Post by Duke Jeremy of Gascony on May 2, 2009 22:44:49 GMT
“Sire, the situation remains grave. The enemy is amassing a great army and fleet in the name of their god, I fear they mean to convert us by force, Your Majesty.” King Wentworth I gazed blankly down at the map which had been laid before him, wringing his hands with agitation behind his back as his eyes darted back and forth across the great expanses of ocean which were represented on the document before him. “I hate to seem rude, my King, but what is to be done? The enemy will be here within a week.” Wentworth continued to examine the map, the Muslim peoples of former-Hatay had been a thorn in his side for decades and now finally it seemed things were coming to a head. The crowd of senior nobles and advisors stood impatiently huddled around the map table which was illuminated by beams of light pouring in through the high windows of the magnificent palace. The great marble floor upon which they stood was surrounded on all four corners by great stone pillars which rose with the thickness of redwood tree trunks into the great vaulted ceiling, the height of the hall being such as to produce an almost misty tinge to the light which entered through the windows leaded panes. The chasm of seemingly infinite space was soon ringing with the sound of the King’s voice as he concluded his deliberations and began to delegate orders to those who surrounded him.
“Douglas, begin the mustering of our forces, bring every able bodied man in from the fields; the harvest can wait. Bryden, take your fleet to see and meet the enemy at the pinnacle of the Shenton Wold’s horn. You must stop them there at all costs or they shall be upon the capital. Understood?” The two men announced “Yes, Your Majesty” in crisp unison. As the planning meeting broke up and the King retired, flanked by his servants, into the long gallery the nobles began to mutter amongst themselves. They all knew the seas around Shenton Wolds were some of the roughest on Micras and yet that was where the King had elected to initiate a sea battle, “madness” many thought but dared not air it publically.
Within hours of the planning meeting being adjourned the church bells of Bosworth began their grim clangour to call men to arms; the churchmen pulling on the bell-roped with vigour for they knew if the invasion succeeded they could find it around their necks. The bells rang from village to village as the grim chimes of doom and the men of the fields downed their tools and responded to their King’s call; leaving their humble wooden homes and making their way to the stone barracks which dotted the country to be armed. Boys as young as sixteen and men as old as 40 were armed with great spears and flintlock pistols before being given basic training as quickly as possible, each of their arms adorned with a red ribbon to represent the blessing of God and the King upon them. Meanwhile the port at Shrewsbury was rapidly emptying as the great wooden ships of the kingdom, bristling with cannon, set sail with the banners of His Majesty streaming in the breeze atop their masts as the fleet passed the houses which lined the banks of the River Hamble and headed out to sea.
Both the departure of the great fleet and the streams of men heading towards Shrewsbury’s castle were observed by King Wentworth who watched his orders being carried out from the windows of the palace chapel. The weather, which had previously been sunny and warm, had turned cloudy as the afternoon went on and now the smoke of the city’s chimneys mingled with the grey mass above to give the day an almost murky appearance. The King turned his back on the scene unfolding outside and fixed his attention on the altar behind him, the jewelled golden crucifix glistening in the light of the candles which flanked it, “Please God, bring us victory” Wentworth muttered aloud before dropping to his knees and falling into silent prayer.
Preparations on land continued as the fleet made steady progress along the coast of Shenton Wolds until, two days after they set sail, something was sighted on the coast. “It’s definitely the beacons, my Lord” the look-out announced to Lord Bryden who, with great difficulty, settled on simply replying with “It certainly is.” The thin line of orange specs spread far into the distance before them and was steadily growing behind them: the enemy had been sighted. What wasn’t clear however was where, when or in what numbers; a key downfall of relying largely on beacons, but it was too late to worry about that now and so Bryden made his way back to his quarters as the sails of the fleet continued to billow and the bows sliced through the crests of the small waves which prevailed in that sheltered stretch of ocean. Meanwhile on land things had developed rather more quickly as news reached the Royal palace via messenger that an enemy army had already been landed on the western coast of the Wolds and was advancing rapidly inland towards the Hamble’s western bank. Finally the time for contemplation at court had ended and the time for action was upon them, and so after being ferried across the river the King and his personal guard went forth with all haste in the direction of a broad ridge known locally as Gunby Crest where it was believed one of the peasant armies was going to make its final stand.
By mid-afternoon the Royal horses were exhausted but it seemed the intelligence received was correct and as the group neared the ridge a scattering of red and blue figures could be seen gathering frantically on the crest. A number of the figures could be seen turning and looking in the direction of the small group of riders approaching from their rear, a loud slow chant of “Huzzah” announcing that the royal banner of lions and fleur de lis had been recognised. The riders reached the ridge and found a group of a few hundred foot-soldiers and musketeers frantically forming barricades atop a low set of ruined walls which seemed to mark where a tower once stood, a particularly tall gentleman with a tattered blood-stained surcoat stepped forward from the crowd and approached the King. “Viscount Rutland at your service, My Lord” he announced before bowing deeply. “Rutland..” the King muttered, vaguely recognising the name but being entirely unsure as to why. Suddenly he recalled Viscount Rutland had been beheaded many years previously for treason, and yet here before him stood a man of no more than twenty, the convicted traitor’s son he presumed. “Well met, Sir” the King replied to Viscount Rutland before surveying the scene before him; the crest which was being fortified sloped away steeply towards the west where the green pastures were broken only by a few acres of burned wheat fields which formed a large blot on the landscape. “Where are the enemy now?” the King enquired of Rutland, who looked slightly taken aback and then simply replied “over there, Your Majesty” while pointing at what the King had taken for a patch of burnt crops. Wentworth squinted slightly and noted that the large blot was indeed moving towards them, “Bugger” he announced; slightly louder than he’d intended to.
“Quite, Sire.” Rutland replied with a smirk before explaining that the walls of the ruined tower would prevent the use of the enemy’s cavalry while acting as a good base for counter attacks. King Wentworth accepted the plan while continuing to watch the enemy get closer and closer, now being close enough to make out individual faces and wondered what use he could be in the up-coming battle. The King’s gaze then fell on the faces of the men who were still frantically filling in gaps in the low walls with debris and tightening the straps on their meagre armour. “Gentlemen” Wentworth announced to his personal guard who had remained mounted along with their King, “it is time for us to live or die as Bosworthian men” then slid from the saddle onto the long green grass of the ridge. The accompanying knights did likewise, handing their warhorses over to squires who took them away from the battlefield, before joining their King within the confined of the old tower; the walls of which now stood at no more than 4ft high. In the centre of the defensive compound there stood a large pile of stone, around 7ft in height, which had been depleted by the men who were repairing the outer walls but still presented a good position for the musketeers to rain fire down on the enemy when they got closer while the spearmen defended the perimeter. “Montgomery” Wentworth called to his banner-bearer, “scale that heap and plant the ceremonial banner atop it.” Suppressing the urge to point out that this made them an obvious target Montgomery simply followed orders and soon the richly embroidered red and blue banner hung atop the mighty heap which was by then encircled entirely by a hive of spears pointing outwards towards the enemy who were by now no more than half a mile away and closing fast. “Gentlemen, as we now go into the haze of battle I say only this to you: we shall meet again in Heaven or upon the field of victory!” Wentworth bellowed, his voice echoing down the hillside as the enemy finalised their attack formation.
As the thousands of rebel troops advanced on the King and his comrades the Royal fleet reached the horn of Shenton Wolds and passed from the calm waters of the bay into the turbulent seas of the north. Dark clouds had been closing in throughout the day and by the time the fleet hit the open sea the day had been cast into almost complete darkness by black thunderclouds which lashed the ships with rain and tore the sky with great bolts of lightning and terrifying rumbles which seemed to reverberate through the wooden decks. The bows of the fleet rose and fell with terrifying jolts and the crews were thrown from side to side as the ships rocked violently in the troughs between vast white-crested waves which seemed almost mountainous in scale when compared to the sailors and their comparatively minuscule vessels, the sails and banners billowed in tremendous gusts of wind and the men prayed that they’d live long enough to meet their foe. Their prayer was answered.
Aboard the HMS Gloriana Lord Bryden struggled to catch the words of his look-out who was bellowing against the full force of the gale, the lookout quickly resolving to simply yell “Over there!” at the top of his lungs while pointing towards some distant dark figures against the even darker sky. Using his hand to shield his eyes against the driving rain Bryden could just make out the distant figures of ships, made to seem ghostly by the gloom which surrounded them, and appropriate battle orders were then distributed by means of the Gloriana’s flagstaff. The enemy fleet, which had notable numerical superiority, was scattered by the rough seas and Lord Bryden resolved to simply scatter them further with the aim of forcing a disarrayed retreat to their homeland in the hope of regrouping. With this in mind the Royal fleet, battling against the ferocious and unpredictable wind every inch of the way, closed on their enemy and before long the gloom was peppered with bright cannon-flashes and the sky rained javelin-sized splinters of wood as well as water.
The Gloriana was the first ship to make contact as she seemed to leap upon an enemy vessel along with a great wave which carried her with terrifying speed towards the rebel fleet. The wave passed and the Gloriana was left within a canyon sided wave-trough alongside the ghostly figure of an enemy ship, the two vessels were thrown around like corks by the waves as cannons flashed, wood splintered and men’s words were ripped from their mouths and carried far away by the vicious wind. Lord Bryden staggered across the rolling deck of his ship as men worked frantically to reload their clumsy weapons, by now he had no idea how the battle was progressing as the sea tossed the two fleets against each other; from his position he occasionally glimpsed a sail or hull amongst the mountains of water but the only vessel he could clearly see was the Gloriana’s opponent which frequently disappeared into an impenetrable wall of spray. The battle was in God’s hands now he knew and so, after crossing himself, Bryden drew his flintlock pistol and joined his musketeers in raining suppressing fire down on the deck of the enemy ship.
At Gunby-Crest the scene had been similarly darkened by the cloud but had avoided the rain, so the sound of thousands of enemy feet on hard earth could be heard easily and the dark complexion of the advancing infantrymen was clearly visible. Having seemingly noted the defensive structure they faced, and the effect it would have on horses, the enemy cavalry had dismounted and joined the infantry in one theoretically unstoppable charge of swords and scimitars, “here they come, as thick as grass and as black as thunder!” Viscount Rutland announced followed by a sarcastic “ha!” from King Wentworth while the other assembled noblemen seemed to be wholly unaware of the reference. Words of encouragement were bellowed by commanders as their men braced their spears in the face of the oncoming hoard breaking into a run over the last 100meters, simultaneously the first few musket shots whipped across the sky from the mound of stone and puffs of smoke rose as enemy soldiers fell. Battle was met and the enemy crashed as a wave against the walls of the ruined tower, coming quickly to surround the Bosworthians completely, however as swords and spears clashed the defenders held strong in the face of insurmountable odds. King Wentworth and Viscount Rutland patrolled the inside of the perimeter, shouting encouragement over the deafening roar of battle and drawing their own swords in areas where it seemed that the enemy might cut through the thin blue and red ribbon of men which opposed them.
Both at sea and on land the battles raged on until day gave way to night and the men of the two nations fought by the light of the moon and the flashes of light from cannon and muskets. In both cases the darkness and confusion made it impossible to know what was going on, however as the hours wore on contact with the enemy decreased until the cannons of the ships fired no more and silence prevailed upon the crest. The first rays of sunlight announced a clearer, calmer morning and illuminated the two battlefields: the ocean was calm and the enemy disappeared westward else beneath the waves and the crest was littered with hundreds if not thousands of black-clothed bodies peppered with those of red and blue. At sea Lord Bryden elected to pursue the remnants of the enemy fleet across the ever calming oceans, meanwhile on land King Wentworth and his remaining men simply collapsed to the floor and thanked God they’d made it through the night. Atop the mound, atop the ships and atop Shrewsbury Palace the lions and fleur de lis still fluttered; Bosworth still remained proud and free.
“Douglas, begin the mustering of our forces, bring every able bodied man in from the fields; the harvest can wait. Bryden, take your fleet to see and meet the enemy at the pinnacle of the Shenton Wold’s horn. You must stop them there at all costs or they shall be upon the capital. Understood?” The two men announced “Yes, Your Majesty” in crisp unison. As the planning meeting broke up and the King retired, flanked by his servants, into the long gallery the nobles began to mutter amongst themselves. They all knew the seas around Shenton Wolds were some of the roughest on Micras and yet that was where the King had elected to initiate a sea battle, “madness” many thought but dared not air it publically.
Within hours of the planning meeting being adjourned the church bells of Bosworth began their grim clangour to call men to arms; the churchmen pulling on the bell-roped with vigour for they knew if the invasion succeeded they could find it around their necks. The bells rang from village to village as the grim chimes of doom and the men of the fields downed their tools and responded to their King’s call; leaving their humble wooden homes and making their way to the stone barracks which dotted the country to be armed. Boys as young as sixteen and men as old as 40 were armed with great spears and flintlock pistols before being given basic training as quickly as possible, each of their arms adorned with a red ribbon to represent the blessing of God and the King upon them. Meanwhile the port at Shrewsbury was rapidly emptying as the great wooden ships of the kingdom, bristling with cannon, set sail with the banners of His Majesty streaming in the breeze atop their masts as the fleet passed the houses which lined the banks of the River Hamble and headed out to sea.
Both the departure of the great fleet and the streams of men heading towards Shrewsbury’s castle were observed by King Wentworth who watched his orders being carried out from the windows of the palace chapel. The weather, which had previously been sunny and warm, had turned cloudy as the afternoon went on and now the smoke of the city’s chimneys mingled with the grey mass above to give the day an almost murky appearance. The King turned his back on the scene unfolding outside and fixed his attention on the altar behind him, the jewelled golden crucifix glistening in the light of the candles which flanked it, “Please God, bring us victory” Wentworth muttered aloud before dropping to his knees and falling into silent prayer.
Preparations on land continued as the fleet made steady progress along the coast of Shenton Wolds until, two days after they set sail, something was sighted on the coast. “It’s definitely the beacons, my Lord” the look-out announced to Lord Bryden who, with great difficulty, settled on simply replying with “It certainly is.” The thin line of orange specs spread far into the distance before them and was steadily growing behind them: the enemy had been sighted. What wasn’t clear however was where, when or in what numbers; a key downfall of relying largely on beacons, but it was too late to worry about that now and so Bryden made his way back to his quarters as the sails of the fleet continued to billow and the bows sliced through the crests of the small waves which prevailed in that sheltered stretch of ocean. Meanwhile on land things had developed rather more quickly as news reached the Royal palace via messenger that an enemy army had already been landed on the western coast of the Wolds and was advancing rapidly inland towards the Hamble’s western bank. Finally the time for contemplation at court had ended and the time for action was upon them, and so after being ferried across the river the King and his personal guard went forth with all haste in the direction of a broad ridge known locally as Gunby Crest where it was believed one of the peasant armies was going to make its final stand.
By mid-afternoon the Royal horses were exhausted but it seemed the intelligence received was correct and as the group neared the ridge a scattering of red and blue figures could be seen gathering frantically on the crest. A number of the figures could be seen turning and looking in the direction of the small group of riders approaching from their rear, a loud slow chant of “Huzzah” announcing that the royal banner of lions and fleur de lis had been recognised. The riders reached the ridge and found a group of a few hundred foot-soldiers and musketeers frantically forming barricades atop a low set of ruined walls which seemed to mark where a tower once stood, a particularly tall gentleman with a tattered blood-stained surcoat stepped forward from the crowd and approached the King. “Viscount Rutland at your service, My Lord” he announced before bowing deeply. “Rutland..” the King muttered, vaguely recognising the name but being entirely unsure as to why. Suddenly he recalled Viscount Rutland had been beheaded many years previously for treason, and yet here before him stood a man of no more than twenty, the convicted traitor’s son he presumed. “Well met, Sir” the King replied to Viscount Rutland before surveying the scene before him; the crest which was being fortified sloped away steeply towards the west where the green pastures were broken only by a few acres of burned wheat fields which formed a large blot on the landscape. “Where are the enemy now?” the King enquired of Rutland, who looked slightly taken aback and then simply replied “over there, Your Majesty” while pointing at what the King had taken for a patch of burnt crops. Wentworth squinted slightly and noted that the large blot was indeed moving towards them, “Bugger” he announced; slightly louder than he’d intended to.
“Quite, Sire.” Rutland replied with a smirk before explaining that the walls of the ruined tower would prevent the use of the enemy’s cavalry while acting as a good base for counter attacks. King Wentworth accepted the plan while continuing to watch the enemy get closer and closer, now being close enough to make out individual faces and wondered what use he could be in the up-coming battle. The King’s gaze then fell on the faces of the men who were still frantically filling in gaps in the low walls with debris and tightening the straps on their meagre armour. “Gentlemen” Wentworth announced to his personal guard who had remained mounted along with their King, “it is time for us to live or die as Bosworthian men” then slid from the saddle onto the long green grass of the ridge. The accompanying knights did likewise, handing their warhorses over to squires who took them away from the battlefield, before joining their King within the confined of the old tower; the walls of which now stood at no more than 4ft high. In the centre of the defensive compound there stood a large pile of stone, around 7ft in height, which had been depleted by the men who were repairing the outer walls but still presented a good position for the musketeers to rain fire down on the enemy when they got closer while the spearmen defended the perimeter. “Montgomery” Wentworth called to his banner-bearer, “scale that heap and plant the ceremonial banner atop it.” Suppressing the urge to point out that this made them an obvious target Montgomery simply followed orders and soon the richly embroidered red and blue banner hung atop the mighty heap which was by then encircled entirely by a hive of spears pointing outwards towards the enemy who were by now no more than half a mile away and closing fast. “Gentlemen, as we now go into the haze of battle I say only this to you: we shall meet again in Heaven or upon the field of victory!” Wentworth bellowed, his voice echoing down the hillside as the enemy finalised their attack formation.
As the thousands of rebel troops advanced on the King and his comrades the Royal fleet reached the horn of Shenton Wolds and passed from the calm waters of the bay into the turbulent seas of the north. Dark clouds had been closing in throughout the day and by the time the fleet hit the open sea the day had been cast into almost complete darkness by black thunderclouds which lashed the ships with rain and tore the sky with great bolts of lightning and terrifying rumbles which seemed to reverberate through the wooden decks. The bows of the fleet rose and fell with terrifying jolts and the crews were thrown from side to side as the ships rocked violently in the troughs between vast white-crested waves which seemed almost mountainous in scale when compared to the sailors and their comparatively minuscule vessels, the sails and banners billowed in tremendous gusts of wind and the men prayed that they’d live long enough to meet their foe. Their prayer was answered.
Aboard the HMS Gloriana Lord Bryden struggled to catch the words of his look-out who was bellowing against the full force of the gale, the lookout quickly resolving to simply yell “Over there!” at the top of his lungs while pointing towards some distant dark figures against the even darker sky. Using his hand to shield his eyes against the driving rain Bryden could just make out the distant figures of ships, made to seem ghostly by the gloom which surrounded them, and appropriate battle orders were then distributed by means of the Gloriana’s flagstaff. The enemy fleet, which had notable numerical superiority, was scattered by the rough seas and Lord Bryden resolved to simply scatter them further with the aim of forcing a disarrayed retreat to their homeland in the hope of regrouping. With this in mind the Royal fleet, battling against the ferocious and unpredictable wind every inch of the way, closed on their enemy and before long the gloom was peppered with bright cannon-flashes and the sky rained javelin-sized splinters of wood as well as water.
The Gloriana was the first ship to make contact as she seemed to leap upon an enemy vessel along with a great wave which carried her with terrifying speed towards the rebel fleet. The wave passed and the Gloriana was left within a canyon sided wave-trough alongside the ghostly figure of an enemy ship, the two vessels were thrown around like corks by the waves as cannons flashed, wood splintered and men’s words were ripped from their mouths and carried far away by the vicious wind. Lord Bryden staggered across the rolling deck of his ship as men worked frantically to reload their clumsy weapons, by now he had no idea how the battle was progressing as the sea tossed the two fleets against each other; from his position he occasionally glimpsed a sail or hull amongst the mountains of water but the only vessel he could clearly see was the Gloriana’s opponent which frequently disappeared into an impenetrable wall of spray. The battle was in God’s hands now he knew and so, after crossing himself, Bryden drew his flintlock pistol and joined his musketeers in raining suppressing fire down on the deck of the enemy ship.
At Gunby-Crest the scene had been similarly darkened by the cloud but had avoided the rain, so the sound of thousands of enemy feet on hard earth could be heard easily and the dark complexion of the advancing infantrymen was clearly visible. Having seemingly noted the defensive structure they faced, and the effect it would have on horses, the enemy cavalry had dismounted and joined the infantry in one theoretically unstoppable charge of swords and scimitars, “here they come, as thick as grass and as black as thunder!” Viscount Rutland announced followed by a sarcastic “ha!” from King Wentworth while the other assembled noblemen seemed to be wholly unaware of the reference. Words of encouragement were bellowed by commanders as their men braced their spears in the face of the oncoming hoard breaking into a run over the last 100meters, simultaneously the first few musket shots whipped across the sky from the mound of stone and puffs of smoke rose as enemy soldiers fell. Battle was met and the enemy crashed as a wave against the walls of the ruined tower, coming quickly to surround the Bosworthians completely, however as swords and spears clashed the defenders held strong in the face of insurmountable odds. King Wentworth and Viscount Rutland patrolled the inside of the perimeter, shouting encouragement over the deafening roar of battle and drawing their own swords in areas where it seemed that the enemy might cut through the thin blue and red ribbon of men which opposed them.
Both at sea and on land the battles raged on until day gave way to night and the men of the two nations fought by the light of the moon and the flashes of light from cannon and muskets. In both cases the darkness and confusion made it impossible to know what was going on, however as the hours wore on contact with the enemy decreased until the cannons of the ships fired no more and silence prevailed upon the crest. The first rays of sunlight announced a clearer, calmer morning and illuminated the two battlefields: the ocean was calm and the enemy disappeared westward else beneath the waves and the crest was littered with hundreds if not thousands of black-clothed bodies peppered with those of red and blue. At sea Lord Bryden elected to pursue the remnants of the enemy fleet across the ever calming oceans, meanwhile on land King Wentworth and his remaining men simply collapsed to the floor and thanked God they’d made it through the night. Atop the mound, atop the ships and atop Shrewsbury Palace the lions and fleur de lis still fluttered; Bosworth still remained proud and free.
.
