The decade or so following the fateful year of 1124 was perhaps the most trying of my reign. Nothing happened at all! Well, nearly at all. Oh, sure, the occasional peasant had to be hanged and the occasional bloody civil war raged across the realm as some noble or other decided he wasn't fond of the King, but none of that quite concerned me. As I paced restlessly about my castle, I began to suspect that the conspiracy infesting my court was behind this; attempting to drive me to madness with boredom. I have not managed to prove anything, but I know
they are behind it. There is no other logical explanation. Still, I will mention the few notable events that did happen during these long years.
On my thirtieth birthday in 1127, I have been informed that my mustache causes small children to cry and kills sheep at twenty paces. Knowing that my mustache was clearly the source of my power and that this nonsense was merely the conspiracy attempting to deprive me of it, I have grown it even larger than it was. Ha, take that!
In October of 1129, my Court Chaplain, Eanfrith, requests a private audience with me. This is rather unusual; he usually keeps to himself, locked in his chapel doing whatever it is Court Chaplains do. I accept his request, having nothing better to do. We meet in the dark cellar, which is where, by Ducal decree, all private meetings must take place. After my guards make sure he isn't carrying any weapons - one can never be too careful with his advisors - he enters the room with a humongous pile of strange books. It is at that point that I realize what was bothering me. I begin to wonder if
everyone in this Duchy is called Eanfrith, and whether that's the work of the same vast and unseen conspiracy targeting me. It was damn confusing, in any case.
I decide not to press the issue for the moment and inquire as to what he wanted from me. The Chaplain lays down his stack of books on the table. "Sire," he says. "I have been exhaustively studying the Fraticelli, I believe I have found it to be the true path to enlightenment..."
Fraticelli...? Suddenly, I grasp what he is implying. I stand up and grab the Chaplain's by his collar. "Fool!" I shout. "You should know well that Sphagetti alone is God's true pasta!" He tries to babble something in protest, but I have none of it. I call the guards and order that he be thrown into the dungeon and all traces of his heretical noodles purged from the realm.
At the end of 1131, I receive news that the heathens occupying the Holy Land have been crushed. I cheer for the triumph of God's armies, but lament the gold coins I now owe the Duke of Gloucester for losing my bet. This event also coincidentally marks the beginning of the end of the boring years.
The following year, my supposed heir Eanfrith comes of age. He is looking mighty shady too, reinforcing my suspicion that he is not truly fit to be my successor. In order to get rid of his annoying presence, I pick the Countess of something or other at random and marry him off to her. I then promptly send him off to infest
her court.
In December, a third son is born to me and my wife. Clotilde proposes that he be named Sigeweard, which is probably Saxon for 'strange looking' or something like that. Since it is not yet another Eanfrith and I do not care one bit otherwise, I have no objection to this name.
The same month I also receive an invitation from the King to attend a feast. It's clearly a ruse to frame me for some horrendous crime which will be arranged to happen at this alleged feast, or just throw me in the dungeon with some flimsy justification, or something to that effect. As if I'd fall for such cheap tricks! Yet, much as I try to consider this rationally, the lure of free food and drink becomes irresistible. I succumb to my temptations and declare that I will travel to this feast. Curse it! I shall to be extra careful not to fall into their trap.
I travel to the location of the feast, the court of King Sælræd in Cornwall, early in 1133. Much to my satisfaction, there is plenty of food and drink to be found. Much to my suspicion, not a single incident takes place during the entire proceedings. Clearly this is nothing but an attempt to lull me into a false sense of security. Of course, I shall not fall for that either. The King and his conspiracy will have to try better than that!
Some weeks later, an envoy arrives from the King. Not the usual courier, but the shady sort of messenger that is supposed to covertly deliver covert messages and utterly fails at it. As expected, he demands that I speak to him in the dark cellar. I oblige him. Logically, if the King wanted to kill me, he would have done so at the feast, though of course I make preparations just in case logic has already become a casualty of the insane schemes that I am certain are being set in motion by King Sælræd even at this very moment.
It turns out that I am safe for the moment. The King asks me to not mind him as he deprives the poor Count of Chester of his holdings. I ponder whether I should agree or fetch for my trusty hammer and nails. On one hand, this will certainly serve to advance the King's power-mad schemes. On the other hand, if I play along for now, I could foil his plans at the right time. I choose the latter course of action, and inform the envoy that I shall gladly do the King's bidding. As I watch him leave the castle, I burst into maniacal laughter at my certain victory.
Meanwhile, I have been getting some strange reports from the County of something or other. It appears that my heir's behavior has been...strange. Regardless, I try to ignore anything I hear about that idiot. In June, however, I receive information that I can no longer disregard. My Spymaster, who also happens to be my wife, has found evidence that he is planning to murder me. The bastard! At least, I hope he is...anyway, damn him!
Days later, my mother, Æthelhild dies from "depression" at the age of 62. I do not believe that for a second, of course. Clearly it was
he who murdered her out of some insane blood lust.
It is clear to me now that the tomatoes have subverted Eanfrith Jr.; warped his mind at the bidding of their dark master - Satan himself! There is nothing more that can be done to save him. Unfortunately, being at the Court of something or other, he is beyond the reach of my trusty guards. He will also certainly refuse to see the logic in terminating his plot, so I do not even try. I consider assassinating him, but the cost is too high and the risk is too great.
I cannot do much about him, but at the least I can pull that idiot of the line of succession. The following year is the 10th anniversary of my glorious reign. I use the opportunity to announce the changing of the Succession Laws from Gavelkind to Elective. Sure, people will complain, but I can choose who my successor is, and Gavelkind is terrible anyway. Also, since I am the only Feudal lord in the Duchy, I shall be have the sole vote, eliminating the chances of someone ruining everything by voting for the wrong person.
I ponder the choice of my successor thoroughly. My generally odd and suspicious murderer first son, Eanfrith Jr., is out of the question. My second son, Eadweald, is an idiot, and also has an annoying name. Sigeweard is too young, so I cannot know whether he is a worthy heir yet. That leaves my daughters. Gunhilda is also an idiot, leaving Eadwyn as the sole choice until Sigeweard is older. I announce the decision to the general booing of the population, which I do not care one bit about.
It appears that my population actually does hate me! Later that year, as I lounge upon my (very comfortable) throne, I hear a commotion as my door is suddenly opened and a horde of advisors and courtiers burst into my room. "The peasants are revolting!" they shout, as if I am supposed to rise from my chair at this very moment and deliver them from the plebeian menace.
"Look, they're in Gwent, right?" I say. "That's not even anywhere near here." My assurances don't seem to help much, but what do I care? The King has already raised all of my levies for his efforts in the Who-Knowsth's War of Somebody's Independence, so it is not as if there is much I can do. I inform them that they are to clear out my throne room and have someone else deal with it.
Some months later, one of the King's armies takes a stroll through Gwent and demolishes the uprising peasants, probably by accident.
The end of the year brings the first good news I hear in ages. On Christmas Day, my Chancellor, Mayor Harmon, arrives at the castle. I marvel at the fact that one of my advisors is not only named something other than 'Eanfrith', but also doesn't even have an 'Ea' in their name at all, as seems to be the case with everybody else in the Duchy.
My Chancellor takes me down to the trusty cellar. He informs me that after decades of searching, he has found a shady merchant in Gwynedd trading in forged claims. If I just deliver him a sum of twelve metric giant piles of gold, he will give me a claim for the entire Duchy of Gwynedd. I am weary of wasting my precious money on such a suspicious deal, but my craving for more territory overrules these concerns. Hours later, I am in possession of a claim for the last remaining independent Duchy in Wales.
...to be continued in Chapter III: Oh! What a Lovely War.