Sumer is Icumen In - From Vinland to Finland

[Major Crimson]

Summer is Icumen In

-or-

From Vinland to Finland

-or-

The Rise of the Ænglisc​

þe Cynigs of Ænglaland, Fram Ælfred to Halig Gram, 1260.

The Kings of England, From Alfred to the Year of Our Lord, 1260.​

Hus of Westsaex

House of Wessex​

Hus of Danskland

House of Denmark​

Hus of Ros

House of Rose​

Hus of Godwine

House of Godwin​

Ælfred I (þe Strang)

885-899​

Alfred I (The Strong)​

Eadweard I (þe Ealdor)

899-924​

Edward I (The Elder)​

Æþlestan I

924-939​

Ethelstan I​

Eadmund I

939-946​

Edmund I​

Eadred

946-955​

Eadred​

Eadwig

955-959​

Eadwig​

Eadgar I (þe Stille)

959-975​

Edgar I (The Calm)​

Eadweard II

975-978​

Edward II​

Æþelread I (þe Unræd)

978-1016​

Aethlered I (The Unready)​

Eadmund II

1016​

Edmund II​

Knutr I

1016-1035​

Cnut I​

Harold I

1035-1040​

Harold I​

Hardeknut

1040-1042​

Hardcnut I​

Eadweard III

1042-1066​

Edward III​

Harold II (þe Wyrm)

1066-1095​

Harold II (The Dragon)​

Godwine I

1095-1099​

Godwin I​

Harold III

1099-1111​

Harold III​

Ælfred II (þe Yeong)

1111-1139​

Alfred II (The Young)​

Leofwine I (þe Wræclast)

1139-1147​

Leofwine I (The Exile)​

Eadgar II (þe Blæc)

1147-1159​

Edgar II (The Black)​

Æþlestan II

1159-1167​

Ethlestan II​

Knutr II

1167-1191​

Cnut II​

Harold IV (þe Gecierde)

1191-1209​

Harold IV (The Returned)​

Eadweard IV

1209-1224​

Edward IV​

Eadweard V

1224-1247​

Edward V​

Harold V

1247-?​

Harold V​

 

[Major Crimson]

Hi everyone, this is my new TL which will be receiving updates every day and running in conjuncture with my other TL, The Red Crowns. This TL will, in some ways, begin in the middle and tell a story set two hundred years after William of Normandy is slain at the Battle of Hastings. Updates for this TL will be Monday, Wednesday, Saturday and updates for the Red Crowns will be Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday. I do however have something of a life so I may miss these deadlines however I will attempt to stick with them as much as possible. Thanks and hope you enjoy.

 

[Thande]

Nice title reference (if anachronistic as it's Middle English, but still).

 

[Major Crimson]

Nice title reference (if anachronistic as it's Middle English, but still).

Just a little bit of tactical butterfly assassination, it also doesn't help that the song in mind was written a good 200 years post POD.

Anyway, hope you enjoy, O Mighty Thande.

 

[Thande]

Just a little bit of tactical butterfly assassination, it also doesn't help that the song in mind was written a good 200 years post POD.

Anyway, hope you enjoy, O Mighty Thande.

Well, considering it's supposed to be the oldest recorded English song (as opposed to poem), you'd have trouble going back further I suppose...

Sing, cuccu!

 

[Harald Sigurdson II]

Subscribed.

 

[FleetMac]

Subscribed like you wouldn't believe .

 

[altwere]

Sounds interesting, I'm subscribed

 

[The Professor]

Intrigued.
And I'll refrain from my linguistic pedantry as much as possible

 

[Major Crimson]

Brattahlíð, Greneland
Mædmonaþ (July) 16th, 1267 Æfter Crist​

The ship creaked in port and around her, dozens of others did the same. The Port of Brattahlíð was the largest town in Greneland and her port was rarely empty. Nevertheless the Cyning Ælfred stood out from the crowd. She sat lower in the water than her single decked compatriots and her double masts towered above anything else in harbour. Above her great white sails flapped the Wyrm and Hart of the House of Godwin and above that, the red cross of Ænglaland. Greneland was a long way from the shores of the North’s biggest Kingdom but had grown used to her sailors. However, it had never seen one of it’s Princes before. In the Wooden Longhall that stood as the “Palace” of Brattahlíð, the Lawmaker sat in an old wooden throne. The man was as almost large and ancient as his seat and spoke through a great white beard which drooped down onto an even greater belly. The old Grenelander could barely have been more different than the Ænglisc Prince. Young and handsome, the Prince bore all the trademark qualities of his noble house: Broad shoulders, well crafted features and hair like gold with a thick beard to match. Wulf thought he might well be the most comely man in Greneland at present and, from what he’d seen, the ladies of the court agreed.

“You are Welcome, young Prince, to my country,” The Lawmaker began. “Ænglaland has been one of our closest partners in trade and your people are well liked in these parts.”
The Prince smiled humbly and nodded his thanks. Being a Prince of the North, Wulf was well versed in all the Norse languages, including Grenelander.
“Our land rarely graces such visitors as Princes, this is a truely momentous occasion! However, with respect, I must ask why you are here.”
Wulf smiled, “I thank you for your gracious welcome, Lawmaker Tarlan. No doubt you will have heard of your brothers in Iseland and the Norwegian yoke that has been cast upon them.”
The court murmured, many were worried by Norway’s expansion westward and feared that they would be next.
“These are worrying times, my friend, and the people of Greneland could lose the freedom that they hold dear, unless we act now.”
The Lawmaker nodded carefully. “What you say is true, Ængliscmann, but an Ænglisc King is just as bad as a Norwegian one.” Sounds of agreement echoed through the hall and the Prince shook his head.
“If Norway comes to Greneland, your Moot, your þing is gone, the name Lawmaker will be batted aside and replaced with a Norwegian Thane. It happened in Iseland and it will happen here.”
That gave rise to many in the court and the murmurs became shouts and jeers. Wulf couldn’t quite tell if they were intended for him or the distant Norwegians.

With a brisk wave of his hand, the Lawmaker returned silence to the room and, letting out a grand sigh, asked;
“And how would Ænglaland treat us any better?”
Wulf motioned to a servant behind him who scurried forward with a scroll in hand. The Lawmaker took the parchment and scanned it quickly.
“If you bend the knee and swear fealty to my father and to Ænglaland, he will promise the continuation of the þing, the freedom of the people and defence from Norway and anyone else who would enslave your people.”
“And why should we trust you?” came a shout from the back of the hall.
Wulf barked a sharp laugh at that one, “If my father’s name carries that little weight, all you have to do is look to the lords of Wales and Scotland, their Princes bend the knee to the King in Witanceaster and they remain free, setting their own laws and keeping their own Kings, the tithe my father asks is manageable I assure you.”
The Lawmaker stroked his beard thoughtfully, “I will have to think on this Ængliscmann, my thralls will find you accommodation in the meantime.”
Prince Wulf bowed and backed out towards the door, “Thank you Lawmaker, you are most generous, take as much time as you need.”

The winter wind blew fiercely through the streets of the town, the home he'd been provided with was nice enough but boredom sets in fast with a young Prince. Wulf's breath left a ghostly trial in the air and he hugged his body tight inside his thick coat. The thing was of the finst order, made of Bryten's warmest furs and crafted by it's greatest artisans. The pretty rag was no match for the frozen land he had come to. Some five thousand strong, Brattahlíð was a large settlement, especially for somewhere this desolate. There was one reason for that however and Wulf knew it. Standing on the peer of the port that dominated the town, the young Prince stared out eastwards, towards home. Somewhere out there, his father was planning another feast and his brothers would be waist deep in Soumi blood, the Crusade should be in full swing by now. Ships came in and out from every direction and Wulf glanced over his shoulder, watching a ship sail into the setting sun. Only when the distant sail had faded from sight did he realise how impossible that was. Sailing West? Wulf turned to a fisherman, unloading the days catch, the only local he could see. The man had a cross of shining silver around his neck but clothes that would look tattered on a beggar.

“Tell me, why do they sail west?”
The Grenelander’s mouth curled into a toothy grin. “Every foreigner asks me that and every time I tell them the same story. Seven years ago, a man set off west, said he was looking for the Land of Wine, said that he was descended from Leif Erikson, noble blood and that. We all called him mad. For three years, we forgot the bastard had ever existed but when he returned, he came with wealth. That madman was right, he brought wonderful wine, girls with skin the color of blood and well carved jewellery. All this came with strange fruits and stranger tales. Most fisherman follow him for a couple months a year now, better catch and less competition out west.” Wulf didn’t know whether he should believe the old man but couldn’t deny that he was intrigued.
“Who rules this land?” the Prince asked
The fisherman shrugged, “No Christian King; very few stay more than a few months at a time. The natives don't take too kindly to strangers taking their fish and fruits.”

Wulf, very slowly, began to smile. A wealthy land, just west of his father's new territory, no Christian claims and no King? It all sounded too good to be true. The mattered little, to a third son without a title to his name, this land would be madness to ignore.
“What do you call this place?”
The old fisherman looked Wulf in the eye. "Lots of men, lots of names. Vinland, Leifland, Westland, me though, I like Arcadia.”
Wulf raised an eyebrow and his guide shrugged. “First few over there called it Asgard but that’s a name in defiance of the lord. This land of bounty was given to us by God above, in his honour we should name it."

Wulf thanked the man and returned to the tavern that had become his temporary home. As the sun finally set on Greneland, the young Prince knew something had changed, he had a future now, and that future began in the West.

 

[Major Crimson]

Subscribed.

Subscribed like you wouldn't believe .

Sounds interesting, I'm subscribed

Intrigued.
And I'll refrain from my linguistic pedantry as much as possible

Thanks everyone, I hope you like what I've written do far. Obviously this will be quite a narrative TL and I understand that that's not what everyone's looking for. I think I've got a good tale to tell though.

As for linguistics, I'll do my very best to present an English tongue with a much more Danish influence than a French one. Names I'll try and do in "Ænglisc" and some titles too but all in all it might be a little bit inconsistent but I am trying my best.

Anyway, enjoy...

 

[Major Crimson]

Nine Months Earlier​

Wyvern Castle, Witcanceaster, Wyvernsfot, Ænglaland
14th Winterfilleð (October) 1266 Æfter Crist​

The great hall was full of shouts and songs, the feast had come to a close and now the real celebrations had begun. The Ænglisc were renowned for their drinking, singing and dancing and were more than living up to their reputation. Dignitaries had come from all over Europe, bridging the gap between the Northern and Roman spheres. Ænglaland had been but a minor Kingdom for many years, another title to add to those of the Kings of Norway or Denmark, a solid trade hub and fertile bread basket but never a power. That had changed when the Spring came. Saxon historians remember four distinct medieval periods, even in 1266 the division had been made. The Autumn were the first days of the Godwinsons, strong kings and strong harvests but in truth little of note once Harold the Wyrm lay dead. The Winter came bitter and hard, the cruel kings of the House of Rose, a young, Northumbrian family risen high in rebellion. The Rose Kings were harsh in their rule and though the Winter was a brief one of fourty four years, it did much to undo the good work of the descendants of Harold. The Spring came in with another Harold. Harold IV or The Returner would drive the Roses into the sea, killing off their line and restoring the House of Godwin. With the Spring came great conquests, Harold IV saw Wales brought back into the Ænglisc domain whilst his son and grandson, Eadweards both, would subdue the Scots to a tributary role. Now, another Harold sat the throne. Harold V was a handsome, popular man, keeping up the tradition of blonde Kings and jovial ones. Under Harold Ænglaland had become truly prosperous and his victory over the French in the Breton War two years prior had cemented Ænglaland as a power not to be trifled with. Harold, it was beginning to be said, was the bringer of the summer.

The celebrations took place on Ænglalands most popular holiday, Cyningsdag, the day the Ænglisc remember their great victory over the Norman Invaders at Hastings. Whist usually a large celebration in it’s own right, 1266 marked the two hundredth anniversary of the battle and the King had invited guests from all over Christendom.The first guest had arrived in September, the tributaries of the Crown in Brittany, Wales and Scotland as well as the various lords of Ænglaland itself. Minor lors trickled in slowly but it was on Obtober 2nd that they Kings began to come thick and fast. Carl and Gustav, the Kings of Sweden and Denmark respectively, had arrived together, the two were brothers by marriage and their alliance strong. Olaf of Norway arrived a day later, followed by various German Dukes. The last to arrive were the Kings of Bohemia and Bavaria, proud of their new titles, strutted in swathed in newfound regal glory. The two made an official apology for the Emperors absence, citing the elderly man’s health and hoping that they would be suitable stand ins and King Harold insisted that they were. The King of France was notable in his absence, the invitation extended to him had gone without reply and the tensions of war still stood between the two nations. The celebration was almost certainly the greatest meeting of Kings in the history of Christendom and would have been ignored by many attendees if not for the near demand of the Pope that his subjects attend.

Many speeches were given before and during the feast, all to little consequence. The Bohemians made a grand spectacle of thanking Harold for his hospitality, the Scandinavian brothers of Gustav and Carl made thinly veiled jibes at the absentee French and a million other minor nobleman gave long, dull talks on their gratitude and friendship. Things only became truly interesting when King Harold stood.

“Greetings my esteemed guests and friends. We are gathered here today as one people, one flock. I thank you all for taking the time to come here at your own great expense and truly, I can promise that you will not be disappointed with what you hear tonight. Of course, these celebrations are a momentous occasion, a true day to celebrate for the people of Ænglaland and Bryten. Two hundred years ago we proved that we were braver and stronger than those who would steal our land away and my glorious predecessor proved himself a far better candidate than Le Batard. As all of Christianity, or at least,” The King said with a smile, “All of it that matters,” Laughs swept the hall, “stands united, we must remember that all of us are servants of God before anything else and as servants of the lord, we must be servants of his Holiness.”
With incredible timing, Harold drew a scroll of parchment from beneath his tunic and all the court could see the papal seal emblazoned on the paper. His Holiness was a popular man and the Pope fit very expectation the world had of the man, except for one. The spindly man was gaunt with a great white beard and equally impressive hair and carried with him both an air of authority and a sense of purity. He was everything a Pope should be, and he was Ænglisc. Reading aloud, the King spoke with Papal voice. “His Holiness, Pope Diligence the First, does hereby declare that the heathens of Northern Europe have dwelled too long in their savagery and that the Light of the Lord shall be brought to their shores. He wishes all of Europe to come beneath the banner of Christ and has decided that this time has come.”
Murmurs began to spread but the King was undeterred.
“As such, I call upon all true Christians of Europe to call their banners and to march on the land of Pommerania, of Suomi and of all lands between.”
Some cheering began but people were still confused, why call the Kings here for this decree? Why give it to King Harold before anyone else?
“His Holiness also states that Harold Eadweardson of the House of Godwin, King of Ænglaland, Prince of Wales of Protector of Alba shall, for the duration of the Crusade, be granted the title of Lord-Commander of the Crusading Armies.”
Cries of derision at that, who was this backwater King to claim command over the great lords of the Empire?
“And,” Harold had to shout to make himself heard, “And that upon conclusion of the Great Crusade, he and he alone will have the authority to decide whom among his fellow warriors is worthy of the titles won in the coming battles.”
Suddenly, the room was polarised. Those more stupid noblemen cried out in anguish and objected to this but the more intelligent men stayed quiet, one or two even gave attempts at applause. Harold could see it in the eyes of the quiet, they knew he would dictate the future of Europe and decide who would be a part of that future. When the cries died down, the King excused himself and, looking out into the night, stared out into the dark. Harold took a breath and he looked to the future, he looked to the east.

 

[FleetMac]

Two things real quick;

-I think you meant to say in the end of paragraph one "his victory over the French in the Breton War two years prior had cemented Ænglaland as a power NOT to be trifled with." . And the other,
-You keep spelling King as "Cynig", whereas in OTL it evolved from "Cyning". Is this on purpose as a reflection of a different English?

Otherwise, I'm looking forward to more! I have to wonder what England will bring to the table insofar as a *Crusade here, but it oughta be interesting. Also, does "Albion" refer to the isle which England sits upon?

 

[Harald Sigurdson II]

How did you have the Grœnlanders retain their independence? OTL they submitted to Norway a year before Iceland.

Two things real quick;

-I think you meant to say in the end of paragraph one "his victory over the French in the Breton War two years prior had cemented Ænglaland as a power NOT to be trifled with." . And the other,
-You keep spelling King as "Cynig", whereas in OTL it evolved from "Cyning". Is this on purpose as a reflection of a different English?

Otherwise, I'm looking forward to more! I have to wonder what England will bring to the table insofar as a *Crusade here, but it oughta be interesting. Also, does "Albion" refer to the isle which England sits upon?

Alba is what Scotland was until after it's war for independence, so Albion must be Scotland.

 

[The Professor]

Literarily speaking, Albion refers to the island of OTL Great Britain, it being what the Greeks referred to it as.

 

[Major Crimson]

Ah, I can see how this may have caused confusion. I was using Albion to refer to Britain and Alba for Scotland so from now on, Scotland will be Alba and Britain will be "Bryten".

Two things real quick;

-I think you meant to say in the end of paragraph one "his victory over the French in the Breton War two years prior had cemented Ænglaland as a power NOT to be trifled with." . And the other,
-You keep spelling King as "Cynig", whereas in OTL it evolved from "Cyning". Is this on purpose as a reflection of a different English?

Otherwise, I'm looking forward to more! I have to wonder what England will bring to the table insofar as a *Crusade here, but it oughta be interesting. Also, does "Albion" refer to the isle which England sits upon?

Woops, thanks for the heads up(s). I'll fix those now.

 

[edvardas]

I thought this would be about a surviving Sumeria

 

[Zorqal]

This is good so far.. I'll be keeping an eye on this.

 

[SirCliveWolfe]

Nice time-line really enjoying it just like Red Crowns, keep up the good work!

....Two hundred years ago we proved that we were braver and stronger than those who would steal our land away and my glorious successor proved himself a far better candidate than Le Batard...

Just one little nit-pick successors come after so Harold Godwinson (who I presume he's talking about) would be referred to as ancestor or predecessor?

 

[Major Crimson]

Stralsund, 3rd Hrēþ-mōnaþ (March) 1267 Æfter Crist​

King Harold stood on the ramparts of the city and stared out, before him, almost as far as the eye could see, tents and campfires covered the terrain. That’s my Army He thought, My men. No. He corrected himself. They’re God’s men and they’re the most powerful army in Europe. He bit his lip. But are they enough?

The King was awoken from his daydreaming by the sound of harsh footsteps. He turned his head and saw, resplendent in a green cloak, flowing over an impressive blue doublet, the King of Bohemia.
“King Rudolf!” Harold exclaimed with a smile, “You’re early.”
The Bohemian smiled and the two men clasped in a tight embrace. “Couldn’t let you win the whole war by yourself could I?”
Rudolf was a handsome man, broad chested with slicked back hair the colour of oak and a neat moustache that must take him hours of grooming. He'd been apointed commander of the Imperial Forces and he deserved it, the middle aged King had a quick mind, even if he wasn't the bravest of men.
“Good to see you old friend.” said Harold. He meant it, Bohemia and Ænglaland may have been worlds apart but as children, both Kings had traveled to Aachen as boys, to be educated in the Holy Roman Court.

Rudolf stared out over the assembled forces, their banners flapping in the wind.
“Impressive to be sure, how many?” The Bohemian asked
“More than 50,000, combined with however many you’ve brought.”
Rudolf smirked, “Another fifteen.”
Harold’s eyes went wide, 15,000 men would make the Bohemians the second largest contingent in the Army, just behind his own 18,000 Ængliscmen.
“Bloody hell.” The wind picked up and Harold could see the banners oh so clearly, the Wyvern and Hart of Ænglaland, Bohemian Lions and the Two Headed Eagle of the Empire were by far the most common but nevertheless, a few blue Bavarian Lions and the odd Swedish Crown made their way into the mix.
“Who are we still waiting for?” Asked Rudolf.
“Norway, Flanders, Austria-”
“Austria aren’t coming.”
“What?” Harold was taken aback.
“Or Lombardy, Or Brandenburg.”
“Damn it,” muttered Harold and then louder “Damn it!” The Austrians were a powerhouse, their Slavic lands alone could have turned the tide of the war.
Rudolf shrugged, “Don’t get so angry Harry, you’ve got 70,000 men, all in all. You could kill every heathen from here to Constantinople with that Army.”
The King of the Ænglisc ground his teeth, “That’s precisely what I mean to do.”
That made Rudolf smile. “These heathens, that can’t be that much of a threat, can they? Their King is newly dead and I hear his sons squabble over what remains.”
“You’ve heard lies, Rudolf.” The aging man sighed, “Do you know why the Crusade was called?”
He shrugged, “To cleanse the lands of Europe? Bring God to the Godless?”
Harold barked a short, sharp laugh. “No. In truth, this isn’t a crusade. We’re not attacking the heathens, not invading to carve out Kingdoms, we’re doing this because if we don’t, they will come pouring over Europe and drown the Empire in a tide of heresy.”
Rudolf was confused, “But why not just tell everyone? Surely if they knew of the threat they would band together to depose it.”
Harold shook his head. “They said the same in Rus, but when the heathens came to each Prince, they hid in their castles and let the other’s fall. If the Lord of the Empire knew, do you think they would act any differently?”
Rudolf laughed but his boyhood friend was dead serious. “Come on Harold, this is madness! They took the Rus, that does not mean they can take Christendom.”
The sun was beginning to set and it’s orange glow flickered in Harold’s eyes.
“They rule an Empire that borders Byzantium and stretches to Poland. They come from a land beyond the horizon with an army twice the size of that,” he motioned to the Crusaders dismissively, “And they use tactics that have torn through every army that stands against them.”
“H… Harold,” Rudolf stammered, “they’re primitive heathens, there’s not way…”
“Last year, a small army, maybe 8,000 of the bastards, crossed into Poland.”
“And King Wladyslaw defeated them in battle, there has been no invasion since.”
Harold grunted. “Do you know how big Wladyslaw's army was when the battle began?”
“No…” Rudolf replied tentatively.
“40,000 men. How big do you think it was when it ended?”
Rudolf was growing angry now, “Listen Harold, stop playing these stupid-”
“Nine thousand. Nine thousand men left the field. Just think about that Rudolf! If 8,000 of them can kill that many of us, imagine what the horde can do.”
Suddenly, Rudolf was jittery, Harold could practically smell the fear.
“B..but their leader, undoubtedly a fool, not a scratch on his ancestors!”
“They call him Setsen, Setsen Khan. Many think him the embodiment of their God. From the day he was born, he has been trained to lead the horde.”
The panicked Rudolf looked like a rat on a sinking ship. “But we have time,” the Bohemian insisted, “Who knows when they’ll invade? And you’ve given us the upper hand! Yes, yes, we’ll strike at them and kill their blasted King and reclaim everything from here to Moscow in the name of God. his hand will guide our swords and his fire will cleanse the world!” The fear was gone, or at least hidden behind a wall of religious fervor.
Harold shrugged, “That was the plan, cut them off before they can muster an invasion force.”
Rudolf smiled and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “See, it’s not all doom and gloom. When do you think they’ll invade, Harold?”
The Ænglisc man said nothing but handed his friend a piece of parchment. It bore the seal of the King of Poland, already broken. Rudolf unrolled it and saw the date; February 16th, Year of Our Lord 1267. Rudolf couldn’t read the Polish but he didn’t need to, he knew what it meant.
“Oh God,” he whispered, “Oh Lord have mercy. What do we do Harold?” Rudolf looked up and found himself alone.

“Harold?”

The King looked out into the fields beyond, as the pitiful collection of tiny flags continued to wave, entirely oblivious of what awaited them in the east.