Season 2 Part 2
Summer 1067
Curtis lay basking in the sun. The villages of Yorkshire were quiet and peaceful, and made for a nice retreat from the chaos of court. He was sitting by the side of a river on soft green grass.
Curtis had left Westminster shortly after the infamous feast which saw King Paulus try to poison the Queen, Cheryl Cole. The conspiracy was exposed by poor foolish Jeffrey, with a little help from Curtis. All it had taken was an especially strong flagon of ale to cause absolute mayhem. The news of the assassination attempt spread quick, and all the lords involved were now denouncing the king to save face. The common folk despised him. Curtis was sure more would soon flock to his own banner. His number of supporters had been growing steadily.
"Me lord," a deep voice called out from behind.
Curtis turned to face a short stout Yorkshire man. "What do you want, peasant?"
The man was taken aback for a moment. "Well...me lord. I got a letter for ya, from Westminster sir!"
Curtis raised his eyebrows at that. "And how on earth did you get a hold of this letter, might I ask?"
"Well me lord...this...hooded gent give it to me ya see. And he told me to pass it on to ya."
Curtis smiled. "Well I suppose you should pass it on to me then!"
The man narrowed his eyes. "Surely...surely my lord can find it in is hart to compensate a lowly peasant like meself for delivering this."
Curtis laughed and stared at the man, who began fumbling awkwardly. "On second thoughts sir...it was no trouble," he said, handing the letter over quickly. "No trouble at all! It was an honour to have served you."
Curtis sighed and pulled a piece of silver from his pocket. He chucked it at the fool. "That will be all."
The man nodded slowly, before turning away and stumbling off. Curtis pulled out a crossbow. "You forgot something!" he called. The fool turned around and just had time to register the iron bolt heading straight for his head. "Oh dear!" he shouted, just before it hit him in the eye. Curtis shook his head and studied the letter. An update from his spies no doubt.
He studied the seal. It was blue and bore a resemblance to this: :|
Which meant it was from Boc. Curtis opened the letter.
A letter intended for Paulus.
Another letter was attached to this one, explaining. Boc wrote that he had managed to intercept this letter, and that soon it would look as if the Pope had completely ignored the kings request for divorce.
Chancellor Boc hoped to take advantage of this fabricated slight against the King to further damage his relationship with the church. Boc also wrote that Jeffrey had killed the Queen as she walked the gardens of Westminster, and was asking if Curtis had anything to do with it. Curtis laughed out loud at that. He hadn't.
Chancellor Boc was proving his worth. He was proposing exactly what Curtis would have proposed. He was learning! Jeffrey had been fun, but that game seemed to be coming to an end. What a great parting gift he had given Curtis though. At least now he could use Jeff's inevitable downfall as a way to make good on his promise to Earl Robert of Northampton, who wished to be the Duke of Oxford.
The thing with the pope was very interesting. If it wasn't handled properly, it could become a very bad situation for Paulus. And Curtis had no intention of it been handled properly. The pope not even meriting Paulus with a reply would make him furious. Curtis wrote back to Boc, to approve of his plan.
In Ireland meanwhile, Malion was standing at the shores of Ormond, with his ragged army stood behind him. On the beach, ships were coming ashore, with more soldiers than Malion had ever seen jumping out and wading up onto the sand. These were the English reinforcements Mal had requested so long ago when the war had seemed lost. He was a different person back then, though it was only a few months ago. Their commander came to greet Mal, a smirk on his face.
"Where is this shit herder you need taken care of?"
Malion had expected such an attitude. The English seemed to have an inherent belief that the Irish lords were only lords in name, and were really nothing but a disorganized band of savages.
"You needn't have come," Malion said coldly. "The war is done."
The commander scowled. "Last I heard you were crying for help in your keep."
Some of his men stirred angrily behind him. "Fuck this English bastard," one of them muttered.
Malion kept his cool. "Things change...but since you are here I suppose you might as well finish this for us. My men are tired, and we don't care for glory. Go take my castle back."
"You presume to command me," The commander said incredulously.
"I am betrothed to your lieges daughter, yes I presume to command you. Now go!"
The commander scowled at him but obeyed, stomping off to order his men together. Later that day they assaulted the castle of Osmond, as Malion and his men went home.
It wasn't long until Malion received the official surrender of his rebellious subject.
In Iceland, Mercator was in trouble. The battle to retain his shitty throne was going badly. For days the snowmen had been fighting a guerrilla war against each other in the miserable cold countryside. Mercator had been too lazy to assign proper leadership himself, and this, along with a smaller army, was proving to be undoing. Mercator was sat gorging himself on food in his lonely keep, writing a letter.
Recently, Mercator had wed the sister of the king of Navarra, in an effort to gain an ally. He was writing to his new Spanish brother in law to try and make good on this new alliance.
"My lord!" A panic stricken servant rushed in.
"OH MY GOD WHAT IS THE MATTER ARE WE OUT OF BEEF?" Mercator shouted, jumping up.
"No...no my lord! It is your army...they are...they are running."
"Running where?"
"Everywhere...they are retreating. Ari is approaching with his army!"
Mercator stood motionless. After a long silence he said. "This will not do...bring me..." Mercator stopped, lost in deep thought.
"Yes?" the servant said expectantly.
"Bring me roast potatoes," Mercator yelled. "I cannot think straight on an empty stomach."
It looked like Mercator's in-laws were his last chance.
In Norway, Bryce sat atop his lofty throne, looking down at all his stupid coward subjects.
"Your grace, I beg you, don't make any hasty decisions."
Bryce looked at his general impatiently. "Why did I appoint you general?"
"For my tactical knowledge and battle prowess, your grace."
"Wrong answer!" Bryce said. "I appointed you to lead my soldiers into battle against my enemies, not baby sit me. I know what I am doing!"
"Your grace, I fear you do not! We cannot hope to win! What with all the trouble brewing here at home!"
That was at least true, Bryce had to admit. Dangerous factions had developed across Norway since Bryce came into his throne. Most of his norse lords were old and timid, and didn't take kindly to the bold new king. Bryce smiled at his general darkly. "What is the matter...are you scared? Should I start calling you general scaredy cat?"
The general went red. "I fear for the realm...not myself, your grace."
"It is not your job to fear for the realm," Bryce said. "That is my job...and
I fear for the realm if we don't press my claims. Our enemies will see me as weak if we do not go to war."
"If it must be so," the general said sadly.
"It must." Bryce said bluntly. "Send the declaration. No one can say this won't be done honourably."
Bryce was young, ambitious, and utterly without fear. And he was going to war with the older, content and cautious Ninefingers of Denmark.
In Ethiopia, DR was sleeping restlessly.
She was dreaming of home. She was at the head of a huge army of brown people, Hupu by her side. They were storming Bryce's castle, who was squirming in fear on the throne.
"My ho? You dare betray me?" He shouted pitifully.
"Your throne belongs to me.." DR replied coldly, as Bryce wept.
Before she could clamp Bryce in chains she woke up.
"Damn it, I was enjoying that," She muttered.
Hupu's armies were still making the long trek across the desert to meet their neighbors in battle. Things were moving slowly, but DR knew that was probably for the best. She was finding it hard to adjust to rule in this foreign land. A woman ruler was rare enough in the West, but in the far east it was unheard of. She wasn't exactly hated by her subjects, but she was far from loved.
Her husband Hupu on the other hand...
Was loved by all. The only problems Hupu's subjects had with him were either unavoidable (him being an imbecile and a foreigner) or were caused by DR herself. She had encouraged the change in succession law and started the war which was putting a toll on the realm's levies.
The cynic in DR said that Hupu was loved so much due to how easy he was to manipulate. But in truth there was something appealing about the kings easy going contentment with life. He wanted for nothing, whereas DR was cursed with a burning ambition. She wished she could be more like her husband. She could live an easy life. But she could never sit back and let her homeland be ruled by Bryce. He had to go down!
In Northampton, Dylan was stood before Earl Robert.
His experience in Northampton thus far had been a humbling one. Back in Scotland, before the war, Dylan would have been above Robert. But here in Northampton he was an exiled prince looking for shelter. His fortunes rested on the outcome of the war back home. The rebels had to depose his brother Vernon. If they did he would go home a king.
"Prince Dylan," Robert began. "Since you are taking refuge in my halls, I figured I might as well make use of you."
"My lord?" Dylan asked curiously. He never usually liked what proposals Robert made. He was a shrewd man, and not one to miss an opportunity. He had learnt as much when he had to bargain for refuge in the city.
Robert continued. "It has come to my attention that before the war, you once served on your brothers council."
"Yes...I was my brothers treasurer for a time."
Robert raised his eyebrows. "I see...were you good at your job?"
"I was ok," Dylan replied bluntly. He knew where this was going.
"Ok is better than what I have now. You will report for first council meeting tomorrow afternoon. That will be all."
Dylan hated the way Robert talked to him. He was a prince...he deserved more respect. But he said thanks and took his leave anyway.
Henry was in his halls smoking a hookah.
The new Duke of Kent had done little else since arriving at his new post for the first time after the chaotic feast at Westminster. The herbal remedy he was smoking helped clear his head and think things through. Right now, he was reflecting on his role in the realm-wide conspiracy to kill poor Cheryl Cole.
"I was like...the right hand man," Henry said to himself. "The assassin....not cool man...not cool."
He took a long drag from the hookah.
"Oh boy...this shit is good." Henry thought back to the feast. He had put the poison in Cheryl's cup. If Jeffrey hadn't come and ruined everything Henry would now be a killer...
"Thank you ma brotha Jeffrey," Henry murmured. There was a knock at the door. Henry stumbled to his feet clumsily, and hid the hookah away under his bed.
"Oh man...uh...come in."
A small old man walked in. Henry's servant. He sniffed the air uncertainly, but shrugged it off. "A message for you my lord, and a gift," he said, handing Henry a sealed letter and a small pouch.
"Wow...uh, thanks."
The old man limped outside and Henry took a closer look at the letter. It was from Duke Curtis of York. Henry was surprised. He emptied the pouch, and a pile of golden coins fell to the floor.
"Sweet!" Henry said. He moved back to the letter, and opened it.
Henry glared.
"This money...this is...blood money!" He gathered the coins and threw them out the window, and then returned to the letter.
Henry was overcome with anger. "This realm is filled with lies and treachery...I will not stand for it any longer! I am going to make a stand against the evil empire!"
He went back to grab the hookah from under his bed. "But first...a little more dope."
He lit up.
Back in Iceland, Mercator was sobbing whilst eating a great big cheese cake. His brother in law had declined to come and save him from Ari.
"Summon my "wife"," he ordered.
His timid Spanish bride appeared after a short while. Mercator poured a glass of wine for himself and downed it quickly, as she watched.
"My husband," she began.
"What is the point in marriage?" Mercator asked abruptly.
"I...I don't understand," she said nervously.
"The point in marriage is to gain friends! Friends who will come and help you when you need it!"
His wife bowed her head. "Oh...you are talking about my brother."
"Yes," Mercator said impetuously. "Your brother won't come to my aid. Why the hell not?!"
"Well...husband-"
"Do not call me husband!" Mercator said. "I am your lord! The rightful lord of Iceland!"
"Sorry...my lord...it is simply that my brother doesn't like you."
Mercator stared at her in disbelief. "What did I ever do to him?"
"Nothing...he just doesn't care for you or your war."
Mercator slammed a fat fist on the table. "But he made an agreement! We are allies! He cannot deny me in my hour of need!"
His wife sighed. "Marriage does not guarantee faithful allies, my lord."
Mercator buried his head in his hands. "There must be something he cares for...gold perhaps?"
"Gold he has aplenty. You have nothing to offer him."
Mercator looked at her darkly. "What about you?"
She was taken aback. "Wh...what do mean by that?"
"If your brother doesn't care for me, he should at least care for you. Guards!"
Two mean looking men appeared at the door. Mercator pointed a shaking hand at his wife. "Take her and lock her in the dungeons!"
They complied. His wife looked at him in astonishment. "You crazy bastard!" she shouted as they dragged her away.
Mercator smiled. "We will see what her brother thinks of that! He will have to come help me now!"
Back in Norway the army was amassing.
Bryce had raised the levies of all his lords. It would take time for them to get organised, but once they were, he was confident of a swift victory against Ninefingers. He was an old man, and past his time.
But Ninefingers had other ideas. He had anticipated war for a while now, and had made plans to get his army organised long before it became a reality.
His army stood armed and ready.
In Westminster, Paulus was visiting the dungeons. Since ordering Jeffrey's arrest, he had not visited the fool. Paulus had been fuelled by rage when he gave the order to arrest Jeff, but now he was feeling guilty. He had tried ignoring the problem for the past few weeks, but he knew that was not the way a king should behave. He had to face this problem head on. It wasn't going away. He approached Jeffrey's cell.
"Jeffrey," Paulus said sternly. Jeffrey came to the bars of his cell eagerly.
"Your grace! So good to see you! Can you let me out now?"
Paulus sighed. This was going to be difficult. "No Jeff I cannot."
Jeff began sobbing. "But...but why? I am super sorry! I really am!"
Paul bowed his head. "Jeff, I am sorry but...you committed treason when you killed my wife."
Jeffrey grew wide eyed. "But...I did it for you! I only wanted to serve!"
Paulus shook his head. "Half the realm hates me because of you Jeff. Everything you have done in the name of service has brought the realm closer to chaos!"
Jeff sank to his knees. "I didn't mean it!"
"I know Jeff...I know. Do you know the penalty for treason Jeff?"
Jeff looked up, hopeful. "Detention?" he asked vaguely.
"No Jeff," Paul said. "The penalty is death."
"Oh," Jeff said quietly. "Whose?"
"Oh for fuck sake! Your death you idiot!"
Jeff wailed. "Oh no! Oh god no! Please Paul! I am your frieeeend!"
"I am your king, not your friend Jeff. Look, here is the warrant."
Jeff read it hastily and ran to the corner, spewing up. He was crying out incoherently.
"Pull yourself together," Paulus said. Jeff didn't seem to hear him.
"JEFF!"
Jeffrey turned around. "Yes?"
"Do you want to live?" The king asked.
Jeffrey rushed up to the bars. "Oh god yes!" he pleaded. "I will be your faithful servant forever and always. I will never-"
"No," Paulus cut him off abruptly. "You will not be my faithful servant Jeff."
"I don't understand?" Jeff said, wiping his eyes.
"No you don't. That is why you find yourself in this predicament."
"What do you want me to do? I will do anything!"
Paulus leaned in closer. "I want you to go back to Oxford Jeffrey, and speak of all the awful things I did to you."
"What things?" Jeffrey asked, confused.
"You are about to find out. Guards...open his cell."
Two jailers moved to open his cell. Jeff walked to the exit, but they blocked his way.
"I am sorry Jeffrey, this is going to hurt."
Jeffrey frowned and opened his mouth to speak, just as a baton clipped him across the head. Paul winced when it connected. He couldn't stand to watch. So he turned around and walked away.
To be continued...
