Christmastime, Mistletoe and Whine!

Ah, Christmas! A time for reflection! A time for consideration! A time to weigh up the relative merits of the past twelve months! A time, having done all of those things, to invite Fate to take those twelve months and shove them right up his fundament.

The various Christmas traditions of the states of  Mittelheim have already been commented upon in previous editions of this modest publication. Suffice it to say that the citizens of these countries look forward to their Yule-tide celebrations with all the sense of happiness and fulfillment that one might expect from a region blighted by war, pestilence, poor governance, and an unusual sensitivity to double entendre. 

'Nothing says "Happy Christmas" like making
  the last coach out of Mittelheim'

Speaking of "unusual sensitivity", it is a cruel irony that events take us once again to the hunting lodge of Schloss Tanvaund, and into the presence of Rupprecht, Prince Palatine of Saukopf-Bachscuttel. The prince is surveying the festive decorations in his audience chamber.

'Have I told you how much I hate mistletoe?', asks Rupprecht, as his chamberlain Leopold von Fecklenburg finishes the decorations.

'Only twice, my lord' says the chamberlain.  Fecklenburg, in deference to the spirit of Christmas, thinks it inexpedient to add that each of the two incidences lasted for over five years.

'Well, I do' whines Rupprecht. 'It is my least favourite element of Christmas - because where there is mistletoe, there is kissing; and where there is kissing there are always awkward lawsuits against me'. 

'Perhaps, lord, if you kept your britches on?'

'But Fecklenburg, can you guess what my most favourite aspect of Christmas is?'

Fecklenburg considers this question, though not for very long. 'Pigs, sire. Pigs and/or some kind of pork related items or activities Or preferably, I should guess, aspects of the latter that involve elements of the former?'

Rupprecht nods jovially. 'Well yes, Fecklenburg, spot on. In particular, like everyone, I like pigs in blankets'.

'Yes, lord. Although, unlike everyone else, who eat sausages wrapped in bacon, or for the poor, watch someone else eat sausages wrapped in bacon, you my lord like actually sharing blankets with pigs'.

'They are sensitive creatures, Fecklenburg: sensitive, and very, very intelligent'.

Fecklenburg, in order to maintain the positive festive atmosphere, avoids asking the obvious question: that, if pigs were so very, very clever, why then would they get into bed with Prince Rupprecht? Certainly one reasonable measure of any creature's intelligence would the effort that they placed into putting the maximum possible distance between themselves and Rupprecht's bed. By this measure, of course, Rupprecht's wife, the Princess Caroline, must be accounted a genius. 

Fecklenburg actually has some important matters of state to discuss with the prince, not least the developing plans for the Bishopric of Schrote. But suddenly, at that moment, on Christmas eve as it is, he demurs. He decides that perhaps it is best not to sully this quiet and contemplative Christmas hour with machinations, skulduggery, nefarious combinations, secret throttlings, and murder. Boxing Day seems more appropriate for that. Indeed, looking at Rupprecht in the glow of the Christmas candles, the chamberlain feels almost well-disposed towards the prince - possibly because, in the faint light, he looks more like his brother, the previous prince.

'Happy Christmas, my lord. It's a been a hard year'.

'It has, it has', nods Rupprecht. 'Let's hope that next year is better for everyone, Fecklenburg'.

And so, dear readers, we can only echo Rupprecht and Fecklenburg's sentiments. Merry Christmas! May you and your families stay safe! Here's to a happier New Year! And may Fate, who has placed upon us the travails of the past year, be tracked down; beaten viciously about his tender parts; and then have each of the last twelve months shoved even further up his jacksy. And I mean all the way. Right up it.

Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition!

Three figures dressed in scarlet leap into the cathedral. The leader strikes an emphatic pose (below). 'Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!' declares the leader of the crimson-robed interlopers. 'Our chief weapon is surprise! Surprise and fear! Fear and surprise! Uh ... our two weapons are fear and surprise! And ruthless efficiency! Uh ... our three weapons, are fear and surprise and ruthless ...'

'Look, I'm a busy man. I don't have time for the whole sketch' says Baldwin in annoyance. 'What do you want? Why are you here?' He pauses. 'Is this your work?' he jabs his finger in the direction of the letter of complaint that Friar Knowledge has in his hand. The three inquisitors stride purposfully forwards, confronting the bishop. The leader gestures menacingly - it seems a fair bet that he isn't here to give Baldwin a bonus. 

(Below) Behind the leader, the two henchman hench menacingly. One seems to be carrying a scroll upon which, the bishop notices, there seems to be a list: as this is the inquisition, it probably isn't shopping. The other minion holds a pair of cushions - why he is doing so isn't immediately clear to the bishop: but, all in all, it is unlikely to be a good sign.

'I am Brother Michael!' declares the leader. 'And these are Brother Terrence!'

'They're both Brother Terrence?' asks Friar Conviction.

'It helps with the stationary budget', replies Michael.

'I know what you mean', replies Baldwin. 'But explain yourself! What possible reason could you have for being here and pointing your investigative efforts in our direction?' 

'You've been a naughty boy, Bishop Baldwin, 'and complaints have been made!'

'I have done nothing but my bishoply duty!' cries Baldwin. 'In the treatment of my flock, I have been nothing but fair ...'

'Well ...' says Friar Knowledge.

'Firm but fair', says Friar Conviction approvingly.

(Above) Brother Michael waggles an admonishing finger. 'Religious genocide, bishop - it's not a victimless crime'.

'Genocide - it's such a judgemental label' replies Baldwin. 'I see my recent activities more as an expression of religious boisterousness, or exhuberance. I really don't have time for something as expansive as religious genocide. I have so much else to do'.
'You sawed the feet off your Protestant parishioners. What label would you think was appropriate, Bishop Baldwin?' says Michael, playfully. 'And there have been complaints surrounding your Greek Orthodox population'.

'What, both of them?' says the Bishop. 'Why are they complaining? Everything will turn out fine for them - "For the Greek shall inherit the earth"'.

Michael frowns. 'Meek'.

'No, they're insufferable!' Friar Conviction waves his hammer. 'Removing their beards was the least that they deserved'.

'That would have been less problematic', says Michael. 'if you hadn't removed their beards through the expedient of removing their heads'.

'Now that wasn't my fault', replies Friar Conviction, swinging his hammer. 'It took a while for me to really get to grips with this beast!'

(Below) 'You've got nothing on me!' says Baldwin. 'Nothing but a few mobility-impaired Protestants and a couple of Greeks that have had a religiously sanctioned shortening.'

'Hmmm', says Michael. 'Brother Terrence, show him the picture'.

The Terrence in possession of the scroll unwinds its contents, revealing an intricate painting.

'What's this?' says Baldwin, peering at the scroll.
Michael points at a portion of the picture. 'I think you might recognise this ...'.
'No - is it an obscenely swollen turnip?'
'Oh, hang on' Michael takes the scroll and turns it the other way up. 'There you go, bishop ...'
'Oh. Oh, that'.
'Yes. Now, you might recognise this fellow ...'
'Bishop, isn't that you ...' pipes up Friar Knowledge.
Brother Michael nods. 'Yes, the milkmaids as it turned out had some quite detailed recollections of their night with you at ...'
Baldwin blanches. 'Indeed, yes but ...'
'I mean', continues Michael, pointing at one part of the picture, 'as a good christian I'm all for "turning the other cheek", but this puts rather a different spin on it ...'
The bishop gurgles hopelessly. 'Is that a...'
'Yes ...'
'With a ...'
'Alas for my eyesight, yes'.

Baldwin groans. 'I think I understand where this is going. I'm guessing that, somewhat ironically, the Holy See hasn't actually seen any of this, and that the source of this investigation lies with individuals rather closer to home. Individuals who, no doubt, are willing to look after your interests very well for doing this ...'
Brother Michael shrugs. 'What is good for us is good for the church; and what is good for the church of course is good for all. Now, as it turns out there is a way that you can avoid any official church scrutiny of your actions and also, at the same time, earn yourself a sizeable ... donation ... to a ... charitable actress of your choice. With no risk at all to you'.
'Just because I'm a bishop, why does everyone assume that I routinely talk to actresses?'says the bishop morosely. Baldwin ruminates for a while; then he sighs. 'Very well; like a deaf bat, I'm all ears ...'

Friar and Movement!

The three figures are deep in conversation. They are dressed in the red vestments of Catholic clergy, and so we can assume, dear reader, that these three fellows probably are the bishop and two of his trusted subordinates (below). A conversation is taking place.
'Is it possible, Your Holiness, that we might be enforcing adherence to Catholic doctrine a little too diligently?' says one.
'No', replies the bishop, 'not at all. This is not possible. Do you know the skills required to make a truly fine pair of britches?'
'Ah ... no, Your Holiness' replies the henchmen, slowly, as if, metaphorically, giving himself more time to spot a potential ambush. 'Britches were not a major part of my training or education for this post', he says. 'Except', he adds quickly, in case this is the ambush, 'that I did obviously wear them. All the time - but especially in the presence of women and children'.
The bishop nods. 'Making a good pair of trousers is exactly like caring for the souls of one's spritual flock. It requires diligence, a careful eye, an artist's understanding, but also - and this is important - some very sharp needles'.

The bishop is named Baldwin. In this, he has the same name as every other bishop of Schrote back to the 16th century. Like the Pope, the bishops of Schrote take on an official name upon assumption of their new position. Unlike the pope, in Schrote, it is always the same name, which helpfully makes the bishop's name easier to remember for some of his aged parishioners, and also helps economise on the stationary budget. 

The current Baldwin, whose name actually is Elias, is Baldwin CCXXIII - a title that gives some idea of the relative unpopularity of the position of bishop in Schrote. There has been a disappointing tendency on the part of previous incumbents to use the position to extract maximum pecuniary and political advantage, before quitting and moving to Paris; a move often made, ironically given that they are bishops, in the company of actresses. Tenures can thus be quite low, the record being twenty minutes - the time, not coincidentally, being the same as that required to pack and call up a coach.   

Minister Werner of Fenwick's choice of Elias as bishop was guided by his belief that it would help to have someone in this position whom Emperor George could relate to; a circumstance in this case not unrelated to the fact that Elias is indeed related to George. Elias previously had been owner of a modest tailor's shop in Brandenburg. The fact that he didn't live in Mittelheim actually meant that he was viewed as one of the most successful members of Emperor George's family. As a distant cousin of George, twice or possibly 43 times removed, he was regarded as being politically more reliable then other potential candidates. Elias (below) has quite enjoyed his few months as a bishop, although he has only recently been able to wear the robes - since these were previously in the ownership of Prince Rupprecht, they naturally required quite a lengthy period of cleaning.

(Below) Conversing with the bishop is Johann, whose role is record keeper and librarian for the bishopric, and so who is known officially as Friar Knowledge. As this is Mittelheim, the record book is large, but also seems to be quite spartan in relation to some of the things usually important to books linked to the keeping of records - like an index, or words.

The second of Bishop Baldwin's underlings is Hermann (below), whose job is the enforcement of offical doctrine, and who is therefore known in his official capacity by the name of Friar Conviction. The hammer is notionally symbolic, but Hermann actually has been getting more use out of it than is probably intended. The list of those requiring a religiously sanctioned smiting has increased quite a lot under the leadership of the new Baldwin. Baldwin has applied to his new job the same sorts of qualities that made him a successful tailor, including his propensity for the application of hot irons.

Friar knowledge is now waving a letter. 'I ask, Your Holiness, because this list of accusations laid against you seems  quite serious'. 

'It's ridiculous', says the bishop in disgust. I mean, look at these questions: "Have I knowingly participated in, or do I know directly of anyone who has knowingly participated in, acts of heresy, witchcraft, full demonic possession, part-time demonic time-sharing, or Protestant-motivated questioning of official doctrine"'.

'We have been questioning doctrine', says Friar Knowledge ruefully.

'We had a quiz night!' says the bishop. ' How could that possibly be heresy?'

'The science questions were God-awful', says Friar Conviction.
The bishop pulls a face. 'Look, I may have applied some of the rules quite, ah, enthusiastically, but I wasn’t expecting the Spanish Inquisition!'

A door flies open. There is a gust of air, and sudden movement at the back of the cathedral. As the the bishop and the two friars turn in alarm, a thin voice cries out: 'Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!'

The Bishopric of Schrote!

Schrote is a tiny political entity, nestled uncomfortably between Bachscuttel, Rotenburg, and Gelderland. Since these, therefore, are the only possible destinations upon leaving Schrote, this alone would be sufficient to make the bishopric a very disappointing place to live. Sadly, however, there are so many other reasons why one might wish to avoid a visit there that listing them would be dull, pointless, and self-defeating - not unlike a night out in the bishopric itself. The most notable thing about the bishopric is that it is, rather surprisingly, the sight of the most significant cathedral in Mittelheim.

Schrote had been a bishop's seat since the 6th century; although, as seats go, it was rather an uncomfortable one. The bishop's dwelling in Schrote was at the time a quite modest manor house, with the village of Schrote, a dismal collection of damp dwellings, clustered, or perhaps festered, around it. That this manor was replaced by a somewhat incongruous cathedral can be explained by Bishop Baldwin the XII  and his submission in 1599 for funds to expand his home into a dwelling 'more suitable to his standing'. As it turned out, he must have been standing quite high, because, having received agreement for the provision of inital funding for a roof that didn't leak and an indoor privy, the subsequent alterations to his house were really rather more extensive. Arguing that he needed to be closer to God - about 200 feet closer, as it turned out - Baldwin turned his living quarters into a spire. The expansion of his kitchen into a nave, and his outside watercloset into a transept he explained away in terms of the need to keep the new building  'in keeping with the character of the surrounding village', a process that seemed to involve demolishing the surrounding village and building more cathedral.

The bishop's hope that the cathedral would lead to a significant, and indeed lucrative, expansion of Schrote itself came to nothing. Anyone actively searching for a dwelling in an area as wretched as Schrote, whose main selling point was that it wasn't actually on fire, already had a vast range of choices in every other area of Mittelheim. The only really significant developments in Schrote at this time resulted from the bishop's attempts to sponsor a variety of seats of learning. The fruits of this were two universities: a small two-room cottage in the hamlet of Uxfurt devoted to the study of philosophy; and a rival institution set up just opposite and across a stream, in the hamlet of Kambritz, devoted to the study of piles. The latter, of course, was by far the most popular.

Schrote was for most of its history actually part of the Kingdom of Gelderland. This state of affairs continued until 1678, when its tranformation into a nominally independent bishopric was decreed by King Oskar IV. Oskar, known by his quite judgemental subjects as Oskar the Not Really Tall Enough, was tired of being lectured every Sunday by the bishop. To solve this problem, Oskar gave the bishop his own temporal state. This had at least two advantages. First, the bishop’s ability to get back into Gelderland and lecture the king was impeded by the activities of a Gelderland customs post that suddenly sprang up on the new border. The bishop then had to spend quite large amounts of time filling in forms in triplicate, and being frisked down to his hessian undergarments. Second, the bishop, who in private had often thought how fun it might be to be ruler of his very own kingdom, suddenly found that temporal power carried with it a range of tedious and time-consuming commitments - dealing with complaints about drains, for example, and pot holes; and also having to mitigate the consequences of events such as plagues, famines, and apocalyptic fires; events which he had previously been able to wash his hands of by claiming that they were simply the ineffable will of God, the solution to which was just to pray a lot harder.

 We turn our attention now, dear reader, to the inside of the cathedral. Here we can see three priestly figures deep in conversation ... 

Once More Unto the Leech!

In Pfeildorff, Prince Rupprecht has spent the morning inspecting the new plague hospital established by Herr Hans Klenser, his chief medical officer. 'Inspecting', though, is probably too active a term for Rupprecht's efforts, which could more accurately described by terms such as 'loafing', 'laughing', and 'snoring'. Left to his own devices, there is very little that the prince has an interest actively in inspecting, unless those things are on top of a plate or under a corset. Rupprecht's advisors, however, have convinced him to at least make the effort in order to give his subjects the impression that he cares about them, even if that care seems to be expressed in an utterly indifferent way. The plague has hit the town hard. In addition to the large numbers of citizens that have expired, the interruption of commercial activity has caused great financial hardship. Many of the poorest have been reduced to eating their own shoes. Sadly, they don’t always remember to remove their feet first.

 

(Above) The prince addresses Herr Klenser. 'Klenser, I have spent the morning at your new hospital'.

'Indeed, my lord - and I hope that my progress has pleased you?'

Rupprecht frowns. 'Klenser, conditions at your plague hospital are positively medieval!'

'Medieval?' asks the physician.

'Yes - medieval: you have some explaining to do, chief medical officer!'

'Well I ... I ... have done my best, sire!' replies Klenser.

Rupprecht gesticulates. 'That's my point! You need to explain how things have improved so much! I mean, the hospital doesn't just have leeches, it has a full range of advanced medieval methods - toads, ducking stools - and the trepanning! Splendid drilling! You've brought the practice of medicine in the palatinate roaring into the fourteenth century!'

'You do me too much honor, my lord'.

'No, no, Klenser', says the prince waving his hand at at the doctor, 'never let it be said that I fail to recognise hard work in the service of the state'.

There is an almost audible rolling of the eyes from Rupprecht's grand chamberlain, Leopold von Fecklenburg, who gives a short cough that might also be mistaken for the words 'Me! What about me!'

Rupprecht freezes at the sound. 'Are you unwell, Fecklenburg? You aren't ... infected ... are you?'

'No! No, sire!' says the chamberlain hurriedly, eyeing with some alarm Klenser's attempts to unsheath a meat cleaver. 'I just choked on a ... leech, or something'.

Klenser nods. 'An excellent preventive step, my good chamberlain. Indeed, on that note, my lord, I have been considering the possibility perhaps of instituting a lockdown to control the spread of the plague'.

'Excellent, I love a good drink'.

No, sire - a lockdown: we pass edicts instructing the population to stay in their homes'.

'Excellent - I see too much of them as it is. We should definitely do it'.

'Of course, sire', says Klenser, 'you yourself must set an example'.

'It's a terrible idea', says Rupprecht. 'We should definitely not do it. Anyway, things seem to be progressing perfectly well. Reported incidences of the plague have collapsed!'

'Well, sir, there's nothing like the possibility of a really enthusiatic trepanning to sort out the time-wasters. The numbers of patients in my hospital has reduced significantly'.

'And the the corpses littering the streets around the hospital?'

'My lord, it is a scientific fact that the poor are quite lazy. The state cannot be held responsible if its citizens would rather catch a lethal plague and lie down and die rather than go out and do an honest day's toil'.

'You are a wise man, Klenser - I find your views refreshingly forward-looking'.

'Well, that's that', says Rupprecht, as Klenser wthdraws and Fecklenburg comes forward to converse with the prince. 'Can I go now, Fecklenburg? I've had about all the caring for my subjects that I can take in one morning'.

'Of course, sire. There are, in any case, other issues that we need to discuss'.

Rupprecht flops back into his chair. 'You're surely joking, chamberlain. How many poor people must I smell before I am released from the day's administrative chores?'

'Well, my lord, there are the issues relating to ...', he looks around, and lowers his voice ' ... our business in Schrote'.

'I thought that you said that your Jesuit friend was all over things. When will he contact the bishop?'

'Well, my lord, says Fecklenburg, checking his pocket watch. 'I should say, sir, any time around ... now'. 

Schrotal Cogitation!

'No! No! No! No! No! This is is completely unacceptable! I must retaliate!'

'Indeed, sire', says Leopold von Fecklenburg, Grand Chamberlain to Prince Rupprecht of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, 'your lunch was indeed unreasonably small. But I think we should instead focus our efforts on the report from the Zentan ambassador, Ritter von Dweeb'.

Prince Rupprecht has been forced to leave Schloss Tanvaund and return to his capital, Pfeildorff. He is to tour a state of the art plague hospital set up in the town by his chief medical officer, Herr Hans Klenser.

'Dweeb is still alive then?' asks Rupprecht.

The chamberlain nods. 'It would seem so, my lord. You have to admire that back and breast plate of his. But the intelligence that he has sent us is incendiary! It would seem from this Zentan letter that there is a Fenwickian and Zentan plot to force our nobility to have you replaced, on pain of a renewal of the war against us!'

'Replaced?' Rupprecht seems to consider this. 'Would that mean that I could stay in bed for longer?'
'No my lord, because you wouldn't have a bed - they'd take that. And your throne as well'.

Rupprecht reflects on this. 'And my shoes - would they take those?'

'Almost certainly, sir'.

'What about my cufflinks?'

'My lord, I think that we need to focus on the bigger picture here'.
'But, generally Fecklenburg, you're saying that I wouldn't have to do as much work?'
'But they'd take everything, sire! They'd oppress your people ...'
'A bit of light oppression would do most of them some good ...'
'And strip you of your pigs!' 
The prince chokes. 'What! What! Insupportable! This means war! Mobilise the troops! Strip the peasants of their cash! We cannot accept this threat to our royal dignity!'
The chamberlain gestures placatingly. 'It is winter, my lord, and so no war is immediately likely. The threat, I think, will emerge as spring arrives and the campaigning season starts. And anyway, too precipitous a war against Fenwick would be dangerous without allies. We need time to prepare. We need time to develop our stratagems'.

Rupprecht scowls, looking under his throne and then checking his pockets. 'And where will we find these cunning stratagems, Fecklenburg?'

There is a long silence. It is clear that, wherever these clever ideas are to be found, it is unlikely to be anywhere in the immediate vicinity of the prince. Then, Fecklenburg snaps his fingers.

'I've had a thought, my lord! George of Fenwick is to be crowned King of Gelderland in the cathedral in the Bishopric of Schrote!'

Rupprecht nods. 'Didn't I used to be the bishop of Schrote?' he asks sadly.
'Indeed, sir', says Fecklenburg, 'until you were so cruelly stripped of the position in the wake of the latest war'.
'Yes', says Rupprecht sadly. 'I loved that hat'.

'It was so very tall and red', agrees the chamberlain.
Rupprecht sighs. 'Yes, and as a bishop, I was allowed to do all of those naughty things'.
The chamberlain chews his lip. 'I don't think, strictly, that you were allowed to do them, sire: I just think that, as a bishop, you got away with them. Anyway, my lord, a counter-plan is forming in my mind! There might be something that we could do whilst George is in Schrote for the coronation - he would be practically on our borders, and be protected by only a limited bodyguard. We'd need the cooperation, I suspect, of the new bishop of Schrote. We'd have to blackmail or bribe him - probably both, given that he's a bishop'.
Rupprecht nods. 'Have we got anything on him that we can use for blackmail?'
'He's a catholic bishop, sire - it's just a matter of digging hard enough. Hmmm, it just so happens that I play bridge with a Jesuit inquisitor. Let me see what I can rustle up ...'

With These Chocolates You Are Really Foiling Us!

The trumpeters are at it again. There is a blare of horns, and then both cry out 'Tremble and despair, mortals! Behold, Hospodar Casimir: the Shadow of God, God's Umbrella and Also Possibly His Hat!'

There is a pause. A head pokes itself hesitantly around the door. It is the Bachscuttel ambassador, Ritter von Dweeb. 

'Ah, ambassador - I suspect that you are wondering why we have summoned you here' says Radu Pasha. Two days have passed, and Ritter von Dweeb has finally been induced to appear and present his credentials.

Dweeb steps into the harem and looks around nervously, a sheen of sweat on his face. 'I did wonder why. Because I haven't managed to fill in the paperwork correctly yet to apply formally for a meeting. My .. ah ...my dog ate the forms'.

'Your dog must be getting quite full of such forms by now', says Radu.

Dweeb nods distractedly, glancing furtively around. He seems to relax slightly when he realises that there are, as yet, no immediate signs of any such instruments of torture as hot coals, branding tools, pliers, or English food.

Radu pasha gestures to one of the eunuchs who appears with a tray covered in a pyramid of golden objects. 'The ambassador has provided us with some sweetmeats, my lord. They look all golden. I'm sure that they are delicious'.

'Do try them, my lord', says Dweeb. 'They have been made especially'.

Hospodar Casimir nods. 'Well, you know, I think that I shall'.

There is a moment of silence. Casimir looks at Radu and raises an eyebrow.

'Oh yes, of course, of course, Dread Lord', says Radu hurriedly, 'I should try one first'.

Radu looks speculatively at one of the golden chocolates, and then pops it into his mouth. Before Dweeb can say anything he chews vigorously.

'Aaaak! Aaaaak!' he squawks. 'Eees 'ocolates are orrigle! Aaaak! Aaaak!'

Casimir nods. 'Horrible? Slave Radu, by their look I think that the gold is some kind of foil wrapping. You need to remove it first'.

'Oh. Oh, 'es', says Radu exploring the contents of his mouth with his tongue. 'I 'eed oo sit it at'.

'Well, go on and spit it out then', says Casimir.

Radu looks around. He briefly contemplates the pool but rejects it. He then starts to panic - he isn't sure that there isn't an explicit rule about gobbing half-masticated sweetmeats onto the floor of the harem,* but he is willing to bet that the Hospodar would probably find one if he did.

He looks at Dweeb and gestures. 'Or 'at - I eed or 'at.'

'You need, what? Oh, you need my ... hat?'

''Ive it 'ere'.

Dweeb looks on horrified as Radu takes his hat, deposits the chocolate into it and then hands it back.

The ambassador bows, thanking Radu politely, before contemplating the effect on his very expensive headwear. He sadly tucks it back under his arm, judging that it would be politically inexpedient to punch the Zentan vizier in the face, shove his staff right up his nose, and kick him mightily in his dangley tassels.

Casimir meanwhile is already tucking into the sweetmeats.

'Not bad, not bad' he says. 'With these chocolates you are moderately spoiling us'.

Casimir catches Radu's eye. Radu coughs and then gestures to Dweeb. 'Ah, er, ambassador. Before the Dread Lord Casimir deigns to engage you directly in conversation, you must just wait over there for a minute, out of ear-shot. The hospodar and I must discuss a recently arrived and very secret letter that contains secret and recently arrived ... things'.

Dweeb bows and wanders away (above). As he contemplates the harem's decor, the vizier talks to the hospodar in loud pantomime tones, Radu clearly enunciating such words as 'conspiracy', 'Fenwick', 'absolute secret','must not fall into anyone else's hands ever', and 'ever, ever, ever, ever, ever'.

'You may return, ambassador' says Radu finally, gesturing.

As Radu turns, a letter falls from Radu's grasp and floats downwards, ending up just by Dweeb's foot (above). Dweeb freezes, and then glances around. No one appears to be looking ... He weighs up the chances of getting caught purloining the document against the chance of an intelligence coup that might get him promoted out this ambassadorial role. This mainly involves weighing up the chances of immediate torture versus the much larger number of chances of more torture spread over a longer period of time. Furtively he drops his hat over the document and then, as he bends down to pick up his hat, he also scoops up the letter, which in the process becomes quite chocolatey...

xXx

The audience finishes. As soon as Dweeb has left, Radu bows to the hospodar.

'Well, my lord - he took it'.

'Yes, he did, slave. Let us see what happens when our "secret information" is revealed in Bachscuttel!' Casimir pauses. 'The Bachscuttel leader ... you're certain that he can read?'

Radu nods. 'Oh yes'. He considers this further. 'At least, I'm certain that somebody there can'.

*In Fenwick, of course, there are strict rules against the use of the word 'masticated', half or otherwise. 

Zenta Letter Too!

Casimir purses his lips. 'Well, let's have it then, slave Radu. What do they want? We're up to date with our tribute, and if they don't like the devshirme levies that we send for the household troops, then I want to know what else I'm supposed to do with all of those ginger-haired left-handers we find wandering about'.
Radu Pasha fishes a scroll from his robes. 'Dread Lord, it would seem that another campaign against Persia is in the offing. Since peace now reigns in Mittelheim, the Sublime Porte thinks that there is no reason why you can't spare your troops for the fight. The Grand Vizier has ordered that you prepare in spring to mobilise your army and lead it to the muster of imperial troops in Istanbul, in preparation for a march to the Persian border.
Casimir groans. 'Spring break in Isfahan. Lovely. Is everyone else going?'
'I understand, Aweful One, that messages as we speak are landing on the palace doorsteps across the Balkans'.
'Persia', says Casimir, angrily. 'Persia', he says again, as if trying the word on for size. 'Persia, Persia, Persia'.
Radu nods sympathetically. 'I remember, Lord, that you have been there'.

The Hospodar nods wearily. 'I have. It's too hot in the summer, and it's too cold in the winter. Spring is too much like autumn; and autumn is too much like sitting on an ice block while hostile locals pelt you with scorpions. It's as unpleasant as England, but with more aubergines. But really, the main problem with Persia is that it is full of angry, angry Persians. No, I don't think that we really want to go to Persia'. Casimir subsides into resentful silence. 

There is some splashing and then some raucous giggling from the pool.

'Stop that!' shouts Radu to the miscreants, 'the under sevens are in there tomorrow'. He then waits as the the hospodar cracks his knuckles.
'Lately', says Casimir slowly, 'being hospodar has been really rather trying. And now, Istanbul is making things even worse. It's even affecting my appetite. Am I losing weight?'
'Surely not lord!' replies Radu, feigning a shocked tone. Actually, Casimir has looked a little leaner of late. However, Radu isn't fool enough to say so. The hospodar is sensitive about his weight - or rather, any indication that he lacks it. The hospodar is keenly aware that losing weight would be a dangerous sign of weakness, signalling either either that he could't afford enough food or that he cared what other people thought. In Zenta, it is wise for the ruler to maintain recognisably hospodar levels of corpulence.

'But, Dread Lord, the Sublime Porte's logic sadly is irrefutable. With the situation now so peaceful in the lands of infidel Mittelheim, there is really no reason why we need to keep our army here'.
Casimir gives this some thought. 'Too peaceful to require our army here?' says the hospodar, fiddling idely with one of the tassels on his turban. 'Well, let's see what we can do about that then, shall we?  I have an idea. Where's that Bachscuttel ambassador? Get a scribe here as well - it would appear that we have received another letter! We just need to get the contents right!'

Zenta Letter!

Now, dear reader, our focus turns to events in the Sanjak of Zenta. Some general background to this area of Mittelheim has already been discussed in this humble publication, as well as a few more details on its nefarious links to Rotenburg. But our concern is rather more specific - it is with the palace of Hospodar Casimir, and that locale known as the harem. The hospodar is technically an Orthodox Christian. But he is technically Christian in the same way that, technically, he rules according to the law.* In this vein, he has actually modelled his court along the lines of Ottoman custom: or rather, the customs that he likes. On this afternoon, Casimir is holding court in the harem (below). In Turkish, harem simply means "private", although in Zentan, it could also be loosely translated as "get your hands off, you dirty pervert". Casimir likes to hold his council meetings here; at least when his wife, Roxanne, is out shopping. 

With the crude cultural stereotyping so typical of europeans, it would no doubt be thought that the harem is a den of oriental debauchery, where sweaty nakedness and unchristan acts of carnal satisfaction take place all day, every day; or for at least as long as the participants can bear the chafing. But this would not be true. Such things take place only on Thursday mornings after 11. On Mondays,  for example, the pool is used for under-sevens' swimming. And on Tuesdays, the harem is the location of a usually well-attended coffee morning -  although, to be fair, this mainly involves all the activities of a Thursday, but with the addition of hot beverages.

Casimir's careful cogitation is rudely interrupted, as the doors fly open, and his ceremonial trumpeters announce the arrival of a visitor (Above). Casimir winces at the noise. It is Casimir's vizier, Radu Pasha (below). Radu bows low and approaches.'You seem tired, Dread Lord', says the pasha. After several years as vizier, Radu has learnt to become sensitive to the hospodar's moods. Radu recognised early on that Casimir was that worst kind of bloodthirsty psychopath - the sort that was intelligent and intermittently quite nice. Staying on the right side of the hospodar Radu decided was important, especially if he wished to continue to perform such important tasks as providing advice, and staying alive. In fact, Radu actually has great respect for Casimir. The hospodar may indeed often be violent, bloodthirsty, and judgemental; but balance and open mindedness won’t get one far in Zenta. Politics in the sanjak is like a knife fight in a water closet. One doesn’t survive as hospodar for as long as Casimir has by fairness and "seeing both sides of things": unless, of course, by "seeing both sides", we 
mean having an opponent sawn down the middle and then looking at the results.

'You have a hangover, Dread Lord?' asks Radu solicitously.
'In a manner of speaking, slave Radu', replies Casimir. 'The hangings over-ran, so I really didn't get to bed early enough'.
'Did you hang them all, Awful One?' asks Radu. 'I thought that you intended to release some of them because there was no evidence against them?' 
'Yes, but then I decided that the gurgling noises would improve my mood', replies Casimir. 'Besides which, slave, evidence or not, they were all guilty. This is Zenta. Almost everyone here is either actively plotting against me or plotting to have a plot. Ask any random subject of mine if they want to do some plotting against me, and I know that, rather than saying "Nay, nay, let me not betray my lord, where is my honour", they would say instead something like "How much does it pay and what are the hours like?" 
'But, Dread Lord, if being more discriminating with prisoners would help to get you to bed earlier ...'
'How long have you known me, slave Radu?'
'Four years, Dread Lord', replies the pasha. 'The happiest and most rewarding of my life', he adds quickly.
'And how would you characterise me?'
'Well, Dread Lord, aaah ... oooh ... it's so difficult to ... to put into words'.
'Come on - it's not a trick question', says Casimir, a sure sign that it is probably a trick question.
'Well, Aweful One, I would say that you are a sovereign who, when it comes to making omelettes, understands that one needs to break a few eggs'.
'Yes, breaking eggs is necessary. And also boiling them, skinning them, hammering them, and then displaying the results for several days at strategic points throughout the Sanjak. Anything less than disproportionate and indiscriminate violence I think my subjects would see as weakness and a sign that I was mellowing'.

Casimir yawns. Radu waits patiently. 'On the subject of hangings', says Casimir, 'I haven't yet seen a sight of the new ambassador from Bachscuttel'.
'No, Magnificant One. He arrived last week; but he is the most reluctant applicant for an audience in court that I have seen for some time. He goes through the motions of applying to see you, but he keeps losing the paperwork, apparently. He has also made the point that he is undoubtedly the most boring man in Bachscuttel, and that no sane ruler would want to talk to him, and he says that it is likely, anyway, that he is suffering from the plague, or something worse'.
'That's a shame', replies the hospodar. 'I'll wager that breast and back plate of his might heat up nicely'.

'Anyway', adds Casimir, looking at Radu, 'I suspect that this polite preliminary circling of the issues means that there might be some bad news in the offing?'
Radu nods and gulps. 'We have been sent a letter, Terrible One. From the Sublime Port'.



* The sanjak tends to work according to the principles of cutomary law - that is, things are lawful if the hospodar customarily likes to do them.

With This Appointment You Are Really Spoiling Us!

Prince Rupprecht scowls.
'And who the devil is this, Fecklenburg?'
'It is I, Bastian, Ritter von Dweeb, you most potent highness', says the new visitor.

Fecklenburg gestures towards Dweeb. 'It is as we were just discussing, sire. See, here is the fellow that we were just talking about'.

'My father?'

'No, my lord. We talked about your father yesterday. I mean just now. Just this minute'.

'Martin Luther?'

'No, my lord. We talked about Luther more than a year ago. I mean literally, mere seconds ago, we were talking about Dweeb here'. 

Rupprecht's face contorts. Either he is thinking hard, or having an aneurysm. Possibly both. 'No, I've got nothing, Fecklenburg - you'll have to give me a clue'.

'It is Ritter von Dweeb, sir. You are going to tell him that you have appointed him to be your ambassador to the Sanjak of Zenta'.

Rupprecht's face contorts again. 'Fecklenburg, you know I hate cryptic clues - just tell me who this is and what he's doing here'.

(Above) Dweeb utters a groan. 'My lord! Zenta? Have I upset you in some way, sire?'

Rupprecht suddenly nods vigorously. 'Yes, that's right! Dweeb! Zenta! Ambassador! Well, you got there in the end, didn't you Fecklenburg!'

The ritter looks extremely downcast. He has struggled for many years to make his way through the Byzantine intricacies of the Bachscuttel diplomatic service. His success thus far in the face of the cut-and-thrust of court politics can be explained by his caution and by the fact that he wears a back and breast plate.

'Yes Dweeb! Rejoice, for you are to be my new ambassador to Zenta!'

Dweeb gulps. 'But it's really dangerous there, sire!'

'Fecklenburg says that it's perfectly safe!'

'Well', says Fecklenberg interrupting, 'I think that I actually said that it was 'generally safe'.

'But the hospodar bites!' cries Dweeb.

'Fecklenberg says that isn't true'.

'It generally isn't true, sir'.

Dweeb snuffles. 'He bit the Venetian ambassador'.

'Everyone bites the Venetian ambassador' says Rupprecht. 'That's practically his only purpose. I myself have been tempted on occasion to have a nibble'.

'But I won't be safe. I'll say something perfectly innocuous, and then Hospodar Casimir will fly off the handle. And then he'll probably take the handle and hammer it right up my ...'

'Those rumours are lies', says Rupprecht firmly. 'Generally lies' he adds quickly with a jaundiced eye on Fecklenburg.

'I think, sire, that those rumours actually are generally true', says the chamberlain.

'Look', says the prince, losing control of his italicising, 'Dweeb, someone has to go. Many of those that have been there say that the hospodar actually is a very jolly fellow and that their time there was great fun'.

'Some of those say that', says Fecklenburg.

'Those that still have their tongues, no doubt', Dweeb adds. 

'It will be fine. Besides, you've got your back and breast plate'.

'That won't help me, sire, from the threats that emanate from ... below'.

'Listen Dweeb, one way or another, you're going to Zenta to be my eyes and ears'.

'Only for as long as the hospodar lets me keep them', says Dweeb sadly.

Rupprecht waves dismissively at the ritter. 'It is decided. No more discussion. Now, begone father. Fecklenburg will fill you in on the arrangements. I look forward, Luther, to your first report!'

Medical professional!

At Schloss Tanvaund, Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel has been forced yet again to attend unwillingly to matters of state. This time, Leopold von Fecklenburg, Rupprecht's Grand Chamberlain, is bothering him with issues relevant to the current plague.

'A chief medical officer?' asks the prince, bewildered.

'Indeed, sir. It seemed prudent that you should have an expert advisor on plague-related issues. He is here for you to meet - a noted physician by the name of Hans Klenser'.

Rupprecht sighs. 'If I promise to meet him, will you promise to go away?'

Fecklenburg bows.

'Very well' Rupprecht says wearily. 'Let's have him'.

'Aaaaagh!' says the prince. 'What a horrifying visage, Klenser!'

Herr Klenser bows. 'Thank you, sire: I find that it keeps incidences of illness low'.
'It fights off disease and ailments?'
'No, sir - it makes potential patients too frightened to come and see me. Whenever I appear, rates of reported illness tend to drop off quickly'.
'Since the patients don't get treated, presumably other things quickly drop off as well?'
'It is the way of things, my lord. Life is "nasty, brutish, and short"'.
'The philosopher Thomas Hobbes?' interjects Chamberlain Fecklenburg.
'No', says Klenser. 'my mother - although I think that she was actually describing my father. Anyway, the point is that life is pain'.
Rupprecht snorts. 'Mine isn't. It's actually quite nice'.
The physician nods. 'Oh yes, sir - for the nobility that is so. But for ordinary people life is rather less entertaining'.
'Well', says Rupprecht, 'it serves them right for not working hard enough to inherit their father's wealth'.
Klenser bows. 'I have often had the same thought, sir'.

'Anyway, who's this with you?' asks the Prince. 

'My assistant, sire'.

Rupprecht blanches. 'I must commend you, Klenser, for such an act of charity - to allow such a snaggle-toothed crone, withered and bent with age to accompany you. I'll wager she helps to scare off some of the worst of your patients!'

'She is my wife, my lord'.

To be fair, even Rupprecht is capable of some measure of shame and embarrassment. There is a moment or two of awkward silence before the prince provides the best apology that he can.

'Bloody hell she's ugly', he says solicitously.

Fecklenburg intervenes swiftlty. Rupprecht generally only has two responses to difficult emotional situations: lunch or executions. And since it is too early for lunch, it is better for Herr Klenser that the conversation is moved on.

'Herr Klenser has already formulated some excellent advice on treating the current pestilence', says the chamberlain.

Rupprecht nods. 'Hasn't that Vulgarian minister, Ranald Drumpf, already come up with some perfectly good suggestions: catching the disease in a small net; killing the pestilence by snorting mouse traps; or having a shark eat the affliction out of our bodies?'

Klenser shakes his head wearily. 'I am a medical professional, my lord. Such suggestions are dangerously uninformed hearsay. In such times, we should abide by the clear scientific evidence'.
'Which says that we should do what?' asks the prince.
'Well, my lord, the standard treatment recommended in situations of a pandemic would be a course of leeches'.
'But that's the same treatment that physicians always recommend! I had a bad back and they recommended leeches!'
'A wise choice, sire'.
'But they weren’t even applied to my back! He applied them to my testicles - how was that supposed to help. It really hurt!'
'And did that pain take your mind off the pain in your back, my lord?'
Rupprecht considers this carefully. 'Yes, I suppose that it did'.
'Well, there you go, sir'.

Eventually, to Rupprecht's delight, the meeting ends. A part of his mind registers vaguely that some decisions have been made to which he might have assented; the rest of his brain makes fun of that part and returns to princely ruminations about pigs.

'Excellent!' says Rupprecht. 'So I think we're all done here aren't we?'

'There's just one more thing, my lord', says Fecklenburg.

'It's never ending', groans Rupprecht. 'I've been working for nearly twenty minutes!'

Nutters!

'Well, he seemed to be just the sort of fellow that we're looking for', says Graf Petr Peiper-Pickderpeck, Lord of Pickelpeipers, the Gelderland Royal Chamberlain.

Graf Wernar von Wormer, a Fenwickian minister, nods. 'Yes, his inability to work the door handle I think indicates that he is a man of suitable quality'.

'You don't think that he's too stupid, do you?' asks Count Matthias von Sachsenblaus, Gelderland's Minister for War and Strudels.

Wormer shakes his head dismissively. 'No - for our purposes that's simply not possible. Anyway, I'm sure that his struggle to work out the right way to use a chair was just some silly joke of the Prussian sort'. The minister sits back. 'You know, he did look familiar, though. From illustrations that I've seen somewhere before. He looked an awful lot like that Baron Munchhausen fellow'.

Count Matthias stares. 'You don't suppose ... you don't suppose that he actually is that fellow Baron Munchhausen!?'
'No, no, no!', replies Count Petr. 'He said his name was Hunchmausen - it's completely different'.

Matthias nods. 'Hmmm, still, he seemed pleased. I don't know what he meant about all that "destiny" stuff, though'.
'I can tell you that his destiny is likely to involve some pretty tricky domestic problems', interjects Wormer.
'How so?'
'Well, he'll be required to marry Baltazar's widow, the Duchess Isolde.'
'Is she a bit ... difficult?'
'Difficult? She is know as the "Verging Queen"'.
'But she has nine children!'
'No, "verging" as in "on the cusp of".

'On the cusp of what?'
'Madness, they say'.
'Nine children will do that to a woman, I should imagine'.
'No, no - she is a noble and so she never sees her children. I mean more broadly. She has views that indicate a certainly instability of the mind'.
'Such as?'
'Constitutional constraints on the exercise of power; meritocratic promotion in the army and civil service; reducing income inqualities; more equitable distribution of taxation'.
'What a terrible, terrible illness. But - why then is she only on the verge of madness? What possible signs of sanity has she exhibited?'.
'Well, apparently she doesn't like gherkins, which reputable physicians have noted is a sure sign of a balanced mind. It's all very tricky'.

Wormer sighs. 'Anyway, this leads me to the second key issue that I need resolved. We need to crown Emperor George as king of Gelderland as soon as possible. It needs to involve a really impressive ceremony to fully demonstrate his majesty and authority'.
'The Bishopric of Schrote is the place', says Petr. 'It has the best cathedral in the whole of Mittelheim; which is to say it's the only cathedral'.
'Excellent - then I shall leave it to you, on the Gelderland side of things, to work out the details'.
Petr nods. 'Yes, let me know how many guests so I can sort out the catering. And we'll need flowers. Ooooh, I know a really good painter for the pictures'.
'With the plague and all, we'll need to socially distance', says Matthias.
'Oh, we're fine already', says Graf Petr. 'Nowhere else is there such an enormous gulf between the social classes: no mere plague will force us to reduce the distance!'
Wormer nods. 'Excellent. Just make sure it's impressive and that it runs smoothly'.
'Of course, of course. It's just a coronation. We've had loads of those. What could possibly go wrong? What sorts of possible problems might emerge that could break the peace and lead to another interminable outbreak of terrible war?'
'Well', says Wormer reflectively, 'that's an interesting question'.

All Hail Hunchmausen!

The Tipsy Kitten is a small inn in Gelderland, standing upon the road to Fenwick. It is an unremarkable place: even the kitten in question isn't actually an alchoholic, but is instead just a bad-tempered feline with a thing against balls of wool. In a corner by the window, three strangers sit deep in conversation. Moving closer, we can see that the three consist of Graf Petr Peiper-Pickderpeck, Lord of Pickelpeipers, the Gelderland Royal Chamberlain; Count Matthias von Sachsenblaus: Gelderland's Minister for War and Strudels; and Graf Wernar von Wormer. The last of these was once the Gelderland royal treasurer under King Wilhelm's predecessor, Vlad. He has now been appointed by King and Emperor George as a Fenwickian minister, George believing that Wormer's experience will make him a valuable advisor in the coming months.

Graf Petr seems to be finishing a long speech of some kind.

' .. and so we are now allies: your friends are our friends; your enemies are our enemies; your awkward social encounters are our awkward social encounters; your embarrassing blackouts or painfully swollen private par ...'
'Well', says Wormer, 'that's all very nice gentlemen; I think I get the picture. Now, I have called you here incognito to resolve a number of questions informally that have a bearing on future Fenwick-Gelderland relations. Since my master George is not yet officially crowned as king of Gelderland, I'm relying on you both to resolve some immediate issues in ways that suit our, ah, mutual interests. Unless you have a problem with that?'

'No, no, no, no' says Petr quickly.

'That's a big "nope" from me, as well' says Count Matthias.

'Excellent', says Wormer. 'By the way, how did King ... that is, ex-King, Wilhelm take it when it was announced that he was deposed?'
Graf Petr looks at Count Matthias, and then says 'He was very sad. He was moved, indeed, to declare a month of national morning'.
'You mean "mourning"', says Wormer.
'No, "morning". - he just wanted to eat breakfast all day. And then came the problem of dessertification'.

Wormer nods. 'Well, yes - they do say that over-intensive agricultural production is in danger of ...'
'No, no -  "dessertification": the process by which more and more of Wilhelm's diet comprised of puddings'.
'Did he put on more weight?'
'Putting on weight, sir?' interjects Count Matthias. 'The phrase "putting on weight" is appropriate to a matron that has perhaps been consuming a slice of two more cake than is good for her. Wilhelm underwent something altogether more significant. Not so much gaining weight as ... transforming ... metamorphosing ...'
Wormer shrugs. 'But it's not size that matters, it's what's within'.
'Well, believe me, Wormer - it was really quite far within, then'.

'Well, it could have been worse', says Wormer, philosophically.

'It did get worse, remember: he died, after accidently becoming trapped under a door that then accidentally became covered with some really very heavy boulders'.

'Yes', says Graf Petr sadly, 'who'd have thought that such a thing was possible?'

 'And Adolpho, Don Pajero de Penguino: Wilhelm's confidante?' asks Wormer.

'Fled', replies Graf Petr. 'Although he left his trousers behind'.



Wormer nods and then waggles his finger. 'So, gentlemen, we must tackle the main reason for  my calling you to this little exchange of views. We must start embedding a sympathetic post-war peace. The first item - Duke Baltazar of Nussholz-Pomme-Lesia died in the recent war. Since he was childless, we must replace him with someone conducive to our now joint Fenwickian-Gelderland interests'.

'Childless?' says Petr. 'Didn't his wife have nine children by him? Wasn't he known widely as "Big, Bonking Baltazar, Baron of the Boudoir"'? 

Wormer pulls a sad face. 'Alas, sadly, all of his offspring are too tall to be considered legitimate issue'.

'Too tall? Is that really a thing?'

'Oh, yes', says Matthias, catching Wormer's eye. 'I definitely remember seeing official documents with that in. I can certainly find them. I'll just need some time. And some ink'.

Wormer nods. 'Good man. So we need a new duke. We need someone pliable. So we also need someone lazy, greedy, and amoral: someone who deals with the ethical quandries involved with getting blood on their hands by deciding to wear bigger gloves'.
'This is Mittelheim' replies Graf Petr. 'Mostly everyone that we know would fit that description'.
'Yes, but I mean even more so. And also, and this is particularly important, we need someone of low intellect. And when I say "low intellect", I don't just mean someone who isn't that quick on the uptake: I mean someone who is genuinely as thick as an Albanian moustache; someone, for example, who thinks that the phrase "low intellect" just refers to thinking done by short people. Some one, dare I say, who literally doesn't know his arse from his elbow'.



The three men stare out of the window as a horseman stops in front of the inn. The fellow halts his horse and then emits a mighty groan. 

'Bloody hell!' the rider says painfully to no one in particular. 'What a long, long journey!' He rubs his backside gingerly. 'Oooh, my elbow is in agony!'
The three ministers look at each other slowly. Wormer raises an eyebrow.

Power!

Revelling in his new power, there remains one other thing that King and Emperor George of Gelderland Fenwick feels he must do: rub everyone else's noses in it! To this end, it seems like the appropriate time for a splendid military parade! To make things even more memorable, George has commissioned at the entrance to his capital, Pogelswood, a mighty edifice memorialising his extraordinary victory in the latest war. The building of this proceeded with the usual sort of difficulties. George's early references to the building were his desire, not for 'a mighty edifice', but for 'a mighty erection' of stone. This being Fenwick, several of those present literally killed themselves fnarring and snurtling. Others were saved only by shooting them. Nevertheless, the monument has been quickly constructed, helped by the fact that it is constructed from cardboard (below).



Sadly, the new building was rather smaller than anticipated. George had wanted something sufficiently large that it wouldn't look out of place as a gate, or similar, at a place like Brandenburg. The usual mix-ups in the differences between inches and thumbs resulted in something that was not quite Brandenburg Gate and a little more Brandenburg Cat Flap. All in all, though, it hasn't turned out too badly, especially given that the architect believed initially that the new 'gate' was intended for a garden fence or such like. However, the Pogelswood Gate is sufficiently large that troops can march past it without feeling embarrassed - or at least any more embarrassed than they should be, given the state of their marching drill.

(Below) Keen to avoid the ravages of the plague, King and Emperor George isn't foolish enough to turn up in person for the parade. Instead, he has sent a stand-in. Taking the salute is the Fenwickian commander, Marshal Ignacio Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish: a useful replacement for George given that, if the general does have to take to his bed with the plague, he really doesn't have far to go. There is a general air of jollity and levity in the air that is rare in Mittelheim. Normally, these are drowned by the stench of the actual air. Reflecting this positive atmosphere, Cavandish has washed his nightgown and he has even put it back on again. As the troops tramp by, the marshal's staff officer, Captain Fabius Nitzwitz, engages him in conversation.

'Splendid, sir, splendid! What a splendid day! The war is well and truly over. I suppose my lord, that you will soon be retiring?'

Cavandish nods. 'I should say so, Nitzwitz - it's almost two in the afternoon and so well passed my bed time'.

'No sir - I mean that, with peace now reigning, you will be able to resign your command and return to your estates'.

'Meh', says the marshal. 'I don't think so. I find things there too confining'.

'Yes', nods the captain, 'peacetime social mores'.

'No, captain -  they make me wear trousers. It's damned unfortunate. The higher I have risen in society, the more clothes I'm expected to wear in company. It's not right'.

There are few townspeople present at the march past, the fear of the plague and accidental double entendres keeping most away. George himself doesn't mind, believing that there are few social occasions that can't be improved by having fewer poor people there.

As he finishes looking through his telescope at the last of the troops marching by, George turns to Herzog Franz, his brother.

'Excellent! Now, with Fenwickian control established over Gelderland, the name of Fenwick surely will be known throughout Europe; possibly even the world!'
Franz shrugs. 'I think that it is already'.
'What, really?'
'Well, what I mean, dear brother is that the name 'Fenwick' isn't that unusual. There's lots of Fenwicks'.
George narrows his eyes. 'What?'
'Well, as it turns out, amost every imaginary 18th century state is called Fenwick'.
'But', says George gesturing expansively out of the window, 'we're real. Nothing this disappointing could be imaginary'.
'Of course, sire, of course. I too would imagine something a lot nicer than this. Nevertheless, there are Fenwicks everywhere. All over the place'. 
'This is unacceptable', says George, striking a table with the telescope. 'Ours is the real Fenwick, not some imaginary German state. We must assert our authority. All the other Fenwicks must understand that we are preeminent!'
'Well, I could send them a strongly worded letter'.
'Yes. And henceforth, to mark our new and glorius period of Mittelheim ascendancy, we shall be known not just as Fenwick, but as the Empire of All the Fenwicks! All of the other Fenwicks will bow before us. They must tremble! Or at the very least jiggle a bit!'
'I could send the letter on headed note paper'.
'Yes, good: and use red ink!'

The Peace of Streng!

Once again, the representatives of the states of Mittelheim meet upon the conclusion of war to hammer out a peace settlement that will - definitely this time, without a doubt, would I lie to you, pinky swear -  herald a new age of eternal peace. In the village of Streng, the protagonists thrash out a settlement.

As is customary, representing the Burgravate of Nabstria is His Excellency Reinhardt, the Bishop of Munschrugge; Rotenburg continues to rely for the defence of its interests on the shrewd Austrian, Wilhelm, the Baron Woffeltop. Representing the Empire of Fenwick is the Emperor's younger brother, Franz; Saukopf-Bachscuttel places its trust in the scholar-pig farmer, Baron Albrecht Steinhagen, although he is accompanied by a deputy, the grand chamberlain, Leopold Von Fecklenburg. New to these traditional post-war assemblages are Prince Karl von Porckenstauffen, heir to the Margravate of Badwurst-Wurstburp, who is here to try and limit the losses to his state; and also Lucas von Feratu und Osterberg, brother to Voivode Dmitri of Vulgaria.

For the defeated states of the Spasmodic Sanction, the word 'negotiation' is hardly appropriate for what ensues: 'a rough beating behind the tavern' would probably be more applicable. The chief casualty is King Wilhelm Penwick-Fuppet of Gelderland. Wilhelm was placed upon the throne by Emperor George of Fenwick at the Peace of Minde, after the Cod War. But he has proved to be a lamentable vehicle for Fenwickian interests. So, exercising the power that he has accrued through the recent war, George, Wilhem's second cousin, twice removed, makes him third removed and has him deposed. Though the peace settlement makes provision for a pension and a small estate, in the event these are not required. Wilhelm, as it turns out, dies soon after in a terrible accident that involves him putting a very heavy door upon himself and then loading it up with large boulders. George announces his intention to become both imperial and royal, kaiserlich und königlich, by ascending to the throne of Gelderland as well.

For Saukopf-Bachscuttel, the usual humiliation occurs at the hands of Rotenburg. Having already lost the area of Lowenfaht, the palatinate must now also surrender the region of Suckhofen. Prince Rupprecht also losses his position as Bishop of Schrote. Things are hardly better for Nabstria. With the pleasing duckpond of Nottelbad long ago lost, Burgrave Falco must now bear the sting of the loss of the villages of the region of Krapfenberg, which are ceded to Fenwick. The Margravate of Wurstburp suffers no territorial losses, because its lands are so lamentably poor and uninteresting. But it is forced to pay a substantial sum to Fenwick.

  
There is some bad news for Vlad IX, Count of Roldova and Baron of Herzo-Carpathia, whose ejection from Roldova and Herzo-Carpathia were the proximate causes of the latest war. In an anteroom, Fecklenberg bows politely to Vlad, and then breaks the bad news.

'We've had to make some compromises', he says delicately.
Vlad frowns, his bushy eyebrows coming together like amorous caterpillars. 'What sort?', he asks with trepidation.
Fecklenburg shrugs helplessly. 'Well, you. Prince Dmitri is confirmed as Voivode; and it is he who is now also Count of Roldova and Baron of Herzo-Carpathia. You can drop your crown off on the table by the door as you leave'.
'What? You can't leave me at the mercy of Dmitri and his Vulgarian stooges! They'll come for me! You can't comprehend the appalling things that they will be able to do to me given time and a full set of cutlery!'
'Calm down, calm down, my good count! We came to an arrangement with the Vulgarians. You won't leave these negotiations empty-handed'.
'You mean I'll get a pension and a palace?'
'No, you'll get a twenty minute head start'.

Rumination!

And so, the War of the Spasmodic Sanction grinds to a halt like a wheezing sloth with a hangover and an empty diary. The various armies disperse to winter quarters, except for Wurstburp, where their army is simply dug up and reburied a bit nearer home. Now, with peace negotiations imminent, it is incumbent upon the governments of the various protagonists to consider carefully their strategies for the forthcoming diplomatic battle.

(Above) At Schloss Tanvaund, Leopold Von Fecklenburg, Prince Rupprecht's Grand Chamberlain stares over the battlements, ruminating on the current situation. For the states that comprised the Spasmodic Sanction, these are troubling times. Now defeated, it is likely that they will be sorely punished by their recent adversaries, the forces of the Vulgarian Convention. The chamberlain has decided, with due trepidation, that there is nothing for it but to try and discuss with Prince Rupprecht the plan of action to inform the peace discussions that will soon begin in the Gelderland village of Streng.

Truthfully, there are worse places to be in the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel than Schloss Tanvaund. The hunting lodge does at least have a bath, a facility so little used by others that it often affords the chamberlain some much needed privacy. In that vein, the lodge also sports the very latest in indoor comforts - a drop garderobe (above). Prince Rupprecht spends much of his time here, since it combines for him the functions of water closet, filing cabinet, and evening entertainment.

(Below) Having run out of good reasons to linger, Fecklenburg with a sigh finally begins the short walk to the prince's chambers. Surprisingly, once there the chamberlain finds Rupprecht animated and thoughtful. Defeated in war, with vultures circling his kingdom, Prince Rupprecht is busy considering long and hard a pressing problem.
'Should I have sausage or bacon for breakfast' he asks his chamberlain as he arrives.
Fecklenburg sighs. 'I am moved lord that you should trust me so much that you would seek my guidance for so weighty a question', he says.

'What am I talking about!' continues the prince. 'It's a ridiculous question under the cirumstances!'
'I must agree, my lord, given our defeat and ...'
'I'm the prince!' chortles Rupprecht. 'I'll just have both!'

The chamberlain is forced to wait as the prince works his way through his breakfast.

'Look at this!' says Rupprecht. He points to something long and spiral on his plate. It looks a little bit like the prince is eating a snake, a conclusion that, this being Mittelheim, is only probably not true.

The prince points. 'It is English, Fecklenburg - it is known as a Cumberland sausage'. 
The chamberlain pulls a face. 'English food - is that wise sir?'
'There must be some things about England that you like, chamberlain'.
'Yes, sir - leaving'.
'Well your suspicions here are unwarranted. See: a huge sausage covered with lots of bacon. What's not to like. It's pork, taken to the limit. I love it'.
'Indeed, sir - I can see your lardon'.

In relation to the defeat of Bachscuttel in the latest war, Rupprecht has already gone through the seven stages of grief: denial; pain; blame; cakes; sausage rolls; opera; and executions. He is therefore surprisingly phlegmatic in his view on the forthcoming diplomacy.

'Have you the arrangements for the congress?' he asks.
'Indeed, sir: we are to meet in the Gelderland  village of Streng, where negotiations will begin'.
'And you are clear about our objectives?'
'Indeed sir. To quote my instructions from you: "It was all Nabstria's fault. Punish them instead"'.
'What are we likely to lose?'
'I fear, my lord, that Rotenburg will take another bite out of us'.
'Where will they bite us?'
'Our eastern nether regions, I'm afraid'.
'That's fine. They are all halfwits and drunkards'.
'It is your family's ancestral homeland, sir. And we'll also lose the Bishopric of Schrote. Reperations also are inevitable'.
'As long as they keep their hands off my porkers'.
'I think that to be highly likely, sir, whatever they turn out to be'.
'And I want that war criminal'.
'Herr Plugg, sir, the Gelderland engineer?'
'Yes - I want him executed for war crimes. The detonation of pigs must surely be against the laws of God and man'.

Finishing his sausages and bacon and moving onto coffee, the prince relaxes (below).



'And what of Emperor George?' asks Rupprecht.
The chamberlain considers this matter carefully. 'Rotenburg and Vulgaria are easy enough to guess, my lord. But George of Fenwick is more difficult. He is an enigmatic man, sir. A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside a rudely shaped pie. Rumour has it, though, that he will seek to unseat King Wilhelm of Gelderland, a man who has proven to be anything but pliable. I suspect that he intends to abdicate the throne of Fenwick in favour of his son, Joachim, and to become King of Gelderland himself!'.
'Choke my chipolatas! Batter my bratwurst! Can it be so? When have we seen such a thing!'
Indeed, sir, it is nothing short of a revolution ...'
'I'll say - look! This is tea not coffee!'
He looks on dispiritedly as Rupprecht pants, red-faced, licking his napkin furiously.
'Holy hotdogs, let as have no more change such as this!' gasps the prince.
'Are we talking sausages or high politics, my lord? Because it's often so difficult for me to tell'.
Rupprecht slowly considers this. 'Both, I think. We need to take radical action. First, beat my chef. Second, we must respond to this challenge to the balance of power in Mittelheim. With George in control of both Gelderland and Fenwick, he will be unstoppable! He will be able to bully, threaten, steal, nip, tweak, jiggle and slap the rest of us as much as he likes!'
'My thoughts also, sir. We must find allies! We must balance! Deter!'
'What? No. We must ingratiate! Wheedle! Oil! Lubricate! We need to get right behind George - with an ally like him, there will be no end to the small-minded cruelties that we can inflict on the weak and incapacitated!'
Fecklenburg nods. 'I am always uplifted, sir, by the scale and breadth of your vision for our country'.