French armies from Pomerania, Prussia. I cannot yet afford to give them these armies. God willing, they shall have their support, but first we must deliver ourselves from the Almohads. Hold the Turks in the east, and cut into their underbelly in the south. And these poor fools will be the distraction I need. They will be the last Crusade of the French, for we cannot afford even these peasants. Never again will we make such sacrifices on God's altar. Phillipe's thoughts were interrupted by a page, who handed the Emperor a note. It read, simply: Sire, Lisbon Castle has fallen, and the Almohad Caliph has been captured along with his heirs. On the morrow, they await the purifying fires of the stake, and then the fires of Hell. Spain is yours. Phillipe smiled. With the death of their Caliph, the Almohads in North Africa would be in disarray. Now he had his armies. |
| Anno Domini 1230 - Yurt of the Great Khan, Khazar |
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Chagatai, Khan of the Golden Horde, held his sword up to the neck of the Turkish emissary kneeling before him. "Speak, dog. Tell me of these Franks who have you Turks cowering like women." "Y...yes Great Khan." The emissary was a fat, balding man from Rum itself. Far too concerned with saving his own skin, but intelligent nontheless. "The country of the Franks is in the far west. For decades they have been the greatest enemy of the Turks, warring against us in Pomerania and Prussia, standing against us where the Byzantines and the Poles could not." Chagatai had no idea where any of these places were, but he would find out sooner or later. The fat emissary continued. "Over the last ten years, their Emperor Phillipe has managed to turn their country around. First he overcame the Almohads in Spain - A true disaster for Islam, Great Khan. Then he launched a Crusade against Poland, which bothered us little but tied up our soldiers, and caused the failure of our jihad to retake Pomerania. I'm sure they engineered the rebellions in Brandenburg, as well." Those had been two years previously. The Duke of Berlin Castle had somehow been related to the Polish royal line, and interested in getting the Turks out of his domain, had declared himself King of Poland - fueled by French gold, some had said. He had raised a huge army and defeated the Turks, trapping them in Berlin itself. In the inevitable dispute over the spoils, half the army had ended up declaring for the Holy Roman Emperor and turned on the other half. The rebel king had ended up, they said, being killed by some peasant in a nameless village somewhere. In any event, both armies had dispersed, and the Turks had come back out of the castle and taken over again. "And in the south, Great Khan, it was worse. After the Almohad Kalifah died, his generals set to bickering among themselves. In the end, they were all killed or subverted by the French. They bribed the generals in Algeria and Tunesia, I hear. They invaded Morocco and Cyrenaica, and kept on going. We never saw it coming, Great Khan. In the last year, they swept right through Egypt and the Sinai, brushing aside our troops. I do not think they will ever be stopped, Great Khan." Chagatai nodded slowly. "That is all?" "That is all of a military nature I know, Great Khan. I of course know other things about them. Their barbaric culture, for one. I can tell you these things, if you wish." Chagatai laughed. "Why should I care about the culture of the dead?" He brought the sword up quickly and decapitated the emissary. "And as for you, worm..." They are all worms, thought Chagatai. Or perhaps birds - fat, slow, and good eating. He smiled at that, showing yellowed teeth. And we wolves shall eat them all, even these Franks. |
| Anno Domini 1237 - Monastery of St. Louis, Paris |
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Philippe walked the halls of his old home. It had been a long time, but nothing ever really changed here, not even in the twenty years since he had last been here. The
monastery always kept an aura of peaceful serenity about it. I hated that most when I was here, thought Philippe. Hopefully Louis has taken better to it. He should - he knows his duty isn't here. He will rule, some day. Emperor of all the West, if I can manage it. Philippe smiled, glancing out a window at Paris Castle rising above the city. Workmen scurried around like ants over the half-finished towers and buildings. Similar projects were taking place all over the Empire, funded by trade as far east as Antioch and Edessa. And soon enough those will be in the Empire as well. Who knew the Turks would collapse so fast? Well, Philippe had, of course, which was the whole reason his strategy for the last decade had been to pin the Turks in the north and leave them staring at the Hammer of God poised in Prussia and Pomerania, while his real armies swept into the weak underbelly. And it had worked. First the former Almohad empire had fallen. Then Egypt and the Sinai. Now Palestine and Tripoli, and even Arabia itself. We even hold Mecca, for what that's worth. Churchmen throughout the Empire had urged him to level the city, but Philippe had managed to sway them towards more peaceful conversion efforts. Too many Muslims still left in the Empire for that. It would lead to revolts everywhere. And my way is working. Even now, churches are being erected throughout Egypt. Ah, here was his son's cell now. The Emperor of the French paused for a moment. Yes, still the same door that he himself had used every day. The monastery truly was timeless. He knocked once and opened the door, revealing his son, a young man of sixteen, seriously studying a scroll. And not the forbidden kind, either. Philippe smiled, remembering his own recall from the monastery. The boy looked up, dropping the scroll in surprise. "Father!" he cried, happily. "Yes, Louis, it is indeed. Studying hard, I see." Louis grimaced. "Latin again. I'm so very tired of Latin." Philippe laughed heartily. "So was I, my son, so was I. I wanted to follow my brother Henri and be a soldier, not learn Latin. It was quite useful when I became Emperor, though, I can tell you that. It will serve you just as well, I think. Even as a soldier. You're studying it hard, I hope." "Yes Father. Archbishop Marigny says I'm one of his best students, especially at mathematics. The new algebra the soldiers have brought back from the east is really quite something." Louis rushed on excitedly. "Am I going to be a soldier, Father?" "Yes son, you're going to be a soldier. I need a general in the north, and I think you can handle it. You'll be under Duke de Bar at first, but in a couple of years you'll be leading in the north. You're young for it, but I think you can handle things." Louis beamed. "I'll do my best, Father!" He frowned suddenly. "But I'm afraid I have no idea what's going on these days, Father. The monks..." "...keep you under lock and key here, I know. I think a few of them haven't been out of the doors since Christ was an infant. Well, listen closely, son, and I'll tell you." Philippe pulled out the room's only chair and sat down. "Where to begin? You know that we have been fighting the Turks since my own grandfather's time. For sixty years we've bled and died in the north and the east against the infidel. We've never been able to gain ground. Until now. Now the Turks are on the run everywhere. We've taken Poland from them, even after the failure of the Last Crusade. We've saved the Germans in Saxony and driven the Turks from Brandenburg and Franconia. The Turkish threat to the Germans is over. The shock of it, they say, killed the Turkish Sultan. Even now, the dogs are fighting amongst themselves for the scraps of their empire." "A civil war, Father?" "A civil war. It has fatally weakened the Turks, I think. And God willing, my son, they shall not live out my reign." |
| Anno Domini 1251 - Marseille Castle, Provence |
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Prince Jean, brother to the Emperor and Commander of the Armies of Germany, regarded the figure in chains before him. "It didn't work very well for you, did it?" When he recieved no response, he kicked the man in the stomach. Hard. "Did it?" Heinrich VI, Holy Roman Emperor, wheezed, flecks of vomit dribbling from his chin. "N...no." He began to continue, but broke into a coughing fit. "You thought you were being clever, didn't you, Heinrich?" Jean lightly prodded the man, who was still wheezing. "You had it all planned out. Use France against the Turks, plead and beg for help, play the good little lapdog until we let our guard down, and then once we saved you from the Turks, you would strike out against your protectors. That was the plan, wasn't it?" Jean prodded the man with his foot again, lifting the man's face up with his boot. "I hear you started smoking hashish when you were a prisoner of the Turks, Heinrich. Is that where this plan came from?" Actually he had grown fond of the stuff when a prisoner, Jean had learned. As to the plan, who knew? "It really was a ludicrous plan, Heinrich. And worse, you lost touch with God, Heinrich. When you die, you will die excommunicated. You will be cast into Hell, Heinrich. As you deserve." Jean withdrew his boot, letting Heinrich's head crash into the ground. "And you do deserve it, Heinrich. It was a worthless plan. Not only did you not take anything at all from us, crushing you was accomplished merely with the armies we had in place. Border garrisons, Heinrich. You were crushed by our weak, out of date, under armed border garrisons. All the while allowing our regular troops to take Antioch and Syria from the Turks and fight for our possessions in the east. You are nothing but a fly to us, Heinrich. And flies are easily crushed." With that, Jean smoothly drew his sword and decapitated the kneeling Holy Roman Emperor. "Goodbye, little fly," Jean laughed as he turned to exit the cell. "And one of you clean this mess up, eh?" |
| Anno Domini 1254 - Great Hall of the Privy Council, Paris Castle |
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With a flourish, the Hungarian emissary signed the document before him. "With this, Your Highness, Hungary declares everlasting peace and friendship with France!" Just like the everlasting peace and friendship we had before you up and attacked us? Philippe thought. Out loud, he said "Excellent. France is proud to once again be Hungary's friend, and pleased that we are once again at peace. However, if you will excuse me, I must confer with my advisors for a time..." "Certainly, Your Highness." The emissary turned and exited the room, leaving Philippe alone with his council. "I don't understand why we don't just obliterate the scum," said Lord de Blois, the Duke of Brittany. Philippe sighed. Hereditary nobility was a curse. "Because, my Lord, right now we need the Hungarians. Yes, I know they've been dancing between us and the Mongols, but we need them as a bulwark against the Golden Horde. Them and the Novgorodians." The room hushed appreciably at mention of the Mongols. The Golden Horde had come out of the east twenty-five years ago, and under their Khans Chagatai and Ogadai had done the impossible, smashing the seemingly invincible Turks. Just two years before, the last Turkish Sultan had been very publicly crucified, and his skull turned into Ogadai's drinking cup. People had said the Turks were barbaric, but the Mongols... taking skulls for cups was the least of their barbarities. Philippe shuddered, then turned to the Chancellor, Lord de Bourbon. "And how goes our war with the barbarians?" "Well, my Lord, but only because their attention seems to be elsewhere. We've taken most of Anatolia, and we've repulsed them in Antioch and in Prussia. We'll defeat them just as we have the Turks," said Lord de Bourbon, knowing as well as anyone that the Turks weren't dead because of the French. |
| Anno Domini 1261 - Imperial Chambers, Paris Castle |
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Philippe unrolled the letter and began to read.
To His Imperial Majesty, Philippe III From Lord Richelieu, Chamberlain and Lord of Ireland, greetings and health. Well, sire, I don't know how you knew it, but you were right. Murad Gazi WAS our prisoner some years ago, and apparently liked your scheme of reviving the Roman Empire. We weren't having much success getting to him before, but that turned him around. An army marched in from Nicea, and after a short siege we now own Constantinople, sire. The triumph we threw was magnificent, sire. I know you spent some time in Rome, but I would wager that the Second Rome is every bit as splendid as the first. I'd also wager that the people like your idea, too - they cheered Gazi and I every bit of the way. And here we are, sire, awaiting orders. ---Richelieu Philippe smiled. It was all coming together. All that Caesar. France had conquered in the east, at long last taking one of the old Roman capitals. He himself had been crowned Holy Roman Emperor as well as Emperor of France, and would pass both on to his son. The Golden Horde had proved not to be the Scourge of God after all - could the Scourge of God lose Anatolia in a few short years? Could they waste army after army on French garrisons? Philippe thought not. Except they had drawn the Hungarians into war again. That would be bothersome. Philippe folded his hands together and smiled. But Hungarians or no, he was finally achieving his dream. |
| Anno Domini 1264 - Great Hall of the Privy Council, Paris Castle |
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"Fools! We'll crush them like bugs!" Prince Jean was
shouting. "What in the name of God possessed them to declare
war like that?" "We'll sweep in through Provence into Genoa and destroy them!" shouted another general. Philippe couldn't tell who. Oh, my foolish, foolish nobles, Philippe sighed. You really don't understand, do you? France lives and dies on her trade. And do the Sicilians not have the greatest fleet in the world behind us? We'll be locked in a death struggle for control of the seas, as has already begun... Philippe looked up, ready to call order to the meeting, when the doors suddenly banged open and a messenger, haggard-looking and dirty, rushed in and began to speak. "My...my...lords," he panted, obviously out of breath, "I bring you news of the east! All of Anatolia has risen in revolt! Lord Richelieu has withdrawn the garrisons into Constantinople and Antioch to avoid being overrun!" "We're lost! We're lost!" cried someone, faintly, as if off in the distance. Oh, how fragile are our dreams, thought Philippe. So close, and then this... Why is it so dark? The last thing Philippe heard were his generals, bickering about revolts, before he slumped over and fell to the floor. |