The Heirs of Britain
Session 17: 485, Surprises
and Spectacles
__________ Session 17: 485, Mearcred
Creek __________
So-called “King” Aelle of the Saxon horde quits the field of Mearcred Creek; bloodied but not shattered, his army withdraws in decent order into the sunset. In the nobler camp of Logres, King Uther praises his men for a good fight; there are relatively few casualties among the British forces, particularly for such a long battle. The proud King commands his army to hold position, and send forth scouts to inform his next manoeuvres. The Sussex Saxons have hard-earned their reputation as fierce forest fighters; charging blindly after them is an unpleasant prospect.
Soon, Uther learns that his foe has withdrawn further, to a fort named Woldhurst. This bastion has a reputation: It was the site of a great, bloody battle when the Saxons first landed on these blessed shores. From here they have unrelentingly spread their filth across the blessed shores of Britain.
The knights of Logres push onward as one. Uther wisely commands the wounded to be returned to Thornbush castle, rather than attending to them in the forest; the humble Sir Iwan is among them. The able men press cautiously south, through the thick forests and thin roads of Sussex. Precious time is spent stucking and unstucking wagons, thus upon reaching the fort, the British forces find Woldhurst now empty. Only warm embers, and other evidence of the recent presence of the Saxons remains. Once more, the scouts are sent forth; soon the army is ordered to camp in the fort itself, until Aelle can be tracked down...
Raiding
and scouting parties ride to and fro from the castle over several days,
learning this: Aelle has completely withdrawn to the coast with the solid
remnants of his forces. Thus, Uther declares the campaign over, and a modest
victory feast is declared in the fort! The men are tired, but spirits are still
high - this is still a victory for the men of Britain!
__________ Festive Fortune __________
Among them, Sir Vandagild hopes that Earl Roderick may be awarded this modest fort, for his mighty muster and reliable leadership were crucial for the victory. Thus, at the feast, the strong-voiced hunter hopes to take advantage of the gathered forces: At a timely moment, he will lead a raring chorus of Red Blooded Roderick, hoping the impassioned ode will gain popularity among the knights and soldiers of Logres…
The Aquitanian awaits his moment, jovially resting with companions by a modest fire near the edge of the earthen hill fort. Idly, he glances about: The battlements are not well-maintained, and the ground is churn of mud and mess from the passage of two inhabiting armies.
Sir Elvorix, following his friend’s gaze, scrunches his face in disappointment; these walls are awful, barely worth the name. They pale against the noble bastions of his forebears. Standing, sighing in disgust, the Roman claps Sir Vandagild on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the high table: The cunning knight schemes to build favour with the King.
The feast is busy, and thus Elvorix’s first foe is the lengthy line of courtiers and sycophants squirming to Uther’s side. Fortunately, the King is not eager for formality, and Elvorix thus hopes to ply his cleverness and courtesy to create opportunity. The crowd is broad and high, but he soon spies Prince Madoc sitting beside his father; the tall Roman slips easily near, to chat with his old friend. Madoc is, as usual, happy to see him; some cheerful conversation earns Elvorix the Prince’s favour, and his audience with the King. Moreover, he invites the Prince to come hunt in his lands, which he will soon have rights to:
“I mean thee no offence, Sir Elvorix, but... My father is the King. I can freely hunt of any fucking forest I want”, he says with a grin and a hearty swill.
“Mistake me not, however! I appreciate thy offer! And yea, I may yet take thee upon that suggestion.”
The Roman grins, chuckling in response: “Sure am I, my Prince, that my wine cellar will never be the same after thy visit!”
Madoc, smiling: “Make sure ye have some of that uh... some continental stuff, on hand!”
Soon enough, Elvorix has the King's ear. Appropriately, he commends the King on his heroic leadership, and brings forth his own exploits of reaching the Saxon camp and routing the foe. He steers to recall his own advice at an earlier feast; to attack the Saxons in their own lands, hoping to trigger Uther’s memory and preference. When time presents, he asks the King if it is amenable to request a small boon of him - hunting rights in his own forest near Shrewton. It is quite far to the nearest hunting wood, he laments, and it would be much more convenient were he able to use the woods in his own back yard, as it were. Elvorix’s wife, Lady Diane, has also been scheming to this end, with subtle whispers in the King's ear about this same topic... Once more, Sir Elvorix argues proudly that his unit, through blood and death, pushed boldly to secure the enemy's tents! In his heart, he knows that he deserves this!
“Ah. Ohh! Yea, yea. I recall; Diane has been speaking of this in London.”
Uther looks the Roman up and down, an eyebrow raised; “Made thee to the camp, hmm? Well, uh.. Alright. Alright. I have heard such reports of Roderick’s men making the foe’s camp. Be thee of Roderick's men, yea?
“Yea, Your Grace! Our eschille pushed back the rearguard, and rampaged among the enemy’s tents.”
“Alright,” Uther nods, “I can use more men like thee... Very well!”
The Roman bows, and proffers some paperwork that he had prepared.
Uther dismissively motions toward the Constable, Sir Argan, who cares little for Elvorix; “Go speak thee with Sir Argan: He will manage whatever papers are due. But have thee my permission.”
Elvorix bows once more, thanking the King courteously before slipping away. He sees Sir Madoc, catching the Prince’s eye; the latter raises his drink in approval, with a small nod. Elvorix returns the gesture, a big smile on his face. He heads promptly to Sir Argan; who is drinking, rather unusually. He looks a little inebriated. The Roman approaches the obviously partying man, who dismisses the younger knight, bidding him to come find him at his desk on the morrow, at a cleaner time and state.
“A deer-run? Hunting land? Fine. Remind me tomorrow. Do not remind me tonight.”
Sir
Elvorix returns to Vandagild, nudging him and sharing the good news. The hunter
is proud of his friend, and excited for the opportunity for more hunting! He
knows Elvorix is not much for hunting, historically, but the latter informs
that his keenness grows with the prospect of associated income, and for courtly
prowess. Vandagild laughs with this, and suggests an invite to Prince Madoc.
Elvorix already has, he reports, and tells his Aquitanian friend of the
Prince’s continental wine order: Vandagild will do his best! Elvorix departs
once more, to write to Diane: They will begin the project to set up the containment
in the nearby established forest. He hopes to eventually establish a Chace,
until he can save the money to develop it properly into a Deer Park; these will
require further rights…
__________ Pride and Prejudice
__________
From across the feast, the keen-eared Sir Vandagild hears vile slander and heinous accusations; his sharp senses quickly catch the target: Earl Roderick of Salisbury! By some oversight, the section of Salisbury is set beside the section of Levcomagus and Sir Blains; tension was inevitable. Feuds have grown hot, and now things escalated audibly... Voices are raised, and fists besides! Accusations fly of the rampant cowardliness of Salisbury and Earl Roderick; these pin on criticisms of the latter’s mercenaries, because “Hah! Salisbury men aren't good enough on their own!”, and how “Weak Summerlanders have taken their castles...”
The men of Sir Blains are emboldened, leveraging whatever they can in their efforts to degrade and insult; they are getting the better of the disgruntled discourse! The Salisbury men spit back, accusing the Levcomagi of low behaviour, cowardice, and dishonor!
Striding forth through the crowd, Sir Vandagild cannot spy Sirs Roderick or Blains; his rage distracts. The vengeful man, seething with hatred for Sir Blains, eagerly joins the verbal fray! His powerful voice spills vicious phrase at the Levcomagi’s expense, decrying Blain’s cowardice, dishonor, and petty betrayals! The vocal violence escalates; the scarred Aquitanian’s efforts have evened the field, giving solid weight to the retorts of the Salisburians.
Soon, a frothing mugs clutched in either fist, Sir Vandagild takes the table feet astride the sturdy bench. Casting his voice deep and broad, he conducts a rustic choir of loyal knights: Red Blooded Roderick, he cries, sloshing mugs swaying! The charming knight brings the Salisburian voices together as one, their many proud voices in unison overwhelming the meagre mumblings of the limp Levcomagi. Soon, all the men of Salisbury men sing as one, the manly, repeating chorus dominating the soundscape of Woldhurst!
The final coda complete, the jovial laughter and hearty loyalty of the Salisbury knights rumbles into a waiting silence. All eyes have turned, and no-one now speaks. Some Levcomagi start sour words once more; “Hah! Salisbury sings better than they fight!”
But little comes of it, for the silence has a purpose. Standing silently nearby:
Sir Blains; smug and bitter.
Sir Roderick; furious.
Blains breaks the ice: “So! Here is what practice thee in Salisbury! Songs instead of swords; little wonder that thou can hold not thy castles!”
Roderick steps into the centre of the crowd, his face is still, stoic, but it cannot hide the darkness of his rage.
He stares at Sir Blains and lets fly his wrath: “Sir Blains! So much braver are thee when thy daddy protecteth thee, when Sir Ulfius stands behind to keep thee safe from the world! And so much braver are thee when protected by Hospitality! Never would thee summon the valor to fight us on the field, just as thou could not stomach the fight in Bedegraine!”
“I would fight thee any day!” Blains spits back, “Yea, I'd fight thee AND thy new best friend Cornwall. Yea! Do not think I did not hear of that! Shameful: Selling off your thy daughter the day she was born!"
In this way, the argument escalates, with both men pulling no punches in their verbal war. Soon, the Earl thrusts out an expectant hand: his man hurriedly brings him his sword; he belts it on seamlessly: "Enough! Let us settle this right now, you son of a bitch!"
Sir Blains the Coward does not call, nor reach for his own sword: He only goads further and spits his spineless insults.
To this, Earl Roderick draws his blade.
“Enough!” rumbles a powerful voice; it comes from the High Table.
The Earl is silent; he stands without fear at the head of his men, eyes tracking Blains’ every move. His sword is still drawn, held sturdy in a wrathful hand.
Silence.
Sir Blains, standing behind his men, snakes a punchable grin upon his punchable face.
No-one speaks for several long moments.
Roderick grunts, sheathing his sword heavily; he turns toward the King, still enraged:
“Give me the satisfaction of putting down this dog, and never again will ye have to hear of this, my King!”
There is no response.
Another voice: Duke Ulfius, stepping forward from the crowd, belting a blade to his hip: “Don’t thee DARE lay a hand on one of my vassals! He is under my protection, Earl.”, he spits, with venom and threat.
“Fine!” Roderick responds; “Draw thy blade, and I'll cut down the both of thee!”
Once more, the King: “ENOUGH!”
“All of thee! I will not have two of my best men spilling their guts on the floor; not least with the Saxons so close. Sheath thy blades at once!”
The Earl's face twists into utter frustration. He drops his hand from the hilt of his now sheathed blade. Resignation creeps onto his face.
Uther, however, continues: “It will be Champions! Get thee some resolution tonight, but neither of thee will bleed while we're at WAR, God Damn it!”
Sir Vandagild steps at once to the Earl’s side, volunteering to fight on his behalf. The Earl looks at his man, with hints of surprise and admiration: He nods approvingly, but says quietly: “Not today, Sir Vandagild.”
He turns, calling upon a much more expected man; one that all knights of Salisbury have seen many times: Sir Berwin. The intimidating warrior stands from the table of Salisbury; a large, imposing man, wearing the scars of many battles. The Earl takes off his own sword-belt, thrusting the entire collection hard into the chest of a nearby squire, almost knocking the man over; the latter scurries off. Berwin walks confidently to stand alongside the Earl, belting on his own long blade.
Sir Blains, too, calls out for a man.
An area is cleared among the fort; and the declaration is made.
Roderick, speaking low and quiet, seething but stoic: “To the death, Sir Blains, or are thee such a coward?”
Blains
hesitates a moment: “Fine. To the death.”
__________ To The Death __________
The two Knights do battle. They start unmounted, and charge at each other with a flurry of blows. Neither gets great advantage, but Berwin pushes his foe back with his greater strength and heavy blows. Blains' champion is nimble, however, keeping his feet and circling quickly around the larger man. He takes long, probing attacks; Berwin easily defends the blows, almost by second nature. He looks profoundly unchallenged by the lighter strikes of the Levcomagian. He manoeuvres patiently, implacably, and soon, with deceptive footwork and the strength of his great body, he cuts off his man’s escape: With a surprising parry, he takes a crushing grip on the smaller man’s wrist, using his bulk and experience to twist his foe around, kicking him to the floor.
The
smaller man, desperate now, scrambles to his feet, but too late: Sir Berwin
plunges his blade deep and through the ailing man's chest. The latter coughs
and writhes weakly, trying naively to disentangle his failing body from the
instrument of its death. He clutches at nothing, blinking blankly and mouthing
breathy nothings: Blood pools rapidly at his feet, his fashionable attire an
awful red canvas. The tinkling trickle of his life into the sanguine mud is the
only accompaniment to his final breath. Berwin holds his eye and keeps his
crushing grip on his sword and foe. He watches the man depart for his eternity;
only then he lets the man drop into a tangled mess, crumpled sadly in the pool
of his own passing. It is a brutal, gruesome display from the mighty warrior.
Sir Blains looks sheepish; The Earl still looks angry. Neither side completely satisfied with the outcome, obviously.
For the Earl, this seemed a good opportunity to kill a man of his foe, at best.
To Vandagild’s keen eye, it seems this was a sacrifice: Berwin outclassed the man thoroughly. Did Blains' send forth a scapegoat? He forfeited not his best soldier, knowing that even the best of his men could not beat Berwin! Cowardice of another sort!
As men move forth to tidy the scene, Sir Vandagild shouts at Sir Blains and the Levcomagi:
“Cowardice once more!” he roars, as the men turn to this new wrath, “This is who thee send to the slaughter!? Know thee well thy best men could not stand before Sir Berwin! Willing, are thee, to sacrifice thy men for thy own vanity, pride and cunning! “
Turning to the men of Levcomagus, he continues: “Is this the lord that ye follow!? Willing, is he, to throw any of thee away to protect his pride, and his favourites!? Pathetic! I pity thee, men of Levcomagus.”
Sir Blains is silent; but his men call out: “Thou know not of which you speak, Salisbury scum! Shut thy mouth, dullard!” Some of them get heated, but others share uncertain glances…
Salisbury
has won, but the Earl is still furious. He orders his men to follow him away; they
camp now outside the fort. The King has also left. As the men of Salisbury pass
by the mercenaries of Breton, who fought with us at Mearcred: The Earl speaks
quietly to one, and then leaves.
__________ Infirmary Intrigue
__________
The next day, the force rides back to Thornbush to collect their wounded, including Sir Iwan. Sir Vandagild is thoughtful a time, but cannot conclude what was discussed between the Earl and the Bretons; he has some ideas, however. While they ride, the Aquitanian takes a moment to apologise to the Earl: He feels responsible for escalating the situation, and brought the problem needlessly to a head. The Earl nods, still angry, but says nothing: It is not clear for whom the anger simmers.
Meanwhile, a march ahead of his companions, the modest Sir Iwan awakens: The beauteous face of Lady Eleri greets him, for this castle is her home. She dotes carefully over the injured man, bidding him to rest and move little. She carefully checks his wounds and bandages, speaking softly to the handsome knight. She clearly tries to act in proper manner, for many are present, but subtly flirts; she commends his bravery, and speaks well of how many Saxons the young warrior must have slain in the sustenance of such injuries. Iwan, knowledgeable of such things, observes that the Lady is taking unnecessary time with the application of the bandages; he does not address this. Soon enough, however, the compassionate woman is called forth to assist another man; she reluctantly stands, sharing a wistful, longing look at the well-formed Sir Iwan, before departing to assist elsewhere.
Beside the handsome Cymric knight, a rough accented voice emerges: "Well you certainly got her attention - that's the Lady of the castle, is it not? My, my..."
Sir Iwan turns, aching, to spy the man: Another wounded knight; swathed in blankets and bandages. The man has a lengthy scar on his left cheek; a white canyon splitting his full beard.
"It
must be my natural handsomeness. I know most cannot be so fortunate." Iwan’s
tone is light, not mocking.
The man laughs: "Hah! Alas, I wish I had that kind of fortune! The Franks took that from me far too long ago."
"She has been watching thee for more than today. I thought you should know that. If this is just your uh, natural handsomeness… despite the blood of your wounds. Well… Anyway. I don't see it myself; you're not quite my cup of tea."
"Neither are thee, I must admit." Iwan says with dry humour.
"Hah! Fair enough. So. Uh... What dost thou think of the lady? She has taken some bit of interest in thee. You a married man?"
"Ah... No;” Iwan admits, “my wife died a few years past. I am taken with the lady myself, but I'm usually not so fortunate to be attracted to a freshly widowed lady, I think."
"Hah. Statirius? I haven't seen him around here. He must still be back in Sussex with Uther and the rest of the army."
The older man pauses, leaning close, as much as is possible between two wounded men in separate beds. In a hush, he continues:
"You know... She's... She could be. A widowed woman, I mean... All I'm saying is... She's... quite the catch. I'm not so sure I'd let her go so easily if I were you. After all... So tough these days to find a partner you can really love." he trails off, wistfully...
The scarred knight pushes himself back to his previous position, wincing and groaning. Iwan sees: The left side of face, twisted with the old injury, doesn't move at all; just the right scrunches up.
Iwan is compassionate: "You shouldn't move; you'll kill yourself with those wounds."
“Ahhh,” dismissively, “I've had worse."
He tilts his head over, to show his scar more: "This one!... Hah, this one… If I can survive this, I can sure as hell survive whatever those Saxons did."
He adjusts some more, wincing again, "What is thy name anyways? I'm not from these parts; Sir Marion."
"I am Sir Iwan. Well met."
"To you as well." The man relaxes a little. Iwan asks him some more; where he's from, how he got wounded, and the like.
"Me and my men are from a small place. In Frankish territory. Don't quite have a home. We mostly fight in Brittainy, and Frankland. Earl of Salisbury hired us. It's uh… not been so pleasant for me."
Iwan laughs.
"Whats so funny? You know him?"
"He's my sworn Lord!" Iwan replies, still chuckling.
"Hah! Well. Glad I said no more then." He finishes lightly.
They talk more: The man is the leader of the Breton mercenaries, who Iwan fought beside. He is proud of his men: “Best damned knights you can hire”! They used to fight in Cornwall.
“Roderick seems a solid man. It's not so common for a man to hire the knights who just fucked him over in Battle.” Marion says; Iwan knows not of what he speaks, but he doesn’t inquire.
“Say: You know an Idris, or a Gorlois? I'm pretty sure I fought against Gorlois? Or.. for him? I’ve fought for both of them, anyways, both the King of Cornwall and and the.. Duke? Of Cornwall? No wonder this is all so fucking confusing. You British…” he shakes his head.
“Still! You British Lords; if nothing else, you certainly know how to pay on time.”
Iwan, dryly: “One of our few virtues, I assure you.”
"Hah! Anyways: Keep thee an eye on the prize over there, hahaha..."
Iwan grins, revealing nought more than he already has.
“Listen:
You ever need men, and you can afford us, you send a missive down to Brittainy.
Once I'm back in fighting condition at least.”
__________ Consolidation and
Consideration __________
Sir Elvorix, of course, does not miss his chance to meet with Sir Argan at the opportunity. Expectedly, the vengeful Constable is not in the best of spirits. He remembers Elvorix, from last night; he then remembers him again, from last year, groaning. Elvorix left a door ajar once: Argan remembers it keenly.
Still, unimpressed but professional, Sir Argan goes over the details with the wily Roman, who has well discussed the matter with his wife. The prudent Roman is well-prepared. They exchange some documents to obtain the Forestry Rights; Though Argan is at first unclear to what the King agreed, Sir Elvorix doesn't try to exploit the confusion by claiming rights to Chace as well. The Forestry rights, of course, are merely the prerequisite for both the Chace and the Deer Park; he will bide his time. Sir Argan goes through his document-chest, producing some for the Roman.
He warns Elvorix: “Make sure you get thee onto the good side of the local Sheriff: Uther likes not to be dragged into petty disputes.”
Elvorix assents, and thanks the King's Constable for his time.
Noting that this seems beyond the traditional responsibilities of Constable, it appears that Argan has, willingly or unwillingly, taken on responsibilities beyond the norm for a Constable...
Over the coming weeks, Sirs Elvorix and Vandagild check in repeatedly with their friend Sir Iwan, and ride home with him once he is able. The mercenaries of Breton remain nearby.
As
the knights return to Salisbury, they pass through Silchester: Uneventful.
That Winter, however, they hear that Silchester has been raided. Vandagild suspects he knows what the Earl discussed with the Bretons at Woldhurst.
Quietly, Sir Iwan inquires about some details of hiring with Sir Marion... Of the original 20 knights, 14 remain; they suffered substantial casualties at Mearcred. The force will cost £42 a month. He considers the options for securing a widow. Sir Marion is right, he decides: He should not be so static in this regard.
An aside: Eleri is heiress to large tracts of land. Statirius' sons are set to inherit.
That Winter: Sir Vandagild, bolstered with gains from fisheries, battle and ransom, inquires with Roderick how best he might help the realm by developing his land. The Earl considers for some time, deciding that he would wish for greater favour with the Church. Vandagild, known well for his Spirituality and Generosity, needs no further encouragement: His riparian Fisheries well-established, he hence endows the church with no less than three plots of his land: Within the robust palisade and enclosure, construction of a small Church is then commissioned, to be named St Amphibalus' Church, Winterbourne.
His children are all still well, though his eldest twin, Vandric, seems somewhat frail and stilted; perhaps some lingering effects from his old illness? Or some protracted curse from that damned Witch’s “protective” stone? Some shadow of the Forest of Gloom? Little matter: The Aquitanian trusts God’s plan.
Ongoing grief for Lady Catrin, nurtured now in heaven, stops short any serious talk of wedding; nonetheless, Roderick approves of a new wife for Vandagild when he so chooses to take one. The scarred hunter also imports £1 of fine Aquitanian Wine for his upcoming hunting trip with Elvorix and Prince Madoc.
An already impressive swordsman, he spends time at home learning the blade; if he is to fight as Roderick’s champion one day, he had best be ready. Between responsibilities, he continues riding the trails and forests of his lands, through which he used to accompany Catrin: By God’s Grace, his excellent horsemanship continues to improve; he is among the finest riders in the realm. His efforts through the year see his Loyalty to Roderick noted.
His companions report nothing of note for the Winter.
King
Uther opts not to hold Woldhurst; it was not a fine fort.
__________ 486! Easter at Sarum
__________
Earl Roderick is still angry. Less angry, but still angry. As the normal easter folk gather at Sarum, he offers no talk of grand plans or musters. He is quiet, for the most part, though courteous and hospitable. Those who know him well can tell he schemes.
Sir Brastias arrives on behalf of Gorlois, meeting with the Earl; as emissaries of that alliance, the Wolves of Logres are present. This year is one to hold off, they agree: The Earl plans no offensive this year, and the Irish continue to harass Cornwall; most of their manpower is committed to defend their shores. Sir Vandagild waits, giving the Earl opportunity to declare any plans; with nothing forthcoming he offers this: Absent any use for the men, Vandagild is keen to volunteer to fight the Irish if required. The Earl nods, but declares that this year is defensive; there are many threats to Salisbury: His men must remain close, and ready in these lands to defend them as required. The Wolves nod, and are dismissed.
Over the course of Easter court, the major points of gossip extend beyond Salisbury, Sir Blains, or Summerland. Instead, the courtiers murmur of the Saxon Shore, to the east. A Saxon landing party has arrived on the shores, they say; they attacked near Monument Hill, despite the King's forces being encamped nearby. The young Duke Lucious and Sir Marvais, his regent, managed to defend the lands decently; they lost some small territory, but Sir Marvais led a resilient defence at Camulodunum; they held out long enough to King Uther to arrive with reinforcements and break the siege.
In addition, we hear rumours. These were no normal Saxons: They were fashioning themselves as vassals of one “King Aethelswith”, who declares himself King of the Eastern Saxons. Disgusting.
The Wolves of Logres share their hatred of this new Saxon threat, and spit on the name of this King.
Given the relatively passive year, Sirs Vandagild and Elvorix try to organise a Hunting trip in Elvorix's new forests, inviting both Earl Roderick and Prince Madoc.
The Earl assents, on the condition that it happen at the end of Summer. Prince Madoc is keen, as always, to drink and hunt. Thus, at the feast, Sir Elvorix drinks with him. The Prince approves of Elvorix's ambitious and lofty plans for the Deer Park: “looks like you've got it all figured out then, huh!?”
Elvorix smiles, and enjoys his wine.
"Hell, maybe one of these days I'll show you up North - there's a really great forest up in Bedegraine..." the Prince adds.
The Roman thanks Madoc for his help with Lady Diane and the King. He asks if Madoc has any plans to scrounge up forces to go attack the Saxons any time soon; the Saxon Shore was taken from Elvorix's family some years ago, and to be able to fight there again would take a load off his mind. Indeed, to see it in the hands of those animals drives him to rage! Prince Madoc replies dismissively that they have foolishly settle in too close to the ocean; they’re undefended and with nowhere to manoeuvre - his father will slam them into the Ocean.
“Just like in Gilamanus; you hear about that one? That was in Aurelius' time. Smashed them into the sea. Fuck that was a good battle… So I heard, anyway! Wish I was there. Hah!” The Prince sighs, sipping thoughtfully.
The Roman presses for any intrigue, but learns little from the easy-going Prince. He does, however, discover that the Earl is expecting retaliation from Blains, or further advances from Summerland; hence his defensive orders.
Sir
Vandagild tells the gathered courtiers of the church he is building. He seeks
Sir Cadel, but he is strangely absent. His brother-in-law, Sir Uvan, is near,
however, and they talk: The young Pict is starting to build in confidence, and
is making some headway in overcoming the grief and pressure of his father's
death. Vandagild is proud of the younger man, sympathetic and light, wishing
his former squire continued health and growth.
__________ Peculiar Patrols __________
The Wolves ride patrol in defence of Salisbury. Near the northwestern border, they see: Castle Devizes, with the flags of Cadwy and Summerland flying high. Vandagild spits as they ride the border; he shares dark, mistrustful words of the Summerlanders with Sir Iwan. The foe have become more entrenched; their modest outposts now more like forts. Sirs Iwan and Elvorix recognise once more the forest edge they spied last year: The improved fortifications also extend around the forest edge.
The usual morass of peasants approach and ask the mounted Lords for decisions of justice and the like; the normal things.
As they ride, the knights spy a group of commoners: Better dressed than peasants, but surely not noble. The Wolves recognise most of the regular folk of Salisbury, but this far north they are less sure of the folk of this land. Sir Elvorix recognises them quite clearly - he believes they may be from the market near his land! The folk are allowed to pass, which will likely have no consequences because definitely we didn't all fail or critically fail our Recognise rolls...
The second day, a group of clergymen stand beside the road and argue amongst themselves. Poorly educated in matters of religion, the Wolves cannot pin down their denomination from their appearance alone, but their arguments get heated! They discuss some religious Canon and Law of apparently great importance. The knights approach, concerned with the conflict.
One looks at us with worry: “This man is harboring a witch!
“She is NOT a witch! She is my sister, and nothing of her behaviour indicates witchcraft!”
The first turns back, fuming in retort, citing religious texts and accusing her of vile areligious practices: “This man,” he turns back to the knights, “and his sister, must be excised from the Church! Arrest him at once!”
The accused shouts back, begging them instead to arrest the accuser!
Before any can speak further, Sir Elvorix declares: “The solution here is obvious! We arrest them all, and bring them to Roderick.”
He begins to arrest all of them, pulling rope from his pack.
Sir Vandagild tries to calm, them all asking after their denomination and the details of the accusation.
The Accuser scoffs loudly, “Denomination!?! I'm from THE Church!”
Sir Elvorix grabs him more harshly.
The other: “He is from the Roman Church! I'm from the British Church!”
Sir Elvorix, pauses his assault, instead tying the British Christian man up, and inviting the Roman to ride beside them.
Sir Iwan is pondering quietly, lost in the nuance; he turns to the other brother, asking after the location and details of the witch.
The Roman Christian: “He's hiding her! Somewhere... somewhere! I don't know where, she is no doubt concealed by the foul products of her own demonic practices!”
Iwan: “Yes, yes, good man, but what did she do?”
“Witchcraft!”
Iwan, sighing: “Well, did you tie her to a duck and throw her into a pond?”
Exasperated accuser: “We tried! But we could not FIND her!”
Elvorix
now, pragmatic and securing his prisoners, and trying to determine
jurisidiction: “Where do you live? What are you all doing here, and where are
you from!?”
Roman Accuser: “I'm from Ambrius Abbey! I was walking to Upaven, to see family, and I came across this... this… Heathen! And I've met his sister - I know much about her!”
Sir Vandagild: “So you say. But what, exactly, in detail, has she done?”
“She turned my brother into a newt!”
The Aquitanian stares at them both, eyes narrowing. His hand wanders to the hilt of his blade.
Sir Elvorix asks each man if he will, on his Honour, ride with the Wolves to Sarum; each man agrees, so long as they see Justice done!
British Christian defendant: “But, My Lord, there's no need to go to Sarum! He just needs to go back to his Abbey and leave me alone!”
Sir Elvorix shakes his head: “If anyone is accusing anyone of a crime, the Earl must decide justice! Come willingly, or thou will be bound and taken by force.”
Eventually, grumpily, he assents: “Fine! I know the Earl to be a good British Christian man - he will see things my way, I'm sure!”
The Wolves return to Logres - they await the verdict. Sir Vandagild is eager: If a witch there be, he will see her dead.
Seeing the matter, Earl Roderick consults with his holy men. The brother of the "witch" is absolved, and leaves without issue. However, the Earl declares that the man's sister is to be seen in Sarum by the end of the season for her judgement. The clergy are returned to their homes in Ambrius and Upaven.
The Roman Christian eagerly supports the lord's decision: “That witch will be seen, and meet her end soon enough!”
Sir Elvorix, ushering him out, warns him to cause no more trouble. The knights return him to his abbey: As he enters, they hear other people yelling at him from behind the doors… no doubt a renowned troublemaker. Vandagild sighs.
The
knights share a short discussion, with this fun conclusion: While Elvorix
understands the peasants, he cares not for them. Sir Vandagild cares greatly for
them, but understands them nought. Iwan laughs dryly as he rides away,
eager to return to patrol.
__________
Image 2: https://fineartamerica.com/featured/spain-medieval-hospital-granger.html?product=art-print
King Arthur Pendragon V5.2
