"O'Farrell was mighty man,
Whose power was the Lord.
His faith it was his armor,
The Gospel was his sword."
--"Daniel O'Farrell's Army", (Trans. Robert Wilde)
traditional Irish Originalist Hymn
1555--Part 1
--As the year begins, Spain is forced to sheepishly acknowledge that it is now bankrupt. To the surprise of all, France winds up acknowledging that it is also bankrupt, the ever-mounting war costs having sapped its funds. [1] And with that the great Hapsburg-Valois war stalls. The mighty armies of France and Spain pause in their fighting, lacking the money to go on. While a few of their allies fight a handful of desultory battles, especially in Italy, this is on the whole a quiet time. The two mightiest kingdoms in Europe have exhausted each other. And so, despite misgivings on both sides, feelers are sent out to try and reach a peace agreement, largely on the basis that neither of nation can afford to fight any more. In every meaning of the phrase.
--In Scotland, the discovery that they aren't going to be paid for the time being causes many of the French soldiers to essentially quit. This has NOT been a profitable expedition, lootwise, and losing their promised payment destroys any incentive to fight they have left. This is a more dangerous action than they realize--the Douglases are increasingly convinced that this whole alliance was a mistake, and this provides just the advantage that they need to make an end of it. And quite a few French soldiers--simply put, Clan Douglas realizes that the best way to have their changing sides be accepted is to offer an unmistakable demonstration of their new loyalty. James Douglas, Earl of Angus is among those thinking along this line, and he decides to do it in the largest way possible--capturing the Duke of Aumale. Unfortunately for Angus, Aumale is fairly formidable soldier, and his personal guard are quite loyal--Angus' attempt fails badly, with the Earl being dispatched by Aumale himself. However, this assault marks the end of Aumale's ability to mount an effective resistance--the Duke, realizing that he no longer has much in the way of loyal forces, decides to flee the country. To the surprise of everyone, he succeeds, though as often happens in these cases his fleeing forms a rumor that he disguised himself--either as a woman or a priest, depending on who one talks to. Needless to say, everyone agrees it's shameful that he didn't let himself get captured and killed. Where has honor gone?
With the Duke gone, the Lords and Queen Mary are able to regain control of Scotland--though there are a few bands of French soldiers essentially having gone into banditry traipsing around the countryside, as well as a few rogue Douglases that haven't gotten the message that the fighting's over. Mary is able to stage her triumphant return to Stirling Castle, the Lords and Arthur Fitzroy with her. They've won. Now comes the hard part--running Scotland.
--Pius IV has now been Pope for five years, and the Council of Mantua has been in constant session the entire time, with no side of ending soon. Indeed, there are increasing rumors that Pius plans to make the Council a permanent body, the Papacy's answer to Sorbonne, as well as the fulfillment of the long-standing dream of the so-called conciliar Catholics. Cardinals come from Italy, from Germany, from Spain, and yes, from France, to discuss Church Doctrine in a surprisingly open atmosphere, with no fears of any Papal shenanigans regarding dioceses. 'There are no nations here' writes the newly minted--and very idealistic--Abbot Carlo Borromeo.[2] 'There is only the Church, and those who wish to serve her.' Borromeo's gushings aside, most of those involved in the Council are in fact growing increasingly enthusiastic about its direction, and uniting under what historians will call the Pietian Program. Pius favors a largely internal approach to the Counter-Reformation, working on ending the abuses that result in most Protestant complaints, while creating a doctrine flexible enough to appear sympathetic to Protestant aims, while rebutting most of their theological stances. Protestants themselves are to be left alone if they keep to themselves, arrested and then dealt with by secular authorities if they cause trouble. And here is the cagiest, most subtle part of Pius' plan. People who have had doubts, who have questions are coming to understand that this is all right, as long as certain reasonable parameters are kept to--and Protestantism is increasingly looking like the place for those who simply won't stay in those perfectly legitimate boundries. In Italy, where it will be followed most faithfully, the results are definite--Protestantism becomes viewed as fanatical and disruptive, while the Church is seen as thoughtful and tolerant.
But there is the rub. Pius must rely on secular authorities to achieve his ends, and not all see the wisdom of his far-sighted approach. Most notably, Philip of Spain and Henri of France both favor dealing with heretical Protestants more violently, and Pius is unable to do anything but advise a more tolerant course. Philip will adopt the Council's rulings piecemeal, based on whether he approves of them or not--Henri will most often not adopt them at all. And then there is the matter of the German states, the wellspring of the Protestant faith. They simply refuse to reform, citing ancient privileges, and thus remain a horribly corrupt cesspool. German bishops and archbishops are elected by their church councils, and thus are dominated by incompetent, loose-living noblemen, most of whom keep concubines on the side. The victory of the Lutheran Church--or increasingly, Churches--is due to this. People see the well-trained Lutheran priests--almost always happily married--compare them to the local bishop, and gradually, they become Protestants. Pius knows that this could be turned around if some of the old practices could be changed, but there is little he can do--at least not without violating the carefully constructed image of neutrality that is making Mantua work. He needs allies in the German Principalities, but they're scarce on the ground. The Austrian Hapsburgs are the closest thing he has, and they remain suspicious of a Pope they have no hold on, as well as highly uneven in their approach to Protestantism. Where numbers and custom restrain them--such as Bohemia or Royal Hungary--they are fairly tolerant--but where they have a free hand---such as Tyrol or Carinthia--they are merciless. With a situation like that, Pius acidly notes to his allies, he sometimes feels that the Lutherans are welcome to the damn Empire. Or at least the German sections of it.
--In Prague, the city to which he has returned after a long absence, Archduke Ferdinand II has yet another daughter--his fifth, named Maria. His marriage to Maria of Spain is fairly unhappy now--Ferdinand has no love for his wife, and she has little for him. He performs his duties as a husband as he performs his duties as governor of Bohemia--competently, but mechanically. About the only things he seem to enjoy are his art collection, and the occasional witty letter from his cousin Charles about the going-ons at the Spanish Court. And so goes the life of Ferdinand--a man who has everything, and nothing.
--Turning to Vienna, and the Archduke's father, the Emperor Ferdinand finds himself in a tangle. Like much of Christendom, he was gladdened to hear of the Schmalkaldic League's successful taking of Esztergom two years ago, the first significant offensive victory against the Turk in... well, a while. True, he still wound up paying off Suleiman, but NOT as much as he'd thought he'd have to. Plus--another city for Royal Hungary. Always nice.
At least, so he thought. But much of the League is rather unwilling to hand the city over to him. Not only did they fight for it, with John Frederick I, their beloved leader, dying as a result, but like much of Hungary, the city is full of Protestants, and the thought of putting corelgionists into Ferdinand's power does not fill the League with warm fuzzies, no matter how much the Emperor promises to be nice. John Frederick II is particularly adamant on it--he increasingly views Esztergom as his father's final legacy, the future starting point of the PROTESTANT reclamation of Hungary from the Turk.
And there's another complication--the OTHER King of Hungary has suggested he'd like it. Janos II Sigismund Zapolya, the King of Eastern Hungary has indicated he'd like the city. Or rather the nobles that surround the young king, which is more or less the same thing. The League is far more amiable to this idea than one would imagine--while being a de facto vassal of the Turk, Zapolya is a Protestant, even if he isn't quite the right sort. Ferdinand is, needless to say, significantly less fond of the idea--he views Zapolya as a pretender, as Ferdinand had an agreement with his father that on Janos Zapolya I's death, Ferdinand would become sole King of Hungary, which the Transylvanian nobles proceeded to ignore on the ground that they could. And so the affair drags on, with Philip of Hesse doing his level best to spread oil on the waters. Ferdinand sighs and assumes that Suleiman is laughing hysterically to himself in Constantinople.
--In Constantinople, Suleiman grumbles bitterly as his war with Persia ends. His treacherous son Bayezid remains the honored guest of the Shah, (as well as Bayezid's five sons), at least until Suleiman can pay the man enough money to convince him to hand the Prince over to be... dealt with. (Bayezid thought allying with Persia was a good way to supplant his father's favorite Selim. The fact that he thought this is a good demonstration of why Selim is the favorite and designated successor, and Bayezid is presently trying to avoid the House of Osman's traditional way of handling redundant heirs.) As is par for the course in the Ottoman Empire, the ending of one war is time to begin plotting the next. And so, Suleiman tiredly does so. He has no choice. The Last Days are coming within a few decades--he is certain of this--and his dynasty must greet them by achieving a world-encompassing Caliphate--or as close to that as they can manage. Even though he is weary--and cursing himself for his weariness. His father, Selim the Grim--the man Suleiman lives in awe of, even as his son will live in awe of him--he would not feel this way, Suleiman is certain. He never felt any regrets, any hesitation--not even when he deposed his own father, the amiable Bazyezid II! If he had only lived longer--imagine what he could have done! But he died--of a boil--A BOIL!--and Suleiman has spent his entire life trying to make up the difference. And so, Suleiman listens to his generals and advisors and plans further conquests for an Empire that is already approaching the limit of what it can hold. He has to. It's destiny.
--The Duke of Richmond's return to England is hailed with celebration--Anne from her semiretirement notes that one would think England had just won a major war. At a royal fete to commemorate both this and the signing of peace treaties with Spain and the Empire, the court enjoys a performace of Aristophanes Peace by the Fellows of Trinity College. The play is a great success, no small thanks to Founding Fellow John Dee, who provides special effects--most notably, the flight of the dung beetle. [3] Henry especially likes the play, rewarding the Fellows--and Dee in particular, who recieves a sizable purse.
--In France, Henri, "celebrating" the birth of another son, Hercule, has had one of his epic failures of nerve, watching his foreign policy collapse upon itself. He makes desperate efforts to salvage his relationships with England, with Scotland, and with the Pope.
Pius proves fairly easy. The entire point of this was to show Henri that the Papacy is not his puppet, and Pius feels that the point's been made. Besides, he needs the eternal threat of France to keep Spain and the Empire compliant. And vice versa of course. Of course, he has a few... requests to make, but Henri is in such a low state that they all seem rather reasonable.
Henry IX appears to warm to his entreaties. In truth, while he's having second thoughts about his engagement to Elizabeth Valois, he's still attracted to what a marriage to the French Throne represents, even as Emperor Ferdinand floats marriage suggestions to one of his daughters or granddaughters towards the English King. And more than that, Henry realizes that having Henri imagine that England can be lured back into a full alliance is good for the nation's security. And so he continues to appear amenable to reconciliation, even as he notes he trusts the man no nearer than across the Channel--and frankly thinks that's cutting it a bit close.
Mary Stuart--or rather, these days, Stewart--of Scotland likewise plays a double game. Scotland remains fairly disorganized, and while she has a loathing for Henri by this time which actually makes Henry's look mild, she knows that an angry France can cause all sorts of trouble at the moment. And so she smiles and nods, and pretends that of course, everything is all right, and that she knows that Aumale was acting completely on his own, with no sanction from the French Throne, and listens to Henri's suggestion that her fiance pay a visit. Meanwhile, plans of a formal alliance with England are made, and talk of figuring out some way out of that annoying little marriage contract continues.
--In Germany, two seemingly minor events occur. Reichart von Simmern is elected Archbishop of Mainz by a majority of a single vote, despite being a Lutheran. [4] Emperor Ferdinand is annoyed, but decides to move carefully for the moment--despite being an Elector, Reichart is only one of many Prince-Bishops who are either openly or secretly Protestant. The Emperor cannot afford to antagonize them, especially as most are related to the various powerful German dynasties. Indeed, finding them all would be difficult--some of the most prominent Protestant families--most notably the Wittelbachs and the Hohenzollerns--have a Catholic members and even Catholic branches floating around, that they frequently back for the Prince-Bishophorics. The loyalty of such individuals is often suspect--and yet, many are devout. It all must be handled... delicately.
The other is more obviously colorful, and yet, arguably even more indisputably minor to the casual onlooker. The Prince-Bishop of Wurzberg, Melchior Zobel is approached by two men who claim they have a message for him, and bid him to accompany them. He does so, is taken to a small forest, and murdered. Everyone smells a plot, and the most obvious suspect is Imperial Knight--and Zobel's vassal--Wilhelm von Grumbach, who has a long-standing dispute with Zobel over a monetary gift that Zobel's predecessor gave to Grumbach. This would be barely worth a moment's notice--the Holy Roman Empire of the Germans sees feuds of this sort between petty nobles quite frequently--if not for one fact: Wilhelm von Grumbach is John Frederick's right hand man. (Historians will later debate the Elector's knack to pick up questionable supporters, such as Margrave Albert and von Grumbach. Is this a sign of John Frederick's naivete? A clever tactic for a man who realises it will allow him to have servicable villains to perform actions that 'the Rose of Chivalry' cannot be seen as actively participating in? Or does the answer lie with both at once, somehow?) Wilhelm loudly protests his innocence, but this isn't the first time he's been connected with this sort of killing, and one of the two men is identified as his aide de camp. While the Elector is able to shield his prize general somewhat, Grumbach ultimately chooses to go into exile for a while. Traditionally, France would be the place for a German in legal trouble to spend some time, but as they are rather unpopular there at the moment--and Grumbach is doubly so, having lead troops against the nation--he opts instead for Denmark. And that is apparently that, at least for the moment. [5]
Two seemingly minor events. No one even realizes that the seeds of the Revolt of the Bishops and the Knights, the first event of the Second Schmalkaldic War, have just been planted.
--Turning to the matter of Ireland, the first rumors of the preaching of Donal Fearghail and his apostles reach English authorities on the island. They are startling, to the say the least. In one town, Fearghail performs the Eucharist in a field, with simple baked bread and black beer to stand for the body and blood of Christ, in a demonstration that of the rite's purely symbolic nature. In another, one of his "Apostles" rebaptises converts en masse in a river. Hearing these rumors--the authorities mutter about how mad these damned Protestants are and rush to their secret masses. Henry has taken a cautious approach with the island since the revolts, and this means that much of the power in Ireland rests with native Old English officials--who are, as a rule, Catholic. To them, Protestantism is Protestantism. They put NOTHING past these people. If these rumors were getting back to people who know their Protestant factions--well, they'd be getting alarmed.
As well they should be. Fearghail may admire Luther, but he is not a Lutheran, either Evangelical, or Reformed--nor can he be said to intellectually belong to the tradition of the Reformed Churches of Geneva and Strasburg. He has sampled these arguments, and taken from them what he wants--but ultimately, he has come to view them as weak and wanting. No, most of Fearghail's theology comes from Anabaptism, the black tar heroin of Protestant faiths. Fearghail rejects virtually the entire Catholic liturgy, replacing it with striking new rites that he feels are more scriptural, most notably adult baptism. "I shall not rest," he says "until each Irish man and woman may be restored to the original Irish Church." For this is the vital facet of Fearghail's preaching--it is highly nationalistic. Fearghail teaches his followers that the Irish were, for the longest time, the preservers of the true traditions of Christianity, until the English--at the behest of their Roman master the Pope--choked it to death. But did not Christ say that the Spirit of Truth would always be with his followers? And lo! The time of the Restoration of the Original Irish Church is at HAND!
It is a blend of history, myth, and Fearghail's rather fevered imaginings, all of it bound up by a very extreme Protestant doctrine. And it is spreading--though the Irish Originalists' later claims undoubtedly exaggerate the accomplishments of Fearghail and his Apostles. As yet, the Originalists are a fervent minority. But they possess several advantages over the Anglicans. First, the Church of England has been a theological muddle for some time, and though it is at last moving towards a coherant, firmly Protestant position, in Ireland, this movement has been retarded. To most Irishmen, it seems as if they are being asked to stop doing something they've done their entire lives, so they can instead do something slightly different, for reasons that are... nebulous. Fearghail on the other hand, demands a complete break with custom for reasons that are clearly articulated. This dramatic change and clarity aid his cause considerably. Secondly, Fearghail's message is unabashedly nationalistic, painting itself as a restoration of ancient customs. The Irish, he claims, were doing it right when everyone else was wrong--and had to be FORCED into error by dirty foreigners. For many, there is a natural appeal to this sort of thought, especially as Fearghail throws in quite a bit of old-fashioned rabble-rousing populism into the mix. And it is delivered by charismatic and capable preachers, most notably Fearghail himself. Anglicanism on the other hand, is seen as foreign intrusion masquerading as religion, and presided over by limp and incapable prelates, many of whom don't even believe their own doctrine.
Of course, while the Originalists can beat Anglicanism in terms of appeal, that still doesn't mean that they can supplant Catholicism in Ireland. Unless they achieve something... dramatic... in the future. And, to make it clear, they aren't in a position to do anything of the sort.
Yet.
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[1] IOTL, the Double Default happened in 1557. I've already covered why Spain's bankruptcy comes sooner--France's does because they've been financing a broader war, earlier, AND the fact that they're still recovering from the earlier Italian War, which likewise saw them paying for a much broader war, longer, than OTL.
[2] IOTL, Borromeo was the Cardinal-nephew of OTL Pius IV. Fascinatingly enough, he was one of the rare competant ones, and actually became a saint. Here, a combination of family connections and dedication have put him on the fast track to the inner circle
[3] Both IOTL and ITTL, he's done this for an earlier, less prominent production. Indeed, he's actually been called up by his fellows on account of this.
[4] IOTL, he lost the election by a single vote.
[5] And so kicks off TTL's version of the Grumbach Feuds, a rather murky minor affair that settled the question once and for all of what the Wettin policy towards the Empire would be. (The answer, by the way, was 'Keep quiet, and don't cause any trouble'.) Needless to say, here, things are a bit more... dangerous. IOTL, Melchior was killed in 1559--here, Grumbach--or his followers--figure that with the Elector's protection Zobel's murder can be gotten away with. As noted, originally, Grumbach lighted off for France--on several occasions, actually, as his feud with Melchior rather regularly got him into trouble.