Ehrwig, the First!

Wherein the army of Fenwick-Gederland under Marshal Ignacio Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish encounters the forces of the Landgravate of Hesse-Rotenburg-Schillingsfurst, commanded by Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste..

The Bishopric of Schrote has never been very inspiring: except, one might surmise, if that inspiration was focused on ways in which one might leave. The bright sunlight that shines down upon this small slice of Mittelheim might improve local visibility, but this merely serves to reinforce how disappointing a place it is, and also, given the heat, to make it smell a bit more. The woodcut below, dear reader, shows the environs of the village of Ehrwig, one of the better, and by that one would just mean smaller, collections of domiciles in the bishopric.

What certainly wouldn't improve the ambiance of this place would be the arrival of a Mittelheim army - but, alas for local house prices, one does indeed slowly appear. Long lines of troops approach Ehrwig from the north. Slithering down the nearby road, the force then uncoils itself like an arthritic slow worm whose wife has left to spend a few days with her mother and who has been left no urgent errands to perform. By the red hues of their uniforms, this must surely by the army of the Landgravate of Hesse-Rotenburg-Schillingsfurst.

The army is in poor condition. Having advanced four miles into enemy territory, the landgravate's forces are already well beyond the limits of their logistical support, what with the pie-houses limiting their delivery radius to two miles. Still, a restful nights sleep might restore the troop's morale. Slowly, tents are pitched, fires are started, those fires  started in the possessions of local villagers are then put out, rations are cooked, and soft toys are prepared for the night's slumber. Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste, the army's commander, retires to his tent.

Alas, however, there is to be no rest! 

'Sir! Sir!' cries a figure, interrupting the Furst's repose.

'Wankrat?' groans Augustus.

 The figure pauses, unsure if this an enquiry or an imperative.

'Wankrat? Is that you?' repeats the Furst.

'Indeed sir!' says Captain Sebastian Wankrat, Saxe-Peste's aide. 'Sir, the enemy is upon us! The army of Fenwick even now approaches!'

Alarm! Alarm! Saxe-Peste issues a flurry of orders, and his army droops out its encampment like Landgrave Choldwig after a loincloth malfunction.

(Above) The Furst quickly deploys his troops. It is not a pretty sight: his army could be described as 'polished' only in the sense that they rub themselves a lot. The general now considers his options. The more attractive ones, such as attempting to flee the country dressed as a pantomime horse, are sadly not available - not, at least, until the horse costume has been cleaned. So, a battle would seem to be imminent. 

(Above) On the basis that an army should probably have a centre, Saxe-Peste deploys  the bulk of his infantry in it, including a regiment in Ehrwig itself. His musketeers are deployed in line. Quite a wiggly line, it has to be said, but at least they are probably facing in the right direction. His two batteries  of artillery are dug in, and, for ornamentation, are used to garnish the infantry line.

(Above) On the Rotenburg right wing, the general deploys three of his four cavalry units. Two regiments are deployed perpendicular to the main battle line. It is probable that these have been placed so that they have the option to commence a wide flanking movement around the nearby field. It is is equally probable, of course, that they just think that they are facing forwards.

(Above) On Saxe-Peste's left, the flank is refused - as are all offers to to volunteer for any dangerous missions. Since this flank is covered by a stream, the Furst considers this the least likely avenue of attack.

Through his telescope, Saxe-Peste watches the army of Fenwick-Gelderland as it begins to deploy for the coming battle. What do the Spartans of Mittelheim have in store for their adversaries ... ?

Principles of Bore!

In a hall at the palace of Grosschnitzelring, the Fenwickian-Gelderland top brass are about to have their intellects honed - or possibly just disinterred - by engagement with the latest in Enlightenment military science. Carl von Lackwitz, Gelderland's top military philosopher (since the only competition is Horace de Saxe) is here to impart his wisdom, supported by the newly employed purveyor of professional military education, Lady Timsbury of Somerton.
There is a hubbub of voices. There is some excitement amongst the assembled officers, helped by the fact that no ones knows why they are here. On the basis of the evidence, which is that there isn't an enemy army present, the evening seems to have most of what any self-respecting Mittelheim military officer would want - a low chance of fatalities, and a high chance of crudites.

Lackwitz clears his throat. There is a round of applause. This has been a splendid presentation, pitched at just the right level for military aristocrats. The audience starts to disperse.

'No, gentlemen', says Lackwitz with concern, 'no! There's more - you can't go yet!'

The mood in the room immediately sours. This meeting is already exceeding by a dangerous degree the audience's collective attention span. In Fenwick, the desire to reduce the chance of inadvertent double entendre tends to keep public speeches to the point.

'Gentlemen, gentlemen', continues Lackwitz', it is my great pleasure to welcome you to ...'

'Thank you very much, Herr Lackwitz', says Lady Timsbury, ' for your splendid speech; and I'm sure that everyone here appreciates your excellent analysis and amusing anecdotes. Now, there are some points that I would like to make'.

There is more applause - this is more like it! Short; punchy; and also short again. Lady Timsbury quickly summarises what is on offer this evening.    

'And so, gentlemen', she finally concludes, 'for a modest pecuniary outlay, this scheme of study will guarantee you victory in war and also, more importantly, give you some impressive post-nominals from the very best English university'.

'Oooh, Hull?' pipes up one of the officers.

Lady Timsbury pauses, just long enough to count to ten. 'No, no, as I keep saying, not Hull: all you will get from Hull are fleas. These post nominals will be from the "King's College"'.

Prince Joachim frowns. 'But I've already got a degree from there!'

'So, you have studied in England, sir?' asks Lady Timsbury with interest.

'Oh no', replies Joachim. 'Why would I want to go there? No, they gave me recognition of prior learning. Once they gave me the credits due to me as the son of an emperor, I received the qualification by return of post'.

Lady Timsbury frowns. 'And there was nothing else?'

'Well, there was the money that I gave them, obviously'.

'But not any actual study of war or science?'

'Well, there was the money that I gave them, obviously'.

'Or an exam or something?'

'Did I mention the money that I gave them?'

Lady Timsbury considers this. 'Do you have any pets, sir?'

'Well, there's my codpiece', replies the prince.

'Excellent! Well, perhaps we could enrol that instead. Education should be available to all. Now ...' she turns to the board 'let's look at some of the basics ...'

Lady Timsbury suddenly stares. 'Lackwitz, I think that you've spelled 'sequel' incorrectly'.
Lackwitz tuts. 'Dammit - did I put too many 'S's in it again?'
'No, because fewer 'S's would just make it 'equal'.
Lackwitz squints at the board. 'Perhaps I meant "sequins"'.
'Branches and sequins?' retorts Lady Timsbury. 'Are you going ballroom dancing with a tree?' She walks to the board sighing. 'Now, everyone, how would you define a clear and attainable end state in your coming campaign against Rotenburg?'

There is silence; although, if gormless mystification made a sound, that silence would be deafening. 

'Er ...' says a voice thinly, 'We wish clearly to end the state of Rotenburg?'

Lady Timsbury nods. 'Excellent. Now, what is their centre of gravity?'
'What's gravity?' asks another voice.
'It explains why, when heads are cut off, they fall to the ground' answers another.
'Isn't that because they aren't attached to a neck any more?'
There is a clamour of voices as others begin to contribute to this fascinating scientific discussion.

'Silence!' demands Lady Timsbury. 'Any talking or disagreeing with me and I shall flick your genitals with this metal ruler of mine!'
'Is that allowed?' asks a voice. 'That doesn't seem like it should be allowed!'
'Is it an English thing!'

'She is very domineering!'
Yes, as an infantry officer, I find it quite exciting. If I'd known professional military education was going to be like this, I'd have signed up earlier!'

For Lady Timsbury, it is a long evening. But, armed with professional military education, muskets, and their reputation as the "Spartans of Mittelheim", the army of Fenwick-Gelderland is finally prepared for its next military operation. The next day, after a quick military parade, kept mercifully melon-free, the army commences its advance on Schrote, where the Rotenburg army is currently encamped!

Professional Military Divorce!

Upon Minister Wormer's recommendation, Emperor George is meeting the prospective military advisor for his army, Lady Katherine Timsbury of Steventon. Having engaged in some idle chit-chat, Wormer, on behalf of the king, seeks to address an issue that has arisen as a result of a few investigations into Lady Timsbury's background.

'So, my lady, I did hear that you stabbed your husband to death with a toasting fork'.
'That is a lie! A terrible calumny!' cries Lady Timsbury.
'What a relief, because ...'
'Yes! The toasting fork didn't kill him!'
'What ...?'
'He just kept hopping up and down bellowing "Blinking flip, woman! You've stabbed me in the thigh with a toasting fork!"' she continues. 'It wasn't fatal - especially given that the crumpet soaked up most of the blood'.
'Errrr ...'
'No, the fork didn't kill him. The slash with the knife, on the other hand ...'
'You slashed him?'
'Only slightly'
'Only slightly?'
'Well, you know, it went through a fleshy bit. It was hardly fatal, although there was a lot of blood, what with me having run out of crumpets'.
'So what killed him?'
'Oh, it was falling out of the window'.
'He was trying to climb out of the window?'
'Well, I did help him ..'
'Help him ...?'
'Yes - he seemed quite reluctant to go: but I applied some elbow grease - and also some butter - and he popped right through it'.
'I suppose a fall from a window would indeed be fatal' says Wormer.
'Oh no - it was a ground floor window'.
'And it was fatal ... ?'
'Any fall from a window can be fatal, if one then gets shot through the head'.
'You shot him?'
'Oh no' says Lady Timsbury.
'Thank goodness'.
'No, that's never been proved in court'.
'So you were acquitted?'
'I certainly would have been, if I hadn't fled England in order to avoid the trial'.
'But ...'
'Innocent until proven guilty ...'
'I don't think that's supposed to apply to someone who deliberately avoids a trial ... Some, if they were judgmental, might go so far as to say that you were, ah, "on the run" as it were'.
Lady Timsbury shrugs. 'No, I just like to think of myself as really well divorced'.

The emperor steps in. 'My lady, as a Christian monarch, whilst I would never condone violence, I am sure that allowances could be made, especially if what you are offering us is especially useful'.
Lady Timsbury nods. 'Well, Your Highness, what I can offer is guaranteed victory in your coming war'.

The emperor considers this. 'Guarantee it? Are you sure? Because that is quite the claim'.

'I can give you the very essence of victory', says the lady. 'It is called "professional military education", and I can offer a course provided by the very best English university'.

'Hull?' asks Wormer, with a measure of awe.

'Almost as good', replies Lady Timsbury. 'It is known as "The King's College". And I can start delivering it immediately'.

'And it will be cheap and well designed?'

'Did I say that I can start delivering it almost immediately?' replies Lady Timsbury quickly.
'Well', says George, shrugging. 'What harm could it do. And it might certainly help my feckless son Joachim to have some military tuition. But Wormer, will our officers accept advice from a woman?'
'If she brings her toasting fork, I expect they will, my lord. Besides, we can bring in that fellow Lackwitz as well. He can notionally be in charge, but if the lady here does most of the speaking, then that might work'.

George nods. 'Excellent - then let us have some of this "professional military education", then'.

Brazen Hussey!

Emperor George's angry surprise is not altogether unwarranted. In Fenwick, where sensitivity to double entendre makes even a milk jug a dangerously ambiguous item, the situation that confronts him is only one 'Fnar' short of a major crime scene. Joachim is wearing his Kurlandian codpiece; although, given the size of this conspicuous cucumber of cupidity, it would be just as accurate to say that the codpiece is wearing him. To his front, a lady of questionable station has her leg propped up against a chair: whether she is limbering up, or just airing herself, is unclear - and also, for the purposes of Fenwickian double entendre, largely academic.

'Brazen hussy! Painted Jezebel! Slobbering, sweaty, boudoir-beast of unholy co-joining!' cries the Emperor.
'I aint done nothin', sir!' says the lass plaintively.
'Not you! Him!' says the King, pointing, which he does often, towards Joachim.

'No father: there is no salacious intent here!' responds Joachim. 'Lisalotte is just doing her cool-down routine after helping to fit my codpiece!'
'Bah! But why must you wear this appalling item, Prince Joachim?' asks George. 'It is both upsetting and impractical. I've seen the problems that you've had turning around in doorways. And then there was that accident with the mangle ...'

'I am just expressing my individuality!' says the prince earnestly. 'I tire of the fusty, frumpery of Fenwickian fashion; the constraining conservativeness of our constumery; there has to be more to life than this!'

'By "this" I take it, son, that you mean "a life of privileged luxury amongst the aristocracy"'.
'Indeed, father - my life needs more meaning!'
'Well, I could meaningfully cut your allowance ...'
'What would be the point, father?' replies Joachim quickly. 'Money wealth and luxury mean so little: so I may as well keep them all. No, my codpiece is symbolic of my struggle against the system!'
'If by "system", son, you mean "getting up in the morning" then I can say with confidence that you are already strongly engaged in that struggle'.
'No, father, I mean the struggle against the man!'
'The man that tries to get you up in the morning? Because as I've said, you are already struggling quite a lot against that'.

'It is important that I should discover myself!'

'I have discovered more than enough about you this morning, Prince Joachim'.

'Father ...'

The Emperor gestures decisively. 'No more of this! I shall do nothing but find a larger barge pole with which to touch this issue'.

Minister Wernar von Wormer enters the room.

'This isn't what it looks like is it?' he asks with concern.

The Emperor snorts. 'Apparently it's fine: this young lady was just helping him handle his  ... appliance'.

Wernar nods. 'So, it's exactly what it looks like, then'.
'Alas, yes, minister. But at least he is on time, even if he is off-putting. Which leads me to the reason for this meeting. I need to be crowned King of Gelderland. That means I need Bishop Baldwin, and I need to get to Schrote cathedral!'

The minister nods. 'Schrote has been occupied by Rotenburg troops, lord. But I think that we can direct our army to deal with that problem'.

Joachim nods, trying to appear useful. 'Our troops are unbeatable, father: the Spartans of Mittelheim; sucked by wolves, they say'.
'I think that's "suckled"', says the minister.
Joachim considers this. 'Yes, now I think about it, that would make more sense'.
'The real problem', says George,  'is going to be getting hold of Baldwin. We will need to give that a serious think'.
'My lord', replies Graf Wernar. 'I might have something, or rather someone, who could help provide us with a solution'.
'Really? How?'
'They have experience, sir, in planning and military theory that might help us'.
'It's not Horace de Saxe is it ...'
'No sir, someone better'.
'That doesn't narrow things down very much. That would be anyone, or mostly anything, at all'.
'Indeed sire, but with your agreement, I shall arrange for her to meet you'.
'Her? This already sounds dubious. But, whatever, it can't hurt to speak, I suppose'.

Challenge!

Meanwhile, in Fenwick, Emperor George is digesting the latest news from Wurstburp.

'Wilhelm! Alive! Disaster! My position on the throne of Gelderland is precarious!'
His minister, Graf Wernar von Wormer, nods. 'Indeed, sire - that fatso Wilhelm did bend the legs quite badly, so that's no surprise it's difficult to sit on'.
The Emperor points at Graf Wernar - something that he often likes to do. 'This is no time for funnies, minister. How is it possible that Wilhelm survived?

The Graf bows. 'My lord. That is not entirely clear. By all accounts Wilhelm's 'accident' was fairly terminal. Those who, ah, 'helped him' accidently put a door on himself and pile it high with very heavy stones were quite clear about the success, ah, I mean 'tragically terminal consequences', of it: the size of the door; the weight and height of the pile of stones; the flatness of Wilhelm in the aftermath.
The Emperor's eyes narrow. 'So, this might be a pretender to the throne, then?'



The minister nods. 'My lord, it is not impossible. His actual survival in his battle against the door I would judge to be highly unlikely'.
'But who would be able to pretend to be Wilhelm?' asks George. 'I mean, he was very distinctive in terms of his physique'.
Graf Wernar considers this. 'There are, I believe, certain kinds of wildlife that might be of an appropriate size, sire. The right walrus, in the right size of elasticated breeches, might be sufficient, certainly in terms of intellect and table manners, to fool the casual observer'.
'Who would look casually at a walrus in a pair of elasticated trousers?' asks the Emperor.
'There is that, sire. But, to be fair, if Wilhelm did survive, then he is likely to be very different in looks from the fellow everyone remembers'.
'Taller and flatter?' asks George.
'Yes, lord. And also headless'.
'Headless?'
'My lord, I pride myself on my thoroughness. So, after Wilhelm accidently ended up under a door covered with stones, he then, trying to extricate himself, mistakenly cut his own head off. All very sad'.

The Emperor nods, considering his minister's words. 'Hmm, then I think that we can conclude that whoever this pretender to the throne is, it probably isn't Wilhelm Penwick-Fuppet'.
'Assuming, sire, that the Wilhelm Penwick-Fuppet that ended up as a horizontal door-stop was indeed Wilhelm Penwick-Fuppet'.
'So, the fellow who died might have been an imposter? Wouldn't an imposter have been noticed?'
'Well sire, it was quite dark and he did have a door on him'.
'But they cut his head off!'
'I assume it was his head, sire'.
'You assume? Well what else might your fellows, ah, I mean 'cruel fate', have cut off?'
'In retrospect, sire, I do worry'.
'Well, did what was cut off have a nose on it? That could certainly be taken as some measure of evidence!'
'Alas, lord, in that I was remiss. I did assume that the order to 'cut off his head' would logically be applied to that part of Wilhelm that was above the neck and that had a nose on it. But I suppose in retrospect, that wouldn't guarantee against the eventuality that the nose and attached extremity might not, in the first place, belong to Wilhelm'.

'Minister, we need to have more intelligence on this situation! Instruct our Chief of Police! I want our spies and informers to give this issue their fullest attention! We need to know if the fellow that everyone is now claiming is Wilhelm is a fraud, or if Wilhelm managed to escape from prison before his accident. If it's the latter, how did he escape? Because it can't have been a quick job. It would have taken him weeks just to get out of the window!'

With that, George walks along the corridor to a nearby door and throws it open. The Emperor's eyes goggle.
'What in God's name is going on!'
'Aaah!' cries his son Joachim. 'It's not what it looks like father!'

Ch-ch-ch-changes!

In Schloss Feratu, capital of Vulgaria, Prince Dmitri Feratu-Osterberg is processing some unwelcome news.

'And you're sure - you're absolutely sure, Loon - that I have to marry her?'

Count Arnim von Loon, Dmitri's major-domo, nods sadly. 'You must take a wife to solidify your position on the throne of Vulgaria, my lord. And the Countess Carmilla is from one of the most ancient of the Voivodate's families'.

The prince nods sadly. 'Did I hear aright that all of the old Voivodina's of Vulgaria have been named Carmilla?'

'That is so, sire. What are the odds? And indeed, from the paintings that I have seen in the palace, they all bear quite a remarkable resemblance to one another'.

The Voivodina Carmilla: 'What? Have I got
 something on my face?'

'What are the odds of there being Voivodinas who look very similar to one another and have exactly the same name?'

'Not high, my lord. But then, you became Voivode, and the odds of that weren't terribly high either'.

'That's true, Loon'. 

'And in any case, my lord,  it would be impossible for any single woman to hold the position of Voidodina for centuries. Why, she would have to be immortal, and survive by faking her own death and then returning under the cover of being her own successor'.

'How would one survive for centuries in that manner?'

'I have no idea sir', replies Loon. 'Unless, of course, she sucked the blood of the living in order to sustain her own unnatural existence; damned for eternity; soulless; Lucifer's minion'.

Dmitri stares at Loon.

'But I really don't think that that is very likely, my lord', Loon adds hurriedly.

Dmitri nods, relieved.

Outside, wolves howl.

'So I'm afraid sir that you must get married. I'm sure today will be the happiest day of your life'.

Dmitri frowns. 'But the wedding has had to be postponed!'

'Exactly, sir. Who would have thought that the Voivodina's wedding throne would have been snapped up by a mystery buyer in Wurstburp?'

'It's probably just as well, Loon', says the Prince ruefully. 'The lady Carmilla has a  ... particular taste when it comes to interior design'. 

'Another uplifting summer
in Vulgaria'

'Indeed, sire. Her redecoration of the palace has not, if I might make so bold, necessarily improved the ambiance'.

Dmitri nods. 'Unless the ambiance that she has been seeking is "mausoleum chic". And there's that fellow of hers - what's his name?'

'Dhampir, sire. Her loyal retainer'.

'About the only thing he retains is a strange smell, Loon'.

'I fear, sire, that you will be seeing quite a lot more of him. I don't think that the Voivodina-to-be likes me or your other ministers'.

'I'm sure that it will all turn out for the best, Loon'.

Outside, the wolves howl again, mournfully.

 

Throne!

General Unpronunski is once again in the company of Lady Flora Spreadswell. Having had some little time to ruminate on the recent news that has been revealed to him, he has come into the possession of some information that he thinks requires a discussion with his Jacobite colleague. Lady Flora has entered the room, and is now holding her nose and coughing.

'My lord, what is that terrible smell?'
The general points to a large cauldron in the corner. 'That would be the Margrave's comment on what he thinks of your plan. It turns out that I underestimated his anger and overestimated the quantity of chamber pots that were to hand. We had to improvise'.

'Whatever is in there is a nasty colour ...' says Flora, gagging.

'An indication, I think, of just how angry he was', replies Unpronunski.
'He was not, then, as enthusiastic as we might have hoped about the plan to establish Wilhelm's court in exile?'
'No', says the general, 'he was not enthusiastic. Or at least, he was not enthusiastic about that. He was, however, very enthusiastic about a range of other things, most of which involved stretching, cutting, kicking, pinching, or pulling parts of Lord Duncan. Parts that his good lady wife might miss'.

'However, madame, of more direct importance, I wished to question you about this', he opens his hand and displays a paper tag with a length of string to it. 'It was tied to the back of the throne'.
'Oh ... really?' says Lady Flora, trying evidently to seem nonchalant, but her voice coming out ever so slightly higher than normal. 'Whatever could that be? I have never, ever seen anything like that before, ever.' she concludes. 'Ever'.
'Really madame?' replies the General, one eyebrow arching slightly. 'Well, that is a surprise. Because on one side, this tag has written upon it: "Throne: used but good condition; slight rubbing at the edges: discount for pick up". But on the other side it has written upon it: "Sold to Vulgaria: deliver on Tuesday'.
'Oh, really?' says Lady Flora, her voice now even higher.
'Yes', says the General. 'But then, that has been scribbled out, and the following appended: "Sold: Lady Flora. Deliver Wednesday. If not in, leave in safe place"'.
'Well', says Lady Flora, shaking her head. 'I can't imagine what that is all about. I certainly would have remembered if I had gone shopping and bought a skull throne'.
'Well, my lady, have a think. Because, to the casual observer, it might seem that, far from creating this seat of power from scratch, you have taken Lord Duncan's money, bought a cheap Vulgarian knockoff, reduced in price, no doubt, because we are now at war with the Vulgarians so it probably can't be sent to them, and then passed it off as a new and imaginative furniture creation. With accessories'.

'Oh no, general', says Lady Flora, loosening her bodice. 'That cannot be so. But, is it me, or is it getting rather hot in this room?'

'No, Lady Flora', replies Unpronunski, 'it is, in fact, quite chilly in here, but then ... hang on ... ah, my lady, you don't seem to be wearing any ... You know what: you're probably right ... it's all just a mistake ... I mean, why would the Vulgarians suddenly need a skull throne. Perhaps I could warm my hands up, and then ...'

'General!' says Lady Flora, 'Perhaps you can help me: because it seems that my corset has fallen off ...'

'I'm just the man for such an emergency', says the general. 'I mean, what's a skull throne and the return of a long-dead ex-king between ... ah... friends. I mean, as long as Wilhelm's return hasn't also brought back his confidante - that Spanish rake Adolpho Don Pajero de Penguino ...'

Lady Flora nods sadly. 'I've got something to tell you. First, warm your hands up, but then, I've got something to tell you, and you might want to empty that cauldron before I start ...'