Sierra (who-reviewed-on-Starman) – Your email address didn't show up! So just in case you happen to find this, please please try to send me it again. FFnet doesn't show network addresses, so if you just give me a username and the website address without a dot on the .com or .org , that will show up.
I do wan to talk to you, I promise D: The problem with not having an account or reviewing on anon is that I can't tell you these things and I need to just hope that you show up and find a response like this! D:
000
Mary of Guelders – I'm terrible at keeping up with royals, so I applaud you for being able to keep them straight. I need a timeline to deal with royalty and completely lack one… I honestly have no idea what a meeting between William and Scotland would be like and I don't trust myself to try it, especially since I know very little of William personally except what little the people around him wrote about him. The Norman invasion of Scotland is odd, because it was an invasion but it kind of wasn't. The Normans invaded, beat up Malcolm III and made him sign a treaty. Then nine years later Scotland was totally fine and the Normans invaded again, the same thing happened. And then they never really ended the invasion but suddenly the Scotitsh and the French are buds and England is trying to use that very same invasion as proof he owns Scotland? I was WTFing all over this. And it's fine, I'm shy too, but I just get lonely talking to myself sometimes so I beg conversation D: Thanks!
St Margaret – I didn't know that, but that's really cool. I'll definitely check it out. This isn't the Treaty of Abernethy (where France tries to make Scotland his feudal vassal) , but thank you very much for mentioning that because otherwise I might not have looked it up and only after seeing it did I realize missing it could have messed the entire Scottish Wars of Independence up! So thank you. I love Macbeth as well, it's probably my favorite play by Shakespeare (though not the one that gets the most intense emotional reaction. Just the most fun. Have you seen the RSC version of Macbeth? ) I think the people who placed Macbeth in the tragedy category had better revise and put that sucker back in with the histories, mmhm. (about your PS – The images of what might be Nessie carved in stone are called 'the Pictish Beast' , which I have actually heard of! Google image it. If you take into account the stylization and the change in art since that time, it is totally Nessie. )
Caledonia Roma – I'm sensing theme naming in my anon reviewers. I don't particularly have anyone in mind for the UK bros' father, but that's mostly because my idea for the nations having children is really a little bit convoluted. Basically, France is Rome's child because Rome was the one who caused the shift in Gaul to the point where the culture changed into something new and created a Gallia which was notable different from the old Gaul, so Francis was born while Rome killed his mother by halting/killing a pure Gaulish culture, so Francis was born of Gaul and Rome. Similarly, you could say that Rome is the UK bros' father since Rome caused the death of Albion/the British Isles by taking over England, thus splitting the remaining factions into distinct peoples (they weren't united in the first place, but they only really because distinct from each other when Rome showed up) . I can't really say what Rome would have thought of Scotland. Mostly just a thorn in his side of something he would get around to eventually. He really probably didn't give too much of a shit— Scotland and the British Isles in general were so far away, England was the first to be abandoned when Rome began to fall. He wasn't trying too desperately to take Scotland over. He was having some bad days around that time. (oh wow this is long, sorry) . If I wanted to stretch it and say Rome had the time to really get to know Scotland, he might have sympathized with Scotland's paranoia from growing up with a lot of war and admired his loyalty to his family, but otherwise he might actually think Scotland was kind of soft and hadn't been battered enough as a child (but Rome thinks that about every child because his own youth was pretty extreme) . I love this period, too! :D God, Rome, was such a sweet desperate douche.
000
Blahblah wow that was long.
Now let's get down to business. To defeat. The Norms.
(disclaimer – I still own nothing aside from my own OC representations of Ireland, Wales and Scotland. Everything else is Himaruya's. Except for history. That's mostly public domain. )
000
Ireland was attacked before Alba—by then, Beithe had word from a similarly battered and particularly sardonic Cymru.
"Methinks the Normans need fewer horses," the letter began,"and more dead. The only trouble I see is convincing them of that. I tried the direct manner, but it does not seem to be particularly persuasive. I saw Arthyr not long ago. He looks better for what has happened, yet I find pity for him. At least this Roman has a pretty face. It wouldn't be satisfying to punch it, otherwise."
Beithe wrote back, saying, "It is quite satisfying to punch, but watch for his right hook," and hoped Cymru assumed the knowledge was gained during battle and not a shouting match in the middle of the woods, even though Beithe's next words were, "He hasn't yet battered at my peace."
Not a week after his original letter was sent, Beithe sent another stating that he had heard word from Aodhán and there was a small group of mercenaries gathering to travel to Ireland which could easily make a spare place for Beithe. He would not reply to any new letters for a long time.
He sent his second letter off, hoping it would reach his brother soon. Then, he took his bow and arrows, a sword and a bag of rations, and walked onto the mercenary ship without a single one asking him why he— who still looked very much like a child— was so ready to go.
(One did ask, mid-journey, apparently having suddenly realized that Beithe's voice was still pitched like a child's before puberty. Beithe said he had family in Ireland, and when he heard the news he was possessed by the oddest and most urgent bloodlust a Scot had ever known. The man relented and spent the rest of the trip chuckling and satisfied. )
The sailing was smooth, and not many hours later Beithe stepped on the rocky beaches for the first time in years. He was one of the last out of the boat. By the time he was on solid ground, some of the mercenaries were stumbling around, trying to regain their land legs. Some were seasick and others scanning the foreign shores for what might have been their first time. Others, who had been in the worst of the salt spray or took badly to water stood close to the signal bonfire that had guided them to land.
Beithe spied his brother almost immediately amongst the small waiting Irish rabble. The last time Beithe went to Ireland, his brother was Áedán. This time, before he could even start holding his breath, his brother trotted down the beach and told him— with none of the flair England used or the heavy dread there was with Francia— "They call me Aodhán now, so if you hear someone call me that, don't flip your shit, okay? Just because you haven't changed your name in almost a millennia doesn't mean I have to be boring."
Beithe blinked and his mouth hung open. Aodhán grinned, took him by the shoulder and said, "Don't worry, if we're lucky there should be a few more years before Armageddon for you to catch up," and led him across the shore.
000
Aodhán hadn't changed much since Beithe had last seen him. He was still longer and lankier than all their other brothers, his bright red hair hung in limp tangles about his face, and his entire body was smattered with freckles. His eyes were strikingly green. Some of the humans in the streets parted for him as he passed, cringing and watching warily, and doubly so when they caught sight of Beithe's similar coloration.
("They know about red hair and green eyes," Aodhán said with a grin. "They know I'm not really a witch, though, so they should let you be as well." )
He led Beithe to a wooden castle and through its halls. Then, while the nobles spoke of tactics and numbers, he led Beithe aside to a smaller bedroom deep in the fort. There was a single, narrow window in the wooden wall. The rest of the room was covered with tapestries and dried grasses, as though the one who slept in the straw mattress slept violently. The floor was bare.
"I've been staying here," Aodhán said. He promptly plopped down on the abused mattress. Bits of straw stuck out of holes, and not a minute after Beithe sat down beside his brother, he began to itch.
"So you're at war with Francia, officially?"
"People're dead, mercenaries are coming in," Aodhán snorted. "It's pretty official. Huge clusterfuck."
"How did this even start?" Beithe asked. "You just asked for help in your letter. Weren't you already fighting before Francia got here?"
Aodhán paused and thought, raking his unnaturally vast memory— vast even for a nation— to come up with the story. "I'm pretty surewhat happened was Dervorgilla ran off with Mac Murchada, so O'Ruarc went and usurped Mac Murchada, what, fourteen years later I think it was? So Mac Murchada ran off to Aquitaine and asked England's king and Cymru for help, and he came back with fucking horses." He paused again and turned to Beithe, eyes wide and honest. "Do you know how fucking scaryhorses are?"
For the next three minutes, he cursed horses until Beithe was sure it would take a few years of good deeds to take it all back.
"And so Mac Murchada avenged his father's death." Aodhán was speaking again. "And then Strongbow said he would ally with the Normans, even though Mac Murchada already took over all the territory, because Francia wants me to stop getting the slaves England's selling to me and something about my church being substandard?" Aodhán paused and scowled. "And it is not. Did I tell you what they made me?"
As quickly as the scowl had appeared, Aodhán's eyes lit up at the idea of showing off whatever it was his churches had done. There was probably no way to really refuse him. He had already bounced onto the balls of his feet and scurried across the room in a blur of long limbs and red hair before Beithe had even managed a "no, I don't think so."
Aodhán came to a stop in front of a shoddily patched blanket covering a trunk in the farthest, darkest, most sheltered corner of the room. He pulled a key off of a knotted belt around his waist, unlocked the chest and opened the lid to reach in and pull out yet another blanketed bundle, this one covered in blue.
"The monks made it for me," Aodhán said as he carefully unwrapped the bundle. "A few years ago I was just looking around, staying at the monasteries, working. One liked me enough they gave me this as a gift." The blanket fell to the ground. Aodhán's grin was so wide it nearly reached his ears and looked as though his face threatened to rip in two as he held up his prize.
It was a book.
Beithe got off the battered straw mattress and went to the edge of the room to get a better look.
The covers were hard and painted green with red and gold illumination. The pages were very nearly even and each hand-printed page was covered in colored inks and vibrant images. It was not a very thick book— not more than the width of two of Beithe's fingers— but it was very pretty.
"Can you read it?" Beithe asked.
Aodhán nodded. His finger hovered just above the first intricate line of text and he read, "Ecce praecipio tibi? Confortare et esto robustus noli metuere et noli timere quoniam tecum est Dominus Deus tuus in omnibus ad quaecumque perrexeris." Once he reached the end of the verse, he looked up at Beithe and said, "'Have I not commanded thee? Be strong and courageous. Don't be afraid or dismayed, for the Lord thy God is with thee wherever thou goes.'" He paused again. "That may be a little paraphrased, but that's about what it says. I'm still not so good with Latin."
"I can't read it at all," Beithe said, still looking with interest at the vellum. Aodhán made a face, but Beithe ignored it. "They wrote a whole bible just for you?"
Aodhán nodded, the grin returning to his face in full force. "One of the older monks Recognized me. It took the monks three years to finish this. Isn't it amazing?" He closed the book gently and wrapped it once more with the blue blanket, placed it back in the trunk, and locked the trunk once more. "And Francia has the gallto insult my churches." His shoulders hunched and he snarled as he replaced the tattered blanket atop the trunk. "Fuck him."
"I heard you have amazing churches—" Beithe began to say, hoping to cheer his brother up. Before he could finish speaking, Aodhán interrupted him.
"I do," he said, his back straightening. "Come with me on Sunday. I'll show you, I've been working a lot on them. Come see."
They returned to the strategy meeting with the nobles, which lasted until the end of the week. At the end, little had been decided on and aches were beginning to crawl up Aodhán's arms. He complained about them once. The army became restless.
For a brief time they heard no new news of the Normans. Beithe found it comforting. Aodhán, on the other hand, was filled toe to tip with nervous energy and took to pacing his room until there was nearly a discernable trench in the floor.
Beithe tried to comfort him. They held each other in the night like young boys, and waited for the war to come again.
000
They went Mass on Sunday.
Aodhán and Beithe sat through the whole service in what must have been the only empty pew in the entire church— all the rest were filled with at least most of the city. The windows were expensive colored glass and the walls were covered with numerous tapestries and statues.
Aodhán sat through the entire sermon with his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He mouthed the Latin words as though he had memorized every syllable. The one time he looked up was to point at one of the many tapestries on the walls and whisper, "I made that one. There was a little while where I just needed things to do with my hands, and somehow started weaving tapestries. That was my best one, so I put it in a place it would be safe for a long time." He paused for a moment before adding, "I probably need to work on my pride problem."
Beithe shook his head, "I don't think it's that much of a problem."
Aodhán rolled his eyes.
He went to confess after the service and trotted back some time later to lead the way back to the castle. It had begun to drizzle by then. The sky was clouded over and the wind blew cold. Their bright hair was plastered to their heads and little rivulets rolled down their faces and arms as Beithe and Aodhán walked alongside each other, trying to avoid too many puddles without going too far off course at the same time. It was peaceful, and business went on as usual for a Sunday, with children in the street and splashing about.
It was almost like there wasn't a war on, and Beithe wanted nothing more than to sit in the dirty, wet street with Aodhán's head on his shoulder and a little blond boy at his side and pretend there wasn't a thing wrong in the world.
When they were almost halfway back to the castle, Aodhán began to limp.
"Probably just some fucking heretics getting drunk and raiding," Aodhán said, waving his hand when Beithe suggested he sit and rest for a while. "It's Sunday. The Normans aren't barbarians. They wouldn't dare."
A short distance later he halted all together and said, "The bean sidhe are crying."
They ran the rest of the way back to the fortress and went shouting through the halls what Aodhán could gather from what he felt, just as the scouts began to return from the field. The nobles and generals and soldiers set to work. Aodhán stumbled to his room and flopped onto his battered bed, clasped his hands together over the rosary beneath his shirt and began to mumble once more in Latin.
Beithe, however, went to the kitchen. There he found a pitcher of the previous day's milk. After a moment of guilty hesitation, he poured it into a dish which he set outside Aodhán's narrow window. He cut his finger and smeared blood below his eyes, and drew a circle in a corner which no one would notice. Only then did he kneel at the foot of Aodhán's bed muttering half-remembered prayers over a rosary which wasn't his.
Best to appeal to as many gods as possible during wartime, after all. Something he wasn't quite sure of nagged at the back of his mind though, with the rosary laced between his fingers and Aodhán's quiet muttering beside him.
Too many gods. A plethora of them. He couldn't appeal to them all in good conscience, and still claim to adhere to just one.
000
Two days later, he fought the Normans head-on for the first time.
The Irish were overrun.
000
There were three skirmishes— not quite battles but certainly a far cry from peacetime— before Beithe realized Francia was on the island with them.
The lookouts saw the Normans advancing on the camp before the morning meal was finished. Men raced for their swords and bows and lines. The Norman army advanced; their peasants sighted the camp and ran forward into the first line of Irish defenders. The Norman nobles held back, commanding their small, more disciplined factions while the Irish and their allies scrambled.
It wasn't long before the two groups clashed fully, their half-formed front lines crashing together and mostly failing to hold. In a front-on assault, the Norman bastards had the advantage. Some of the defenders fled in the chaos.
Beithe met Francia in the middle of it.
Even with his face half splattered in blood, Gaul's son was growing into something gorgeous. Beithe nearly hit himself with his pommel when he realized what he was thinking midway through stabbing a Norman in the throat.
Francia noticed him barely a moment after the Norman's corpse hit the ground. Somewhere in the background, Beithe heard his brother's cursing. Felt the rosary under his shirt. He killed another Norman who tried to take advantage of his distraction and threw the twitching body in the ground between himself and Francia.
In the span of time it took Beithe to blink the blood out of his eyes, Francia's face had changed. His teeth were barred and his sword was up, and he stabbed the twitching Norman man. The corpse stilled, out of misery instantly. Francia jerked his sword out of the corpses' eye socket and raised it up once more. He stepped over the corpse, dove down and swung at Beithe's legs, shouting.
Beithe jumped back and stumbled. He hoisted his own sword and parried the next strike before trying to push back. He nearly cut Francia's ear. Francia almost jabbed at his guts.
It was not a long fight. Beithe almost stabbed Francia through his chainmail when Francia's pommel connected with Beithe's cheek and sent him tumbling to the ground. Not a moment later, Francia's boot came down and knocked the air out of Beithe's lungs.
The world swam back in and out of focus. His eyes fluttered. His breathing was so ragged he may have misheard the words he thought were whispered into his ear as Francia stooped down until his lips were a hair from Beithe's face.
"You are an imbecile," he thought Francia said. "Believe me when I say I'd much rather be elsewhere. Your brothers are alive."
The world still swam and his arms were heavy when Francia lifted the sword up again and swiped it across his neck.
Beithe flinched a few seconds late, only registering the attack after it had passed. Still, it must have been the shallowest wound he'd received thus far— he could hardly feel it amongst his other hurts and for a moment, he thought Francia had utterly fumbled a beheading stroke.
His breath returned in shallow gasps, soon after his ears worked again. He was certain he heard properly as Francia said, "Now stay down for the rest of this battle." Then, Francia removed his foot from Beithe's chest and ran off to slay an Irishman.
By the time Beithe managed to lift himself up, Francia had vanished in the fray. Not long after Beithe rejoined the battle, another Norman appeared where one hadn't been before and thrust him in the back.
Beithe lay in the dirt for the rest of the battle, wracking his brains as to why Francia didn't simply cut his head off and keep him out for the entire battle. He came up with nothing resembling a safe or sure answer as he lay there, dodging boots and waiting for his innards to knit back together.
000
It did not take long for the situation to look worse for the Irish, so his brother's words caught him by surprise.
"I think you should leave," Aodhán said. He was curled on a rock, clutching his ears with a sour look on his face. Beithe's heart sank when he recognized the posture. The bean sidhe were wailing again.
"Why?"
"What?" Aodhán didn't uncup his ears. He had a special way of blocking out sound where he would press and unpress the little flap of skin in his ear and make each sound an unrecognizable din. He had done it to Beithe once. After the first few minutes it became painful, but Aodhán had his own opinions on whether sound was worse than discomfort.
"Why?" Beithe said more loudly.
"Because," Aodhán said, "you may not be able to get out later."
Beithe stood and said, loudly enough for Aodhán to hear through his hands, "What sort of ally do you think I am?"
"One with half a brain, but not much more," he said. "Now help me up; I need you to do something important."
Beithe made a face and jerked Aodhán upright. One of Aodhán's hands on his ears slipped and he flinched before putting it back in place. He gave Beithe a spiteful look.
"You told me to," Beithe said.
"What?"
"Nevermind."
He walked Aodhán through the roads and to the shack near the edge of the town the battles had forced them to make a temporary home. Near the end, Aodhán recovered his own legs and, despite the inaudible din in his ears, managed to show Beithe the drawer in which his precious book was kept.
"I swear, if you so much as spill a drop of mustard or set it in the mud—"
"—I'll make sure someone's taking very good care of it," Beithe said. He repeated himself once more when Aodhán looked baffled ( "wait, wait, what do snakes have to do with anything?") and wrapped the precious book tighter in its blue blanket. He removed the sack slung over his shoulder and placed the bundle in it, then tucked it under his cloak. "And they will know it is yours and if anything happens, it will be the first thing they protect. I promise."
Aiden nodded slowly, not looking very comfortable at the idea of being separated from his precious book. Slowly, he sat down and held his head more tightly in his hands, trying to block out all sound.
"They keep screaming," he whispered. "If you don't get out now, Franica might head you off. I'll be fine."
"I don't want to leave you alone in— in the middle of a fuckingwar," Beithe said.
Aodhán didn't seem to hear him, and gave Beithe a shove with his shoulder. "Get to the docks," he said. "There will be at least one boat that can get you to your coast." When Beithe didn't go right away, his shoulders began trembling and screamed, "I want everyone in Ireland who isn't fucking Irish to get the fuck out, can no one understand that?"
Beithe left, cradling the book under his cloak.
As Aodhán promised, there was indeed a boat ready to set out, the sailors just beginning to untie her from the dock. He ran up to her and cried out. The crew allowed him to jump onto the deck and sail across the way with them— all cowards fleeing their homes. Blessedly, it was a small crew for a small boat. A small number of deserters.
"There's Normans in Alba too, you know," Beithe told them.
"Aye," said one, lighting a small lantern as night fell, "but over there they aren't crawling out of the woodwork, we've heard. The Scots actually know how to fight off invaders, we've heard."
Beithe grunted and curled in a blanket he was handed, since all the rowing positions were filled. He settled his sword, bow and quiver against the edge of the boat and lay beside them. He kept the book wrapped in its cloth under his coat. The waters were cold and gray, and winter was creeping closer each day. He spent the first hour of the trip in silence.
The second hour, there was another boat on the waves. The chances of meeting another boat on the journey were steep— especially such a large one.
Something splashed in the water not a few meters away, hardly audible above the wind and waves. Beithe sat up from where he had begun to slump against the side, just in time for an arrow to whistle by his ear and barely miss the flickering lantern in the center of the deck.
They were close enough to the ship that Beithe could just barely hear the groans of disappointment over the sea. There was shouting in Norman. Another arrow whizzed by and missed again, lodging itself with a thunkin their little boat's side.
Beithe bristled. "They're playing a game," he snarled.
Another arrow pluncked into the water as Beithe knelt and picked up his bow, strung it taut and shrugged on his quiver. His sword and Aodhán's book clattered to his feet as he jerked the stray arrow out of the boat's side. The head was still intact. He nocked the arrow and drew back until his thumb was against his jaw.
He let the arrow go.
His eyes had adjusted to darkness after staring out at the nighttime sea, and they were just close enough to port that Beithe could almost see as far over the water as he could on his lands. Not only did he hear the startled shouts but the Norman ship was just close enough that he could almost make out the face of the man he'd hit.
He reached into his quiver, nocked the second arrow, and released it into the Norman's mast.
A flickering candle appeared on the Norman's deck, and Beithe heard what sounded faintly like shouts of orders from over the water. He knocked a third arrow, and waited.
He could only just make out the outline of the candle's holder. He could just make out locks of blond hair hanging wet in the sea spray, and a long, pointed profile. Beithe kept breathing.
Francia turned and it seemed that they both owned the waters. As Francia looked at the little light his men were shooting at Beithe knew that he'd been seen by the way Francia's posture changed and damn it all, Beithe kept his arrow nocked and the string pulled taught, exactly where it was going to very well stay until he drowned—
"Stop it, all of you," he heard Francia shout over the wind. He must have been to the mainland. Must have spoken to his king. Brought more troops. More supplies. More wailers and murderers— "You're just wasting arrows—no it is your faultLouis is injured now stop talking and listen to meand leave the stupid fishing boat alone—" A wave rolled over the rest of Francia's sentence. It rolled beneath their little fishing boat and Beithe had to focus on not losing his balance rather than what Francia was saying. When he had regained his balance, the archers were putting away their bows and running back below their deck, chastised.
Francia stayed on the deck a little longer, holding the flickering candle in his hand for so long it was a wonder the wind didn't blow it out. For as long as Francia stood there, Beithe held his bow steady.
After what must have been several long minutes, Francis turned and vanished back into the ship. Beithe slowly released the tension from the bow and set the arrow back in the quiver. He replaced them at the side of the boat, picked up the sword and book, replaced the sword by the quiver and bow, and slid the book back under his cloak.
The men in the boat had stopped shouting after his second arrow. They now sat silently across from him, contemplating their breathing. One of them turned off the lamp. The others regarded Beithe quietly.
Beithe sat back and wondered at why Francia had stopped the archers.
He waited for the Norman ship to appear again and ram them into a thousand splinters for the rest of the journey. They didn't come.
000
Beithe arrived home and returned to his own invasion— a horrible little dance of invading Northumbria and Norman retaliation. It took two years before Norman defense went offensive and overflowed into his borders until once again Beithe had Francia knocking on his door.
"What the fuck do you want?" Beithe asked, scowling as powerfully as he could and pushing all the other, slightly less relevant questions out of his mind.
"For you to acknowledge me as your feudal overlord." Francia said, holding up a long piece of paper with Malcom III's signature on the bottom.
"And what makes you think I'm going to listen to that?" Beithe said, crossing his arms over his chest.
"The fact that I just burst through the countryside in less than a year," Francia said. His face was unsmiling, his brow wrinkled. "Don't make me do that again. I've been trying. I've been kind."
Beithe said nothing, but took the treaty from Francia and stalked up to his court.
Seven years later in 1079, Francis shoves the same treaty in his face and they did it all over again.
000
Beta'd by crystalpurity on deviantart
Go thank her mmkay everyone?
...FFnet is much more conductive to long chapters than dA is. But this is a real long chapter. Still not as bad as other stuff I've written, though!
Sorry for all the waiting and not-talking that's been happening for a while. A lot of shit has gone down IRL. Some of which involves lawsuits which I am legally bound to not give details on. So. That gives you an idea about how much shit has gone down.
Things Ireland hates at this time period: snakes, horses, France, snakes, snakes, bad churches, foreigners. (this may be a necessary continuous checklist because his hates tend to shift around a bit)
Notes!
-How the Norman invasion of Ireland happened: A wife ran off with another man because her husband was ugly. She's returned/taken back a year later and thirteen years after that, the husband attacks the man his wife ran off with all those years ago because the Irish believe Revenge is Best Served Cold. The guy the wife ran off with is called Mac Murchada, and he's usurped and runs off to England to ask for help. England is currently under Norman rule. So when Mac Murchada asks for help from England, he gets Norman lords coming over, because England has just been integrated into the feudal system! And then when Mac Murchada finally gets his throne back, the Normans… keep coming. And that is how France starts an invasion.
-People who known what feudalism actually was will also know that the king didn't actually have any horses except for his own personal use— the nobles had the war horses. Henry II was a bit stingy with bigger fish to fry, and Mac Murchada had to wait a while before getting a declaration of friendship, but after that King Henry II said whichever noble wanted a piece of Ireland (because as in Rome, land was money) could help him out. So a couple English nobles headed over to Ireland to fight to "help" get Mac Murchada's revenge. While he was waiting, Mac Murchada managed to get a few Welshmen/Normans-In-Wales to help out, most notably Strongbow (not real name, not going to look for it) , who was apparently in pretty deep shit with England and Wales, so decided Ireland was probably a good place to settle down. After Mac Murchada usurped the Leinster crown, he died, so Strongbow proclaimed himself Leinster's king. In direct opposition to Ireland's laws. Ireland's laws which claimed the people would choose the next king. The system didn't please the Normans. So they made their own. Ireland is like "God damn you all" for the very first time. Awww.
-Strongbow's coming basically doubled the Normans in Ireland at a time where everyone wanted all foreigners— even ones initially brought over to help defend Ireland— out.
-BOOKS! Books at this time period are super expensive and time consuming to create. There aren't many of them in the world. Virtually the only people who make books at this time are in the Muslim world, a few guys in this magic place called China, and monks in monasteries. We're paying attention to the monks right now. Not all of them could read very well, so sometimes the words get messed up or they write things wrong or they put bad jokes in the margins. In addition to writing (and thus preserving) books, monasteries provided vital services to their communities such as providing schooling, acting as hospitals and offering places for travelers to stay during stuff like pilgrimages. They were mostly self-sufficient, though someone wanting to get in God's good books might volunteer to help work at a monastery for a few days a week for absolutely free. Otherwise, the monks did the majority of the work in their own home.
-Ireland is very very very proud of his churches. Even this one notoriously picky Norman, whose name escapes me, but he was very picky about his churches at this time—even this guy, whoever he was, had to admit Ireland had some pretty impressive churches.
-The paper (er, maybe vellum though. Paper becomes more prominent in Europe closer to the 1300s I think) at the end that Francis holds up is the Treaty of Abernethy. It was presented to Malcolm III (directly related to the Malcolm in iMacbeth/i, btdubs) after he invaded Northumbria unsuccessfully. Repeatedly.
- …In fact, Malcolm had this thing about Northumbria. Either that or a thing with pissing off Normans. He was forced to resign the treaty at least three times, since he kept breaking it. We don't actually know what it said except that Scotland was basically a feudal vassal and France/the Normans were its overlords. Scotland apparently just sort of ignored it until it went away and France forgot to renew it. Oh young love.
-uMYTHOLOGY/u - Bean Sidhe (Banshees) (literally "fairy women" ) are wailing women who cry when a death is about to occur in a family. They usually only wail to a specific family, and basically all of those families are Irish. Apparently there are several Irish families around the world who have been haunted by Banshees for centuries. Of course, it sucks for Ireland himself because all Irish people are his family, therefore, whenever a member of his family is about to die, he probably hears them. Now let's just pause and reflect on how many wars, famines, uprisings and purges the Irish have been through…
-Beithe sets out milk in order to appease goblins and gods, supposedly. I don't know how these things work. And the blood and circles are just a thing because there is probably at least one Celtic god who demands blood being smeared across your eyelids or something I mean come on.
000
Hetalia (c) Himaruya
Concept (c) Me
beta'd by crystalpurity