Over the Seas to Pie!

'What ... what in God's name is this?' asks General Unpronunski, his eyes wide with horror.
Lady Flora gestures. 'The first step in creating our new Bonnie Prince Charlie! What every pretender first needs is a throne - and behold, here it is! And here we shall create for Wilhelm his new court in exile!'
'My lord, this is just what the troops need!', adds Lord Duncan de Sordelay. 'A new cause to believe in!'
Unpronunski stares at the throne with horror. 'The Margrave is literally going to shit himself when he sees this', croaks the general. 'Shit himself. We'll have to order in more chamber pots of extra size - import them, probably - just to hold all of the shit that the Margrave is going to produce when he sees this festering skull-seat of doom'.

Lord Duncan seems disappointed. 'Is it the little skulls on the hand rests? Is it too much?'
The general slowly shakes his head. 'Well, I'd be lying if I said that the little skulls on the hand rests weren't an area of concern. But I suppose what really worries me are all the things that are more worrying than having little skulls on the arm rests. I mean, the bag of skulls on the side, that would be another area that would give any reasonable onlooker some cause for concern'.

'Do you not think, sir', says Lady Flora, piqued, 'that it might be that you have just not simply embraced the fruitful expansiveness of  our creation here?'

'My lady', says Unpronunski, 'one would think that just having to utter the phrase 'the throne has skulls on the hand rests' would be a bit of a red flag for any item of furniture created during the Enlightenment. So, you can imagine my disquiet that those skulls are only one, and not even the most immediate, of the problems that I have with this piece of royal furniture that you have had created'.

'Such as?' says Lord Duncan, clearly annoyed.

'Well', says the general pointing, 'for one thing, there's the gigantic horned skull right at the top! And then there's ... the other things'.

'I tried to accessorise ...' says Lady Flora.

'Chains?' asks the general. 'Pointy metal bits? This isn't a throne - it's some kind of macabre cross between a garden water feature and a mortuary. I mean, what kind of self-respecting throne has a place to ... hang one's skulls?'

Lady Flora pouts. 'Without a throne, there can be no court in exile; and without a court in exile how can Wilhelm be our new King Over The Water'.

'But he isn't over the water', says Unpronunski, exasperated. 'He'll be right here on this water feature, eating biscuits and twiddling with his skulls'.

There is an awkward silence.

'Although', says the general, suddenly brightening, 'although, perhaps he could literally be our King Over The Water. We could send him away. A long way away. He could be our King Over a Vast Distance of Water With Very Poor Ferry Connections'.
Duncan snorts. 'That's not going to work. It's not even remotely credible'.

Unpronunski sighs deeply. 'No, you're right. No one will believe that any boat he was in would actually float'.
Lady Flora nods. 'He'll have to use a bridge if he wishes to traverse water features'. 

'Well then', says Lord Duncan expansively, 'Wilhelm: the King Over The Bridge!'
'Not any bridge I've seen!' scoffs Unpronunski. 'He'd have to be The King Over The Specially Reinforced Bridge. And that doesn't scream 'unfulfilled royal destiny' to me: unless that destiny is to prompt higher health and safety standards for key transport infrastructure'.
Duncan claps the general on the back. 'Don't worry: it's all going to be fine, General. Soon, you will be commanding an unstoppable horde of enthusiastic Jacobites!'

The general frowns. 'Can they be Jacobites now that they are following Wilhelm? They were 'Jacobites' because they were supporters of James, or 'Jacobus': shouldn't the cause now be named after Wilhelm?'
Lady Flora thinks about this. 'The Willibites?' she suggests.
'No, that won't do', says the General quickly. 'What is his middle name?'
'Titus', replies Lord Duncan.
 Unpronunski nods slowly. 'Fine, Jacobites it will remain, then'.

After some additional desultory conversation, Lady Flora and Lord Duncan leave.

Unpronunski remains, lost in his thoughts, cutting a lonely figure.
'The Margrave', whispers the general, staring at the throne and shaking his head. 'Shit. Everywhere'.

Speed Bonnie Bloat!

'No! This cannot be! King Wilhelm is alive?' says General Antonin Unpronunski incredulously. Unpronunski stands in a corridor of the palace of the margave of Badwurst-Wurstburp. With him are two other individuals.

'Even so' replies Lord Duncan de Sordelay. Lord Duncan is one of the chief representatives of the Jacobite emigres that reside in Wurstburp.

'I have myself seen him this day', says Duncan's compatriot, a young lady of noble demeanor.

'And who might you be?' asks the general.

'Why, I am Lady Flora Spreadswell, Wilhelm's companion, who helped him escape from Gelderland in a boat'.

The general frowns. 'I find that hard to believe young lady. First, he was imprisoned in Gelderland, which is landlocked: so unless the boat was shaped and acted a lot like a horse, I can't see that it would have improved his mobility much. Second, no boat with Wilhelm in it would ever float'.

'It did sink quite quickly', admits lady Spreadswell. 'But it turned out that the prison moat was quite shallow. From there I was able to spirit him away'.

'The phrase "spirit him away" implies a turn of speed, my lady, that would defy most expectations of Wilhelm - unless, of course, you put some wheels on him'.

Flora nods. 'In truth, sir, it was more "roll" than "spirit" - but the effect was much the same'.

'But ... but ...' says Unpronunski. 'But ... Wilhelm died! Everyone knows that! Inexplicably, he managed to put a door upon himself and then cover it with very, very heavy stones! He was crushed to death!'

'He was indeed somewhat taller and flatter than I had been led to expect', acknowledges Lady Flora. 'But otherwise, he was certainly King Wilhelm Penwick-Fuppet of Gelderland. He bore all the hallmarks!'

'But this is ... this is a disaster!' Unpronunski groans and holds his head in his hands. He wishes that the margrave's nephew Karl von Porckenstauffen, known as 'Bunnie Prince Karlie' because of his buck teeth, were here: at least he could then push some of the responsibility for dealing with this nonsense onto him. Karl, however, is indisposed. In continuing to embrace Jacobite fashion, he has suffered a common Jacobite injury and been bitten by his sporran. 'This Wilhelm ... if he is indeed Wilhelm ... is a dolt! He cannot help our cause! Unless the key strategic problem that we face is that we have too many scones, then this man cannot help us in the current war!' The general shakes his head. 'Have you told the margrave yet?'

'No, no, general', replies Lord Duncan, softly. 'I wished to speak to you in private first, which is why I have asked you to come here'. Duncan begins to speak in urgent tones. 'General, our latest military defeat, this time at the hands of the sodden serfs of Kurland, is proof of a truth that is making itself clearer by the day - our Jacobite troops are losing their commitment! And they are losing their commitment because they are losing their faith in their Scottish heritage. They are too long in Mittelheim. Can you not see it? The signs are there. Clansmen scorning their kilts in favour of lederhosen; respectable highlanders urinating in chamber pots instead of shop doorways. Who now amongst them has ever experienced clootie dumplings!' 

'Clootie dumplings?'

'It is a dessert, sir'.

'Are you sure? Because it sounds like a medical condition involving painfully swollen gonads'.

'No, sir - it is very much a dessert. Probably. But Wilhelm's return as a pretender to the throne will surely evoke parallels with our dear and lamented Bonnie Prince Charlie! This is just what is needed to galvanise our Jacobite troops - a powerful narrative of unfulfilled royal destiny! All we need to do is to create around Wilhelm an aura of mystique!'

The general frowns. 'That's not going to be easy. As far as I remember, the only thing that was around him in any quantities were biscuit crumbs'.

'We have had an idea of where to start', says Lady Flora.

'Yes', says Lord Duncan. 'Now, general, come with me through these doors: I have something to show you'.

'It's not your clootie dumplings is it?' replies Unpronunski morosely.

'Not nearly so swollen', says Lady Flora, 'but quite as large ...'

Foursome!

'What are you doing here?' demands Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, hastily adjusting his clothes. 'I want to be alone so that I can reverberate'.
'Urgent news, my lord', says his chamberlain, Count Leopold von Fecklenburg.

Rupprecht's sojourn at Schloss Tanvaund has now ended, and he is back in his palace in Pfeildorf. In the light of the terrible fire that required the prince to change abodes in the first place, many alterations have been made to his palace: not least, the use of more brick and stone in its construction, in case Rupprecht again decides to try and smoke some mangos. Alas, this is not a euphemism.

'What news could possibly be so urgent as to interrupt my executive alone time, chamberlain? I've had my lunch', so you can't be announcing that'. He pulls a face. 'It's not something linked to ruling is it? Or ... what is it called - strology or pategy or sandwich, or something.' Rupprecht is not wholly comfortable with exercising the reins of government. Indeed, as a ruler, he has the same dynamism, intellect, and incisive problem-solving qualities as a family pork pie (although the latter has a rather lower fat content). Becuse of his desire to avoid having to make decisions, or do anything really, he has long opined on the desirability of more democratic forms of government, as long as they can fitted within the broad parameters of brutal, arbitrary, and uninformed authoritarianism. 
'Policy and strategy, my lord', says the chamberlain. 'The sandwich is probably for after'. Fecklenburg is suddenly struck by an observation. 'My lord - is there something different about you?'
Rupprecht nods.

'I have fallen off my base, Fecklenburg'.
'That is terrible news sir - are you hurt?''
'No, not really: I fell onto the carpet. But you know, I'm not so sure now that's it's all bad. Without my base, I have discovered a new and pleasing flexibility'.
'In a physical sense, sir?' asks the chamberlain. 'Because I should think that not having a base increases your ability to squeeze yourself into smaller places'.
'Yes, yes', agrees the prince. 'But also in a moral sense as well, which, like physical flexibility, enables me to squeeze myself into smaller places - though of a different kind'.
'Is it actually possible, sir, for your morals to be more flexible? Much more flexing, my lord, and they are surely likely to fall off completely'.

'But anyway, sir, I feel it is necessary to draw your attention to my news'.

Rupprecht rolls his eyes. 'Well, be quick about it!'

'Sir, intelligence has arrived of a most undesirable sort. Kurland has invaded Wurstburp!'

Rupprecht shrugs. 'But I like it when little people hurt one another'.

'My lord - Kurland has declared their support for the cause of Fenwick-Gelderland. In response, Wurstburp has declared war on all of our enemies and announced that they are our allies!'

Rupprecht shrugs again. 'You've said that in italics, Fecklenburg, but I don't see why it is a problem'.

'Because, sir, it means that Wursburp is on our side!'

The prince blanches. 'But we don't want them!' says the prince with concern. 'They're rubbish. They always lose, dragging their allies down with them!'

'Quite so, my prince!'.
'Can't we just ignore them? Hide behind the chaise longue when they turn up for meetings and pretend not to be in?'
'It's done, my lord - our adversaries think we are now all part of a Quadruple Alliance! A foursome is no good!'
'Well that really depends upon the circumstances', says Rupprecht wistfully. 'But couldn't we just be the Triple Alliance With One Other That We Don't Want'.
'It doesn't really have a ring to it', says Fecklenburg sadly.
'Well', says Rupprecht, 'then we should declare war on Wurstburp!'
'Sir, then we'd be at war with four other powers; allied to two; and both allied and at war with another: it's just too complicated, even for Mittelheim'.

'Gads, Fecklenburg - allied to Wurstburp: this is dark news indeed for our cause. Still, on a positive note, it surely means that things can't get any worse'.

Meanwhile, in Wurstburp ...

Merkenwig, the Final!

Alas, in Mittelheim, the choice of victory or death is so often weighted towards the latter; except in cases where 'run' or 'copiously piddle oneself' is also an option. The Wurstburp clansman crash into their Kurlandian adversaries. They bleat as they beat as they dice and they slice. The results, however,  are terribly disappointing. (Below) They fail to break a single enemy unit and they are thus forced to fall back. 

'The elephants! The elephants!' cries Horace de Saxe in alarm. 'I shall rally the troops in an attempt to prevent a pachyderm panic!'

(Below) Indeed, one of the Wurstburp units disintegrates, the challenge of charging whilst also retreating backwards being too much for it.  The remainder of Pronunski's infantry are left in a bad way: more disorganised and confused even than normal.

With Pronunski trailing behind trying to limit the damage, de Saxe tries to bolster the spirits of his depressed infantrymen.

'Fear not brave soldiers!' cries de Saxe. 'Just pop your hands under my blanket and see what I've got for you'. 

(Above, top left). Grand Duchess Catherine surveys the developments on the battlefield. Generalship is even easier than she had anticipated.

'Dammit Savvinos: if I'd known how straightforward this was all going to be, I'd have ordered Borisov to give my husband a two-handed divorce a lot earlier'.

'A two handed ...? Oh ...' says Savvinos, idly rubbing his neck. 'I see'.

'Because it seems' continues Catherine, 'that battle involves very little danger to me; and I can also piddle how I like'.

'Both important points, ma'am' nods her chef of staff sagely.

The Kurlandians continue with an exchange of musketry. Whilst one of Grand Duchess Catherine's regiments routs, the target, no doubt, of some particularly hurtful language, two more Wurstburp units fall apart (below). The Wurstburp line is now divided into multiple portions. This is always a bad sign and makes it almost impossible now for Pronunski to restore order to his force.

Pronunski surveys the remains of his forces. (Above) His infantry have shot their bolt; the bolt, indeed has been propelled far beyond any useful hope of recovery and lies, no doubt, in a piece of rough ground never to be found again. (Below) His cavalry is also in poor shape, the physical damage inflicted by their defeat at the hands of mere irregulars compounded by the shame; and also, no doubt, the loss of many small but valuable items lifted from their persons by their Cassock adversaries during the melees.

Pronunski didn't get where he is today by idleness - no, it required an altogether more focused lack of perseverance. Not wishing to have more pain inflicted upon his army; not, at least, until he himself can inflict that pain through a post-battle 'hot washup' (which is usually that most horrifying of Wurstburp experiences - a bath), the general offers his enemy the Honours of War. With a measured and stateswoman-like utterance of  'Cowards! Cravens! Suck defeat with both cheeks you tartan-arsed thistle-lickers!', the Grand Duchess accepts.

The Kurlanders win with a Marginal Victory, but benefit from having accepted Honours of War. They have also inflicted Carnage upon the enemy. One Kurlandian regiment has been broken. Both units of conscripts have gained sufficient experience that they now count as Trained. Three Wurstburp regiments have been broken, but, thanks to the special training regime adopted by Pronunski's troops (extensive bar fights in their depots), they will be reconstituted with no loss in their fighting capabilities. One Wurstburp infantry unit is promoted to Elite, as is one cavalry regiment.

However, the consequences of this battle reverberate far and wide; even to such places as the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, where words such as 'reverberate' are seldom used, and only accidentally and in contextually inappropriate ways.