[Historical] Le Chansons d'Autrefois

[Serenierre]

LE CHANSONS D'AUTREFOIS
une histoire à la Gallie

PROLOGUE
The Night the Emperor was slain​

Aistulf stood guard that night. As one of the banner-men of the Comte d. Rousillon, he had become a frequent feature in the grand halls of the imperial court since his liege lord had been appointed Chamberlain.

“Make sure,” his liege lord said to him after the Emperor’s physician left, “No one should see His Lordship in his condition.”

He had nodded and remained true to the command. Only his liege-lord, the Emperor’s physician, and confessor were allowed to enter the bedchamber. Dutifully, he had stood by the antechamber which led to the private bedchamber of the emperor, away from the prying eyes of the courtiers.

Although, that night, as the moon reached its zenith in the clear cloudless sky, there was a noise from inside, accompanied by a loud thud. Alarmed, he had entered the bedchamber, breaking his liege-lord’s orders, he had witnessed the emperor standing in the middle of the room. He had almost screamed.

The emperor seemed like a daemon. His hair matted and his clothes drenched in sweat, the once robust man had shrunk, Aistulf, strong and tall seemed to tower over the man who had been anointed to rule all of western Francia.

“Your lordship, you are well!” he offered, “Let me-”

“I see the shadows moving,” the emperor said. “The shadows are moving.”

“Your lordship,” Aistulf had offered his hand, “Please lie down, and let me call someone.”

“Understand me,” the emperor said, “The shadows are moving.”

Aistulf held the hand of the emperor and walked him back to the bed. But the emperor still seemed to mutter the same phrase. Perhaps he had started hallucinating, maybe he was possessed. Aistulf wondered whether he needed to summon the physician or the confessor.

But before he could withdraw from the bedchamber, he was confronted by the dark form of a mysterious entity standing by the door. It moved quickly and the glint of metal in its hand shone brightly even in the dim moon lit room.

It was strange that Aistulf sensed the blood trickle down his body before he felt the sting of the cold blade rip through him. He coughed. Blood sputtered from his mouth and he fell to his knees. As the pain spread across, he looked up at the mysterious entity, which walked with a gentle step, almost imperceptible to hear, he was walking towards the emperor.

He was still babbling in coherently: “the shadows, the shadows, the shadows.”

As the darkness of eternity swept over Aistulf, he saw the glint of the metal once again and suddenly it went quiet.

 

[Natal]

You must be registered for see images

The First Holy Brother I​

"The Emperor is dead! The Emperor is dead!" yelled the man that charged on his horse through the St Marie de Clichy Monastery, more than an hour away from thee headquarters of the court. The guards at the gate and the monks tending to the field let him go, the news made them uneasy. The Frankish monarchy was already getting weaker and weaker, the death of yet another monarchy gave less and less hopes that someone else, ready to rejuvenate the Empire will take the throne.

Garnier Le Goff looked through the windows of the monastery' scriptorium as the courier galloped through the main yard, nearly hitting two or three people and then dismounting, running towards the abbey, yelling, the very ominous "the emperor is dead". Garnier let a slight growl, showing his displeasure. Emperors were already falling down too easily... He looked at the book the monk net to him was copying, De Vita Caesarum, the lives of the first twelve Caesars of the Tiburan Empire, before he decided to see what has happened.

Garnier was a man in late 20s, even though he looked a bit older and was, in the words of his peers, a bit too wise for his age. He was an off member of the Le Goff family, the quite small and not too rich counts of Laon, on the Thaumantic Gulf. He was the fourth son of the fourth brother of the current count. Not too important in the line of succession, of the already too small county, but, he hoped, he will make up for his service in the name of God. His brown hair, was cut short, after an even early in his adulthood left him with some marks. He wanted to be a warrior, and as a mercenary he was tasked to tackle a band of highwaymen. When he finally wound them, together with his companions, a battle ensued, and one of the bandits caught him by his long hair and struck him with his dagger, hitting his cheek and chin, leaving behind a scar on his right half of the face, starting too close to the eye to fully give him ease even now, about a decade later. Since then, he cut his hair as short as possible, to be sure that such an even will never happen again. His short hair and close trimmed beard gave him a look, that he hoped would make him look like the bust of the Tiburan Emperors of old. Compared to other monks, he had no tonsure, and some of his noble privilege fell on him, as nobody pushed him to have any.

"The emperor is dead," he heard again, before the courier went into the Abbey and the Garnier decided to follow. "Continue your work. There is nothing to be agitated of. We are all in God's hands," he said, trying to calm down the writers, as they started to share glares when hearing the shouts in the courtyard. The dark robes were slowing him down, as he was trying to leave the scriptorium as quickly as possible, traverse the yard and go into the abbey. As he was part of the nobility, sword fighting was a skill that he was supposed to learn, as the Frankish Empire was built upon the warlike skills of a martial nobility. He missed his training gear, especially now, when curiosity made him want to move as quickly as possible, to find out what happened. The robes were slowing him down...

"The Emperor is dead..." the voice of Abbot Lothair said when Garnier entered the halls of the Abbey. His voice echoed thee one of the courier, whom, Garnier saw sitting down on a small bench behind the entry door. "So it's true," Garnier muttered... "I somehow hoped they were false news... wrong ones... incomplete information..." me said, as he did the cross sign. "The Emperor is now in God's realm, that is clearly true," said the abbot making the cross sign again. With his tonsure and his big beard, the abbot had a way of speaking, that somehow felt like he was barely moving his mouth. Only after he finished, Garnier saw that the courier rose up and joined the two in doing the cross sign as they were doing it. "I hoped... there would be a chance... to see peace come back, but now..." Garnier said again, after a long break, in which he was eyeing the big evangelion on the desk of the abbot, opened at the first page of Gospel of St John, beautifully decorated with golden miniatures.

"So... what now?" asked Garnier after the pause became too long, seeing that the abbot fell on his own thoughts and the courier was waiting for him too. "With this, it is the end of the whole line, isn't it?" he asked. The abbot took some time before he responded. "It may be so... " he said with a grave voice. "We are all in the hands of God now," he added after making eye contact with Garnier. "There will be big reprecussions, as the imperial family had connections with many of the ducal ones and they will vie to take over now," said the abbot looking at Garnier. It will be the chance of a lifetime for some, thought Garnier. Not for the le Goffs and especially not for me, though.

"Announce the Papal Nuncio," said the Abbot as he turned to the courier. "I feel the empire will burn from the inside, and so many innocents will suffer, but we will have to save the Holy Empire," he continued as he went to his desk and took a piece of parchment. "I will write you a letter to give to the nuncio. Do your best in making him understand that it must reach the Pope as quickly as possible. Herzogenrode Abbey must know, that at this time, the Empire is handing by a thread, right when the Kadyughars are at their doors from Slavia," said the abbey as he took a feather and prepared his ink. "There will be hard times coming," muttered Garnier.

 

[Kazansk]

Bohemond felt his opponents shield shatter under his blows, the man fell to the floor cowering cradling his arm " Come on you bastard get up and fight me!" Instead the man tried crawling away, Bohemond gestured to the next man " right you, your next" the next man grabbed a wooden sword and nervously assumed a fighting stance. Bohemond roared swinging his practice sword over his head his opponent turned and tried to flee the fighting ring. Bohemond saw red and swung at the fleeing man who crumpled to the floor, he continued kicking till the man was a bloody mess.

Finally once his rage had subsided he noticed his seneschal Ranulf standing at his side..although well out of arms reach" My lord, word as come from the capital, the emperor is dead." Bohemond turned " So the old man is dead, an with no heir, I suppose I'll have to ride for the capital, there'll no doubt be a bloodshed and soon". Bohemond could barely contain a smile at the thought of the battles ahead.

" My lord...might I suggest before you ride out...that you wash". Ranulf gestured at Bohemonds clothes, now flecked with blood.

+++++++++

Bohemond stepped out of the bath feeling all of his forty years, looking up at the polished surface of the mirror looking at his own face. He had never been a handsome man, even less so now, a blow from a sea-raiders mace years ago had knocked most of the teeth on his left side. His nose had been broken countless times, the rest of his face was scarred by smallpox. Small wonder the peasants called him the Ogre, at first it had insulted him now he wore it with pride, after all who could stand against an Ogre?

 

[Serenierre]

[div] style="width: 150px; padding: 5px; float:right"|

You must be registered for see images

The Comte d. Rousillon[/div]
Prologue: The Morning after the Tragedy

EUDES DE MONTRICHARD was certain he had cursed his fate when he had bedded that waif in the village. She had cursed him. That witch. Admittedly, he should not have dishonoured her the way he had. But her father needed to be taught a lesson. What better way to control those wretched peasants than a brutal exercise of a lord's right? That is what he had thought.

But whatever horror he had caused that waif that day in the fields of Jeunef, she had through her daemonic heresy extracted her vile pound of flesh from him. One horrendous turn after another. First, his fields had flooded after the canal burst. Then, his son had been killed by a rogue horse. And now, the Emperor lay murdered during his tenure as Lord Chamberlain, and worse still his banner man was the one keeping guard outside.

If he survived, he would track down that witch and burn her himself, even if it was the last thing he did.

He stood in the emperor's bedchamber. Eudes was the first person (of importance) informed of the happenings of the night before. His banner man, that poor Aistulf, lay on the floor, his blood congealed on the stone floor, dark and brown. Though the horrible terror which had taken place in the room had occurred merely a few hours ago, already the stench of death hung heavy in the room. He covered his nose and walked closer to the bed to see the corpse of the emperor.

Gaunt and pale, his throat had been sliced clean, the sprays of blood splattered the walls and the bed was wet; a mixture of human excrement and blood. The indignity of death.

The Remurian physician, Osborno, stood next to Eudes and examined the two bodies. His mutterings only confirmed what Eudes, himself, could have surmised. Though Eudes had only one concern in mind.

"Who was killed first?"

"Certainly your banner man, my lord."

"Are you sure?" Eudes asked. He knew that the vicious courtiers would not spare him. This was a murder on his watch and a murder with profound implications.

"Quite sure," the Remurian responded, "You see he died defending the emperor."

"Make sure you repeat that last part." Eudes turned to walk out of the room.

His mind was full of doubt and worry. He could hardly breathe. The stench from the room clung to him, at least he felt as much. Eudes had been so preoccupied with the potential of blame that he had entirely forgotten to think of the most important consideration: who would succeed the corpse - the last of the Western [Tiburians]?

---
​

[div] style="width: 150px; padding: 5px; float:right"|

You must be registered for see images

Le Prince de Valognes[/div]
FIFTEEN YEARS OF AGE and almost a man, my lord Prince Roger had responded terribly badly to the arrival of the herald informing him of his dear uncle's horrible death. He had shunned his tutor and his groomsmen and retreated to his private chapel for prayer. Even I had been disallowed to meet him. In the chapel, my lord was, however, accompanied by his lady mother, the Dowager Duchess of Valognes, and his three sisters.

I stood patiently in the corridor outside the chapel. Both entrances to the inner courtyard were guarded by nearly a dozen or so of my lord's banner-men. While I was not a man much aware of the happenings at the court, even I knew the dangerous circumstances presented before my lord. From inside, I could hear the muffled noises of a family in heated discussion. It was un-Christian of me to stand by the door, I must admit, but my curiosity was strong. But even so, the thick wooden doors of the chapel muffled much of the sound and I stopped stooping after one of the banner men walked past and fondled my derriere.

 

[Natal]

You must be registered for see images

The Sick Man of Foy I​

Roland Aubert was sitting, sleepily in his chair at the head of the large table in the dining hall of the main building of the Foy Fortress. He was dining alone, as his estranged wife had gone back to Grau, to her family, his dimwit eldest son was probably enjoying himself by spending his money in the brothels in the town, his two daughters, already married had left, one marrying a Tauritanian noble and living in the lands of the crown to the south, and the other married an Elbener landed knight and now lives in the hinterlands of Eschenbach. The only other member of his family still around is his youngest son, now 14, who has left the castle to move to the nearby St Pol Monastery, to become a Cistercian monk.

As his lunch was served, some game sausages with bread, cheese and a cup of sweet red wine, a bard was trying to sweeten his mood, but Roland made a swift gesture from his hand and sent him away. He was in no mood. He was in a phase in which he was reliving his youth, trying his best to be in the graces of his father, Duke Philippe Aubert, the one who turned Foy from the smallest of the Frankish duchies to one of the richest and biggest, after a short but bloody baronial war. Too bad his father died immediately afterwards, and the inexperienced Roland had to administer the newly enlarged polity and try to be as good as his predecessor. Looking now at the state of his domain, and his sons, he was bitter. He felt like the village idiot at court, every time he was called to the capital. Bohemond, the Duke of Oustria was so very close to call him a coward, the last time they met, with Senechal Ranulf managing to keep the offence from happening. A rabid dog... At least Ranulf holds him in a leash, but if he is set loose, there will be blood, thought Roland as he took a bite of the sausage. It was smoked, garlicky and peppery, as he liked it. He washed it down with a sip of wine. A six month old wine, a luxury, at least something that he could still enjoy. The count of Rousillon too, he thought, annoyed. Yet another cunt who think they are so much better, but he is nothing but yet another brute. Acting like he was born in the purple, like a Pelasgian Emperor to be, not understanding how both noble and servant need to work together, he thought.

But then he wondered. Does he actually understand the world better than them, or is he just delusional? His duchy was hit by the Cathar heresy the most. If, God forbid, Bohemond would be unleashed and he will be asked to send his retainers or levy to bring him down, would he actually have enough people to follow him? Would the heretics follow him? Would the Catholics follow him, now that many are angry at his inaction against the Cathars? They aren't really heretics, he thought. They are just critical of the hypocrisy of the Church. Blessed are the meek, say the priests as they grow fat and rich and sin like there is no tomorrow, he thought as he took another bite of the sausages, followed by some cheese and another sip of wine. The Perfecti aren't that different. They still preach the word of Christ, but trully understand the evils of the materialistic world, he thought and then he looked at his meal. They would probably hate me for eating all this. Unnecessary luxury. Why have sausages and cheese and wine, when a cabbage pottage would do the same for you? he wondered, but he thought then of himself as old, needing to enjoy some of life's good stuff, like great food.

He then thought again of his father, the Duchy and his sons. Roland, his eldest, which shared the same name as him. A dimwit. A hedonistic idiot. Unable to follow through with any of his plans, bad at administering the region, bad at talking with people. All he knows is to bring bastards in this world, mothered by all sorts of prostitutes. A failure of a son, a failure of a man. But sadly, the failures of the sons reflect into their fathers. His youngest, Balian, annoyingly, was promising. A kind and good young man, that also seemed to like his sword fighting, he would make a great knight. Roland started to regret the tradition of the Dukes of Foy to bring the 2nd sons to the St Pol Monastery to become monks. He wanted Balian to be his heir, he would be a great duke, but an imbecile was in front of him in the line of succession. Should Roland be at any point disinherited, the Duke thought, that would give Balian a just cause to break his oath as a member of the Cistercian order and become the next in line. His line of thought was broken by the entry of Cerf, his seneschal into the dining hall.

"Your Grace, pardon the interruption. I know you enjoy your meals in silence, but there is a matter of extreme urgency. A pigeon with a message from the imperial court has arrived. The Emperor... you grace... the emperor has been assassinated," said Cerf with a very anxious tone. Roland, who was ready to drink the last sip of his wine stopped, as he felt that the previous sip just stopped in his throat. He knew how problematic the succession will be, and now, he started fearing of how the future will unfold. "Your Grace, you will need to go to the court to offer your condolences, the very least, if not try to... ease the succession process. Prince Roger is just one year away from becoming a major. Someone will need to be there to protect him from any sort of usurpers," said the seneschal. "His claim is through his mother's line, this will complicate things quite a lot," the senechal continued, as the Duke was still blocked. "Your grace, you know the situation in Foy, the region will be bloodied if it comes to any form of strife," the seneschal continued.

"Cerf, please... shut up..." said the Duke as he regained composure. "I cannot and will not leave Foy. So many dukes in the empire have some form of claim to the Emperor's line and will clearly try to use it. It will be bad, and that's why we need to keep Foy away from the bloodshed, because with the cathar and catholic communities here so big and yet so hostile, we are extremely vulnerable. We cannot afford to try to play bigger than what the projection of our own shadow allows us to," he said, finishing his wine. "If I leave Foy, this whole thing explodes. And probably you know it, but you just avoid saying it, considering how chivalry died in the Empire, we are surrounded by ambitious sharks that have no God. No, AFoy needs to be pacified. The whole heretic question needs to be addressed, before blood for the imperial throne will be spilled, because that is when we will see a civil war that will last a generation," the Duke said gloomily.

"Your Grace, at least for the funeral, you do need to send someone to send your regards and condolences and the pay homage to the next in line," said Cerf. "I will, of course, and I will send someone very important, for this. My own son, Roland," said the Duke. "Your grace... is that wise?" asked the seneschal. "He will need to manage. He will lead the Duchy one day. Participating at a funeral won't be the end of him," said the Duke. Though, if he commits a gaffe, it would be the best change to send him to do penitence at St Pol and push Balian as the next in line, he thought.

 

[Khemia]

[div] style="width: 150px; padding: 5px; float:right"|

You must be registered for see images

The Duchy of Valence[/div]
JAVERT DE SÉGURET, Duc of Valence, Comte of Bastonne and Séguret, was a man in his mid-40's who had worked hard to cultivate a family that might make his own father proud. Being a noble meant strategizing and planning at a scale of time peasants, concerned merely with the mundane rotations of crops, could not dare to understand. The line of Séguret had begun at a humble wooden bailey, little more than sticks in the mud, and had blossomed into one of the Empire's finest families. How? Through the diligence of generations of patriarchs, each carefully planning family decisions.

Today was no different. Isabeau had come of age more than a year ago, and yet remained unwed. That was no fools choice; a woman of her status couldn't be wed off to the first inbred peasant capable of adding two numbers together and claiming to be a genius. Such a wedding would form a strong alliance and, providentially, expand the House in generations to come. The Comte of Lafaré had sent him a messenger he presently entertained; discussing the terms of betrothal between his daughter and the Comte's 15 year old boy.

It was hardly pleasant; more a discussion of expenses and terms than of romance or ideals. Both parties understood each other's goals, and yet, as both stood to gain, it would be finalized without overmuch effort. That would be the case, at least, were not he to be disrupted by the groan of large, oaken doors being opened. A guard, clad in mail, clambered into the chambers with much noise; beside him a lad Javert knew to be a messenger. In his hand, a letter, but the Duc could tell that the lad scarcely need read it to recall the words, such was the look in his eyes.

"Perhaps we can continue this conversation in the later hours of the day, perhaps over wine?" the Duc interrupted the representative of the Comte of Lafaré midsentence. "It appears there's urgent news."

"Is it of concern?" the Lafaré negotiator looked to the messenger, who dared not part his eyes from his lord's, knowing better than to divulge information to anyone else first. The Duc hid what would have been a wry smile, he'd remember to give the lads' family an extra sack of grains.

"If the message is of concern, I'll relay the news to you over dinner. Ragenard, please accompany me," the Duc waved at the messenger to follow as he moved towards the stairwell that would lead to the upper floors of the great hall.

He needn't proceed the entire distance, though, stopping in the stairwell and pausing to listen for the footfalls of eavesdroppers, the messenger boy named Ragenard waiting for his lord's command. "What is it, my boy?"

"I rode from Alba, five days ride on as many of the fastest horses," he hushes his voice, "the Emperor is dead. Murdered." The Duc presses a hand against the central column around which the stairs spiral, bracing himself as he filters the information. "Some say the Comte d. Rousillon is to blame, his bannerman stood watch at the dread hour and was also found dead."

"What of the succession?" the Duc's eyes narrowed, cutting the air like knives.

"It is unclear, your Grace."

The Duc pauses for a moment, uncertain how to ascertain the situation. It is clear that, regardless of the succession, the Empire is presently heading towards a time of uncertainty. The assassination of a man already so frail bespeaks a larger, ignoble plot. "Good lad, good lad," the Duc's fingers collapse around his beard as he thinks, "keep this information among only those that are necessary. Send riders to the Comtes of Chambery and Valens, inform the lords of the news and inform them I require their audience."

His vassals would need to be informed of the events, had they not already been by their own messengers. More concerning was, however, the failure of any pigeon to arrive to deliver the news sooner. Perhaps the bird had become lost on such a distant journey? Or perhaps some envious family in the East sought to diminish his standing with the Court. He could not utter such a thought even in the presence of a loyal messenger. He rapped his fingers against the brick pillar and considered his next move. He'd need to confer with his marshal and steward even before his vassals. He followed the trail of the messenger, himself likewise making his way to the other parts of the castle wherein his advisors attended their duties.

 

[Kazansk]

You must be registered for see images

Bohemond de Hautville, Duc of Oustria was making he and his retinue were making their way to the capital. travelling down the old Tiburan roads they made quite a sight, Bohemond and his sons clad in mail, pennants streaming from their lances, followed by their vassal knights and behind them rank upon rank of footmen. finally in the rear the various servants and supplies such a party would need.

This grand procession was making slow but steady progress, through the countryside, attracting throngs of followers and hangers-on from every town and village they passed through. After a while Bohemond's orderly band turned quickly into a rambling horde.

Bohemond kicked his foot out a a nearby peasant watching with satisfactions as the man fell back clutching his bloodied nose, still more and more of them clogged the road streaming out of their hovels to gawk at Bohemond and his followers. At this rate he would be the only noble in the realm not at the emperor's funeral, well maybe not the only one, Aubert would still be in Foy, a prisoner in his own fiefdom.

Bohemond turned to the head of his guards " Alright fuck this, Louis tell these scum to get off the road or else they'll have to be scraped off it" . With he thundered forwards into the mass, his retainers following suit, the peasants in front turned and fled from the mass of horses and men charging towards them, most made it clear, but not all. Word quickly spread and in the next hamlet and the one after that the locals made sure to stay well away from the road.

 

[Serenierre]

[div] style="width: 150px; padding: 5px; float:right"|

You must be registered for see images

The Duke of Villesen[/div]
GUILLAUME AUDENCOURT knew his decision would only complicate things for everyone and he did not care. Hell would freeze over before he would bend his knee before that runt of Valognes. While the other nobles had been rushing to pay homage to the dead emperor and making their presence known to the Chamberlain, as the Curia Nobillium commenced, Guillaume had entirely forgone that course of action. His absence would certainly create ripples among the rank and file of the barons and dukes. More so, when his letter would arrive and be read to the Lord Chamberlain by the poor herald selected for the task. He would certainly be killed for carrying the message Guillaume had made him carry.

"My lord," Clopin, his attendant said to him, "The Baron of Caderousse has arrived with his guard."

"Good, and he is with his son?"

Clopin nodded. "And Lady Audencourt has settled him with your children, my lord."

Guillaume smiled. The heir of Caderousse would now be joining the other sons and daughters of the various vassals under his charge. They were his guarantee.

Ever since the Emperor had died rather mysteriously, Guillaume had been secretly getting the word out among his vassals and they too would be sitting away from the Curia Nobillium. A war was coming and the banner of Villesen would fly high over all of Francia!


[div] style="width: 150px; padding: 5px; float:right"|

You must be registered for see images

The Comte d. Rousillon[/div]
EUDES DE MONTRICHARD had been welcoming many of the dukes and barons himself. Although, the mood in the citadel remained entirely sickly unpleasant with the tension which lingered in between the silence of every conversation. The rumours about his own involvement in the death of the Emperor had only intensified and no matter what he tried the vicious gossip simply would not die. Eudes was hopeful that in time it would fade and he would emerge unharmed.

"Any idea if the Villesenois have come yet?"

"Not yet, my lord."

"Any word from them at all? When will they arrive."

"I don't know, my lord."

Eudes felt uncomfortable by the illusiveness. "Maybe we could send a messenger or two?"

"Of course, my lord."

"We need them here before the Curia Nobilium"