| The Kings of the French - Charles V (Tonto_Marius) |
| Anno Domini 1244 - Monastery of St. Louis, Paris |
| "...and I say I will NOT learn Latin! My place is not in
this monastery, it is in Germany with the armies! I...!"
The young man's voice carried easily beyond the heavy wooden door
of the Archbishop's study. "Calm yourself, my son. You shall study the Latin, because you will need the Latin, some da..." "Some day, indeed! It's Louis who's going to be king! And me, I'm just the second son! I'll never be king! I'm supposed to be a priest, or a soldier, and I'm telling you I will NEVER be a priest!" The young man spat the last words like a curse. "My son, to be a priest is a nob..." "It's not! It's not! You priests tell everyone you're the only path to God, and you're not! I say any of us can find their own paths to God! We don't need priests! I'm going to be a soldier, by God! I'm already better than half the imbeciles on father's so-called military council! Now let me leave!" "My son, it is not up to me, it is up to your father to decide. And such misguided beliefs! Why, I'm afraid you'll need to stay here until you learn the error of your ways." The Archbishop, a short, fat man by the name of Chabannes, moved as if to stand. The boy before him snarled and gestured. "Sit down, Archbishop. You'll give me what I want, or by God all of Paris will know about you before the day is out - your mistresses, and your gluttony. Oh, shocked, are you? You can never hide as well as you think you can, Archbishop. Now, what's it going to be? Talk to my father about getting me out of this rat hole, or shall I let everyone in the city know about a certain English whore?" The priest swallowed carefully, sat down. "I'll talk to your father." he said. |
| Anno Domini 1252 - Hapsburg Castle, Switzerland |
|
"We're falling back on the right, sire! Their arrow fire is
murdering the soldiers!" cried a lieutenant. Prince Charles, watching the rout, sighed. Arrows? Why, those weren't arrows. When they had met the German armies on the field a few days previously, those had been arrows. These were flea bites. He spurred his horse. "Follow me!" he cried, and was off, riding towards the wavering right flank, retreating from the castle walls, abandoning their scaling ladders as they ran. The prince rode up to one group who were about to toss theirs away. "You men, stop! Do not throw down that ladder!" "But the arrows, sire! We're being cut to ribbons! If want them Germans dead, you kill 'em yourself!" Charles snarled. "All right then, you cowards. I will then. Follow me!" Tossing the reins of his horse to an underling, Charles dismounted, drew his sword, and began running towards the walls of the castle. To his delight, the ladder crew followed, and when they arrived at the wall, erected it. Only two of them died. Charles was the first up the ladder, the first Frenchman on the walls. Very surprised Germans were dropping their bows and drawing swords, but Charles was faster, hewing about himself in great arcs, gaining room for his soldiers to climb onto the wall. Later that night, his soldiers lifted an exhausted, bloody, but elated Charles up on their shields and carried him into the great hall of the castle, where they proceeded to hold a feast on the captured German provisions. |
| Anno Domini 1265 - Innsbruck Castle, Tyrolia |
|
Miserable country, thought Charles, staring at the sheets of rain
pouring down from the heavens, never stops raining. And it's
always cold. Not Anjou, that's for certain. He
started, hearing a knock at the door. Prince Jean, Commander of the
Armies of Germany since time immemorial, strode in. "Ah, Charles. You've...a message. From Paris." Jean pursed his lips for a moment, thinking. "It seems my brother - your father, the Emperor is dead. Your brother Louis is riding back in all haste from Poland. He invites you back to Paris for...consultations." Charles winced. His father, dead? It hardly seemed possible. His father had been a rock of stability for France, the first Emperor, reigning for half a century or close enough. To have it end all of a sudden... "How did my father die, did it say?" he said after a moment. "And what kind of consultations? Doesn't my brother know we need every leader we can get here in Germany? Why, we're facing down the Hungarians and Sicilians both, outnumbered five to one!" Jean looked thoughtful for a moment, and spoke. "Revolts, Charles. All over the east. The Sicilians have cut our supply lines through the Pillars of Hercules, and it's encouraged rebels all over to attempt to overthrow our governors. We've withdrawn into castles all over the east. The note I received said the news of it is what killed your father. He just fell over and died when he heard the news." Jean paused again, thought for a moment, continued. "As to the other, your brother needs to be sure of your loyalty. You come from a large family, and Louis needs to be sure that you, too, won't revolt like the people of the east." Jean gazed at Charles levelly. "And if you ask me, that's exactly what you should do. Revolt. Declare yourself emperor, crush your brother, and rule. France needs a battlefield general now, somebody who knows how to plan wars. Not a puffed-up garrison general like your brother. You could do it." Charles stared back at his uncle. "And I suppose in return for your assistance, you would want something? Titles? Rank? Gold? Land?" Jean smiled. "Well. I think I could serve very well as your Chancellor, don't you think? Perhaps some estates in Aquitaine?" It was trivial to knock the old man down, fit though he was. Bones snapped as Jean fell to the floor, and Charles knelt over him, drawing his dagger and placing it to the throat of the older man. "That would kill France, you know, uncle. Our armies fighting each other, fighting rebels? We'd scarcely have an empire left. With us staring down the throat of the Sicilians and Hungarians, you ought to realize that. What's more, my brother is a fine commander, who's fought well in the east. And he's an educated man. We need educated men to run the empire. And I, uncle, am not an educated man. Always wanted to be a general. I knew my brother was going to be emperor, and that killed any ambitions I had. I've never married, I've no heir, because that would be a threat, and would keep me from my true life. I. Have. No. Desire. To. Be. Emperor." With that, Charles drew his dagger across Jean's throat. As the old general gurgled and bled, Charles went to find his sword, and decapitated his uncle. Then he fetched the servants, who were startled by the bloody mess and the headless general. "Clean this up. Leave the head. And fetch me a box, and the messenger from Paris. I'll have something for him." Ignoring the servants again, Charles fetched a scroll and a pen, and quickly wrote out the details of Jean's plot, and the need for a strong commander in Tyrolia. Then he placed the head in the box and gave it and the scroll to the messenger. "Don't stop until you reach Paris. Give this to the Emperor personally, and tell him he has nothing to worry about in Germany. He'll understand." |
| Anno Domini 1278 - Palace of the Doge, Venice |
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Charles' mind reeled as he took in the scene before him. Bodyguards
rushing here and there and everywhere, avoiding a dead young Sicilian on
the floor, and a short distance away a much older Frenchman, clad in
bloody silks. He was shaken from his reverie as the captain of the
bodyguards clasped his shoulder and spoke. "Sire, it isn't safe here. There might be more of these assassins." Sire. Oh God, I'm the Emperor now, aren't I. I never wanted to be Emperor but now I'm Emperor and these men expect me to lead them and France. And France is still weaker than she's been in years. God give me strength. He turned to the captain. "Fine, fine. Get me somewhere high up. A tower on the city wall will do." He wanted to observe the siege of the Arsenale. Soon he'd have to return to Paris, but first... He arrived just in time to accept the surrender of the Sicilian garrison. And to speak to his soldiers. Fortunately for the Sicilians, after they had surrendered. He found a convenient bit of rubble and stood before the assembled army. "Soldiers of France!" he began, "Hear me! Your Emperor has been slain treacherously by an assassin!" He pointed at the prisoners, huddled together under guard. "See the Sicilian dogs! They haven't the strength to defeat us in honorable combat, so they resort to trickery and deceit! None of our enemies can withstand us! Sicilians, Hungarians, Germans, none of them can defeat us honorably! We protect them from the infidel, and they spit on us and attack us!" His face twisted in rage. "They are all the imps of Satan! In league with Hell, all of them! And they ally themselves with the infidel Islamers! But we, we are the saviors of the world! Crusaders for the Truth of God! Though we fight everywhere, we shall not be overcome!" He hopped down from the rubble as his soldiers began to cheer. He had them, now. With them behind him, he'd be secure as Emperor. |
| Anno Domini 1279 - Dijon Castle, Burgundy |
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"We're coming back, Sire. We've lost Sweden, and we've been
defeated for the moment in Brandenburg, but we've retaken
Flanders..." Charles smiled at that. Flanders was one of the
richest provinces in the Empire, and the Empire badly needed wealth right
now. The aide continued. "...And we're pushing the
Almohads back, Sire - I've word from Cordoba - a great victory. Also,
Admiral Conde has swept the Sicilians away, and we're fighting their ships
around Italy now." Charles smiled again. That was good news. France badly needed to get shipping back across the Mediterranean to the Holy Land and Anatolia. Too many cut off garrisons would fall otherwise. He spoke. "And the treasury?" "Bad off, Sire. Your tax reforms helped, and the military readjustments, but we still lost a thousand and a half florins - not quite as bad as the thirty-six hundred we'd have lost before, sire, but close enough. We're only saved now because the rebel leader in Flanders had immense estates and wealth. We..." The aide was cut off as the doors of the hall slammed open and a short, fat man in red robes briskly waddled in, followed by a collection of lesser priests. The fat man glared at Charles, and spoke before he could open his mouth. "Heretic! Blasphemer! You are a wretched sinner in the hands of an angry God! His Holiness the Pope is greatly displeased that you war on his vassals, the Hungarians! He declares you excommunicated! Prepare yourself for Hell, her..." He cut off in surprise, looking down at Charles' dagger, which was embedded in his throat. Then he fell over dead. Charles kneeled down to wipe his blade on the priest's robe. "Ah, Archbishop Chabannes, you will never learn, will you? I thought you learned that I was not to be trifled with in the monastery, but I suppose not." He looked up at the priests, now very frightened. "God, you wretched little minions of Satan, loves me, and loves France. If you paid any attention to anything besides your whores and your counting houses, you'd know that. France has always been the sword and shield of God and until recently the Pope. We fought the Turks for you, fought the Almohads for you. Broke the back of Islam in your name, and did everything the Pope required. Well, those days are over, you pathetic worms. France stands on her own, now. We are the true Christians, the only ones worthy of bearing the name. The rest of you, Hungarians, Sicilians, the Pope - I pronounce you possessed by Satan, and I cast you out. Your day is over. Now get out of my sight." The priests fled. |
| Anno Domini 1281 - Dijon Castle, Burgundy |
|
Charles smiled in pleasure as the boy dismounted. "Well Louis,
how did it go?" Louis, a serious young man of sixteen, and the only surviving son of Charles' brother, grimaced. "Badly, uncle. The Pope's army caught us by surprise. Came out of the trees on our flank, and cut us to bits. My bodyguards got me out of there, and the rest retreated to Milan Castle. Satanists have us under siege there now." Charles patted the man on the shoulder. He wasn't a boy anymore, really. Hadn't been for years. The son and nephew of soldiers, Louis had been fighting battles and leading men since he was twelve. Sixty or eighty or a hundred years before, he'd have been in the monastery school learning to be an educated ruler, but not now. Now France needed soldiers, not accountants. "Nevertheless, you've done well. Don't worry about Milan, we'll get it back. And you'll lead the army that gets it back. It's waiting for you, in fact - new recruits fresh from all over the Empire. Now that we're finally pushing the Sicilians back on the seas, we can finally move troops again." Charles tightened his grip slightly. "Listen, once you get rid of the stinking Papists, reinforce Venice. The Hungarians have invaded again, and I hear the Papists are sending an army as well. If we can crush them there, all Italy'll lie panting at our feet." |
| Anno Domini 1283 - Damascus, Syria |
|
Kilij Arslan stared at the Frank sitting across from him. "How do I know you're telling the truth?" The Frank smiled thinly. "Why should I bother to lie to you? Of course the French armies are about to invade. You've seen them, they're huge. They'd swat you like a bug the instant they came across the border." The Frank leaned forward. "But my master doesn't particularly want you dead. He thinks you'd make him a good general. Just like Abdul Najm ad Din and Yahya Ibn Idris." The Sultan of Damascus was startled. "Najm ad Din swore to the Frankish Emperor?" The Frank nodded. "As I have said, my Lord, the Emperor of the French is strong. Not only do Najm ad Din and Yahya Ibn Idris swear allegiance, bringing Cyrenaica and Algeria back to the French fold, the upstart German rebels in Denmark are crushed, and the French have won victories in Tyrolia, Swabia, and Franconia. What's more, the enormous Hungarian/Papal army that invaded Venice was slaughtered to the last man. And of course the Sicilians are being driven from the seas. Really, it would be wise of you to swear to the Emperor." He pushed a bag of gold across the table. "And he offers certain...assurances." Kilij Arslan nodded slowly. "Tell your Emperor I am with him." |
| Anno Domini 1288 - Paris Castle, Paris |
|
Louis sat by the bed, holding the hand of the Emperor. Picking up
another dispatch, he read from it. "This one is from Sir de Brienne in Bavaria, sire." The Emperor gurgled at that. "Yes uncle, Bavaria. Apparently he's pacified Franconia and Swabia, left garrisons, and has invaded Bavaria. And he says the Hungarians, when they saw him coming, turned tail and ran. They've very few men left, he says." He picked up another dispatch. "And this one's from Switzerland. Sir de Richemont defeated the Hungarians there, and has them under siege." He picked up another. "Oh, you'll like this one, uncle. Sir de Cleves has invaded Tuscany. He met Pope Nicholas himself on the field of battle, and the Satanist turned and ran! And he couldn't even run back to Rome, because the Italians had invaded it! The Italians!" Louis laughed again, accompanied by amused gurgling from his uncle. The Italians were truly the laughingstock of Europe, confined to Corsica and Sardinia for over a century, hounded by all as heretics. And now they had mustered the army to invade Rome. Louis was suddenly aware that the gurgling had stopped. He looked down to see his uncle, a horrific smile on his face and very, very dead. |