| The Kings of the French - Louis VIII (Tonto_Marechal) |
| Anno Domini 1265 - Imperial Camp, Eastern Galicia |
| Thunder rolled across the heavens which were concealed in a thick
blanket of dark storm clouds. A fierce wind snapped the tent flaps
and standards in the French camp. A squadron of cavalry came
riding into the camp, the horses kicking up the mud. A large blue
and gold tent in the center of the army tents had the white and gold
standard of the Dauphin planted before it. A cordon
of chivalric sergeants surrounded the tent. An officer approached
the squadron and saluted. "Your business, sirs?" the young fair-haired captain of the bodyguards asked looking over the host of armored knights. "Field report from Lord Anjou," answered a tall man with a red-plumed helmet. He dismounted, splashing a considerable volume of water over the captain. "Follow me, sir," the captain frowned as he led Lord Anjou into the tent. They went through a series of small partitioned rooms until they came to the largest section where a small man stood looking over a map. He was balding and most likely in his forties. He wore a simple white tunic with gold lacing. The only significant mark of his rank was the large ring he wore which bore the seal of the emperor. Lord Anjou stamped his boots in a futile effort to cast away the encrusted layer of mud. He nodded to the captain as he unstrapped his helmet and put it on a small table in the back. The Dauphin and Lord Anjou were alone. The imperial prince and heir apparent looked up from the map with weary eyes. His face was rough and haggard; it must have been a week since it had been shaved. He smiled, "And how are things, Jean?" "The damned weather, the pathetic fighting, accursed religion, and all beside?" "Ah yes. Indeed. These pagans live in a God-forsaken land, that's for sure. Had never even heard of this damn wilderness until my father sent me out here," Louis shook his head. "Jean, you studied these maps and reports from France lately?" "I am familiar with them, Your Highness," Lord Anjou undid the gainly blue wool cape and threw it over a chair. "Your father is still in good health, I hear," Anjou pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. "My father's health is of little concern. What concerns me is the health of the empire. I daresay it's in bad shape." "Daresay, indeed, Your Highness. What concerns Your Highness? The empire is at the greatest height, greater than Rome!" "Ha, ha," Prince Louis shook his head as he laughed. "I hardly think so. Our armies are weak, our navy is stretched thin, and we are at war with the rest of Christendom and all the armies of the godless and infidels. Lots of rumors in the Holy Land. Much like the rebellions initially faced by my grandfather Charles. Worse, perhaps," Louis trailed off as he again turned his intense gaze to the map. He had the mind and heart of a warrior, a true captain of soldiers. He knew maps and he knew war. "I hear the Germans are organizing for an eleventh hour gamble to retake their domains," Anjou gestured over the map. "Indeed. Yes, the Germans. As if we aren't busy enough fighting the Poles, Hungarians, and Sicilians. But they have all brought it upon themselves. Betraying my father's treaties. For shame, so much Christian blood. . . ." he trailed off in thought again. Anjou got up and uncorked a bottle of Castilian wine. He offered a glass to the prince. "No, heavens no. Killed my grandfather. You ever read of my grandfather, Jean?" "Hrm, well, sometimes, yes," Anjou finished off his glass and sat down again. A sharp crack of thunder shook the heavens. "My grandfather was a great man." "Greater than your father?" "Well, perhaps. My grandfather was an amazing diplomat. On his death in 1217, all of Christendom stood in solidarity with the Western Empire. Treasury was secure, our armies were composed of crack infantry." "Your father conquered Africa, the Holy Land, Anatolia . . ." "Yes, yes. He is a great man, don't get me wrong. But we are at war with all Christendom. Islamic rebels are roaming with impunity throughout the realm, soon they shall break out in a great jihad. Mark my words. I do hope he realizes this before its too late," Louis clasped his hands behind his back. "I fear the dark road we may have to tread upon. I don't know if I can rule the empire." "Nonsense, Your Highness." "Sure, I can handle my father's armies well enough. I can build fortified imperial camps anywhere and everywhere. I can bring the infidels and pagans to battle and defeat them with my armies. I'm a general, Jean, a general." "And some day you will be emperor. It's unavoidable, Your Highness." Another crack of thunder echoed over the skies and was quickly followed by the dull clutter of sheets of rain striking the tent. Prince Louis walked over to a cot and picked up one of the heavy bearskin cloaks. The rain began to fall harder now. The wind was still strong enough that the snapping of the banners atop the tent could still be heard over the din of the downpour. "Intolerable weather," Anjou muttered as he poured another glass of Spanish wine. The tent flap was thrust open suddenly as a breathless officer removed his soaked feather cap and bowed. Water streamed off of his wet blue cloak onto the floor. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, urgent news from Paris." "Majesty?" Louis frowned. "Your father died suddenly a week ago. A regency council sits in Paris right now, and we are awaiting Your Majesty's return as Emperor." "Dead? What happened?" "Anatolia broke out in rebellion. The whole Holy Land is rumored to be in revolt. He just, just died, sire." "My God . . ." Louis's eyes were wide with speculation. He looked at the map and then at the courier and back to the map. "Lord eleison," the agitated emperor-elect grabbed a simple broad-brimmed peasant hat and left the tent with the courier. |
| Anno Domini 1266 - Paris Castle, Ile de France |
|
A large host of generals in a vast array of different colored uniforms and
tunics were closely gathered around a giant map of the empire. Colored
pins were strategically placed across the map representing the regiments
of Imperial France and the known enemy units. Hundreds of grey pins
cluttered the domains of the East and elsewhere. "The garrisons in Antioch, Syria, Arabia, and the Sinai have all fallen to rebels in the East, Your Majesty, sirs. All of Anatolia is threatened. Cyprus has gone over to the rebels. The Turks are massing outside of Georgia. The Khan still holds sway here, and here," one of the generals made some gestures over the map indicating the Mongolian domains in the East. "And in the West, Ireland has cast off its French governor and annihilated the garrison there. And wretched news from Iberia, Your Majesty, sirs. The Almohads have returned under a new fanatic Caliph, and they have sworn eternal jihad against us." Emperor Louis's right hand shook briefly before he clenched it in a fist. His eyes constantly darted across the breadth of the parchment, his mind in a fervor. He looked up at a tall Italian general in green across from him, "The Germans?" "We defeated them in Provence. They left over eight hundred dead in the field, Your Majesty." Louis nodded. "Jean . . ." The Lord of Anjou stepped forward. "Sire?" "I am appointing you Captain-General of the Latin East. Take a dozen staff officers with you as your lieutenants. I will have 10,000 florins dispatched for your disposal. Do not lose the Holy Land, Jean." "I shall not, sire." "Do not lose the Holy Land," the emperor sternly shook his fist. "Go now." A path opened up in the assembled officers as the Lord of Anjou and his staff exited the hall. Louis turned again to the map. "Lord Henri, you are to be the Lieutenant-General of Iberia. You have no field army, an unfortunate mistake made by my father's military council." The officers grimaced and looked at the floor, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Louis had ordered the immediate execution of two dozen of his father's military councilors because of the empire's unpreparedness for the massive rebellions of the previous year. Almost all the officers now present were replacements or recently promoted to their position to fill the gaps. "I expect the Almohadden infidels to be exterminated within three years, Lieutenant-General, Lord Henri," Louis looked the large man in the eyes. "Three years." "Yes, sire. It shall be so," Henri bowed and led his staff out of the hall. "I want these Germans defeated. I shall personally direct the war here on the Rhine against the host of heretical Christendom aligned against us. Bah, where is that Papal delegation?" The crowd parted again to expose the three men of the diplomatic mission from Rome. A cardinal in red and two monks in black robes were held by a half dozen armored soldiers of the imperial bodyguard. Louis clasped his hands behind his back and strode towards the men. He stopped in front of the cardinal and leaned in to within a few inches from the man's face. "You have the guts to tell the Emperor of West, Grand Protector of Christendom, Gate Keeper of Holy Jerusalem, and Guardian of the True Cross that he is acting outside of Christian virtue? You dare threaten me with crusades?" The cardinal only looked back in fearful silence; sweat poured from his forehead. The other two delegates were even more afraid of the emperor. Louis returned to the attack. "I spent my childhood in a monastery. I have known the Gospels since I could read and write. The only forsaken lamb that has gone astray is that bastard who sits in Rome. If he had any concept of history he would recall that it was the other Christian powers of Europe that attacked the Christian realm of France. That's history. DO YOU RECALL?!" Louis thundered at the cardinal, shaking his fist a hair's breadth from the pale man's face. "I did not chose war against Christendom. My father did not chose war against Christendom. The heretics of Sicily, Hungary, and Germany chose that war. They chose to spill Christian blood even while the infidels and pagan hosts of Satan stole their lands in the east. God bless it," Louis cursed and drew has sword. All the officers winced as the cold steel flashed in their emperor's hands. He turned to the cardinal again. "Tell your godless heretic that I am sick and tired of his treachery," Louis spat on the cardinal's robes. "Don't be surprised if you find a French army outside of Rome within your lifetime. Maybe then you'll find the true faith in Christ Jesus that you have seemingly abandoned in your craven political games. Get out of my sight and never return," Louis pushed the cardinal to the floor and turned his back on the Papal delegate. "I want these stupid rebellions to stop. Do whatever is necessary, gentlemen. All prisoners captured are to be executed, no quarter is to be given. Crush them." "Yes, sire," echoed the hall as the generals and their aides hurried out the doors to return to their regiments and carry out the campaign to crush the insurrections. "Someone clean this up," Louis gestured at the bloody mess on the floor. "Throw the bodies in the Seine. Send the heads to Rome." |
| Anno Domini 1276 - Fortress of Milan, Northern Italy |
|
"There is a bit of good news, sire," a short noble in a yellow
tunic smiled. "Oh?" Louis poured himself a glass of Cherbourg wine. "Well, your father's navy was almost utterly vanquished by the Sicilians, as Your Majesty no doubt recalls." "How could I forget? As I remember it, most of the defeats were suffered during the beginning of my reign." "Yes, sire. Well, your crash naval program has yielded some results. The Sicilians managed to penetrate imperial waters off of Brittany at their height the other year. Admiral Condé has formed up all of our squadrons into the First Fleet and has won victories all the way to the Pillars of Hercules." "Well, splendid. Now if only our field regiments could be as successful as our naval squadrons?" Louis turned to his chief military advisors. "Pray tell, what defeats have we suffered this year?" "Flanders, Swabia, Palestine . . ." one of the advisors frowned. "Suffered six hundred dead on the plains of Galilee," added another. "Rebels defeated our legions in Tunisia, Granada, and Corboda as well." "Well, splendid. We suffer substantial casualties?" Louis smiled. "Of course, sire. Worst year yet, for imperial arms. Over four thousand dead." Louis nodded. "The treasury is empty, yet I am calling up 2,000 men a year to the standards of France. I don't suppose we can sustain such losses indefinitely?" "Well, we could, sire. The only problem is our treasury. Shore the treasury up, and we could fight for the next century or so. We've managed to stubbornly hold on to three-quarters of your father's empire." "Three-quarters," Louis nodded again, his eyes glazing over. He stared out the window for a few minutes in the silence that ensued. He suddenly rose from his chair and walked to the window. "You know, gentlemen, I have never suffered defeat on the field of battle." Outside the great fortress was encamped the elite Second Royal French Regiment. The French standards flew over the Milanese countryside, further testament to their warrior king's prowess on the battlefield. The death and destruction of war was a necessity of policy and an excellent challenge from which Louis had partaken of since his early adulthood campaigning for his father in the wilds of Poland and Prussia. Unfortunately, his generals were not of the same caliber, as demonstrated by the unprecedented string of defeats and debacles throughout the empire. Louis coughed violently. "Time is short, I fear," he cleared his throat and picked up several of the reports laying on one of the tables. |
| Anno Domini 1278 - City of Venice, Venetia |
|
Louis and his escort clamored through the cobbled streets of Venice.
The great host of armored knights came to a halt outside the Doge's
palace. The emperor dismounted, followed by several of his bodyguard
who followed. The great halls of the palace echoed with silence as
they tromped down through the Doge's residence. A large table was
found in an antechamber and its contents were cast onto the floor and a
map rolled out. "Several units of the Hungarian army are already positioned along the northeastern corridor of Venetia. A few units have already entered Venice proper here. Spies and agents are everywhere," one of the aides reported. "Hungarians are using a two-pronged strategy. They've thrust three armies through Swabia, into Franconia. The second prong will be through Venetia and Northern Italy," added another. "This is where we stop them, gentlemen," Louis pointed to the map. "We strike their second prong here and turn it back. God willing, several regiments can be formed in Greece and Constantinople. They will drive north through Serbia. At the same time, I shuffle my Prussian and Polish regiments south and west, cutting off their first prong." The generals nodded approvingly. "Excellent, sire. By God, the Hungarians shall be annihilated." A cabinet came crashing to the floor in the antechamber and out sprung a thin, red-headed boy with a rapier. Before anyone could draw their sword, the boy was upon the emperor, furiously stabbing Louis repeatedly before being run through in turn by the captain of the bodyguard. Louis VIII slumped to the floor, blood quickly soaking the several layers of gold-laced silk he was wearing. "God forgive me, God forgive me," he whispered hoarsely and collapsed. |