Chronicle of Plantagenet
The Chronicle of Plantagenet is a folkloric story from the Kingdom of Bosworth written in 3525 ASC in the Ford Islands (also called the Fordneys). As of 1695 AN the islands are part of Normark within Elwynn.
The Chronicle of Plantagenet
It was a blustery storm on the open seas that led to the establishment of the village of Plantagenet. A year earlier, in 1693, there arrived a group of peasant immigrants from Gaelachta to the west. The Gaels had been experiencing civil unrest, and the fighting had driven many people from their homes. As their cities burned, wagons packed with goods and children were hauled across the muddy earth to the promise of a better life in Bosworth. What they found when they arrived at the Bosworthian border was a country already packed with people, and steeped in a long history dating back to its original New Britannian founders. With few jobs available for the poor and destitute, and no money to buy land where inflation had already increased prices, the many immigrants were forced to search for homes elsewhere.
The Gaels migrated further east, deeper into the heart of Bosworth, towards Shrewsbury, where the capitol might prove to have more opportunities available. Some migrated south, some even stayed behind to take their chances. So that by the time the Gaels entered the great city of Shrewsbury, only a handful were left. But once in the city they met many other immigrants. Some from Nova England, who were able to converse in basic Gaelic with them, and others from Nouveau Aquitaine, who although speaking French, were nonetheless able to make simple conversation. Closer to their old home, they met some immigrants from Kottiheim, which had also fallen in the east. Although Norse, they had picked up enough English in Bosworth to converse. Thus the group of immigrants grew, and became a steadfast migrating community. But alas, they had no home as of yet.
It was a man from Kottiheim who first spoke up. His name was Thorval Magnusson. A tall, muscular, blonde man who was a hearty sailor, and who had captained many longships. He noted that he had sailed on along the Bosworthian shore, and had seen that the Ford Islands to the north were sparsely inhabited. He was certain that the King would not object to their building farmsteads here, without immediate payment, but with respect to feudal law, paying in farm goods when their first crops came to fruition. Although a harsh land, they knew it was their only prospect.
So at the harbor of Shrewsbury, where mighty clipper ships and man-o-war lay docked, gently swaying in the breeze, the group of swelling migrants sought to find themselves a ship to carry them to their potential new home. Magnusson had, by this time, become the de facto leader of the group. So it also rested with him to negotiate a contract with a captain for berth across the sea to Genista. At first none of the captains were receptive to the proposal. For them, it was a risk to transport these poor peasants, who could not afford the typical cost of transport.
But Magnusson soon met a grizzled old sailor, one Captain Bartholomew, an immigrant himself, who had come from Nova England when still in his teens. Remembering his own struggles to survive as an immigrant, the situation struck a chord in the old man’s heart. His ship, the HMS Chalice, was a wreck, and he lacked a full crew. But with the assistance of the determined peasants, the skill of Magnusson as a first mate, the ship was made ready by their efforts. Within the course of a month new wood had been scrapped together, the sails mended, and the ship made ready to put out to sea.
Provisions were made, and the berth piled full with people. The journey itself would not take long, but carrying so many people in a tight space made the old freighter creak with strain. Eager to set out, the people urged the Captain to set sail. But a red sky in the morning warned him of an impending storm, recalling the old rhyme ingrained on the minds of sailors:
Red sky at night, sailors delight Red sky in morn, sailors be warned
And so he put off sailing, saying that a storm was brewing. Determined to complete the journey, they pushed him to sail, even disregarding the warnings of Magnusson. And so under relentless pressure Captain Bart set raised anchor, and steered the Chalice out of Shrewsbury harbor onto the open sea. But no sooner had they lost sight of land than a great storm swelled the oceans, and raised the waves into a violent torrent. Struggling to maintain the ship in the violent waters and keep her from capsizing, the Captain refused to give up the wheel. Even upon the insistence of Magnusson, the Captain refused, steering the ship across the waters, between jagged rocks, for several hours without rest.
When the storm finally abated, the old Captain seemed to fade with it. Magnusson took the wheel as the old man collapsed. But in sight, off in the distance, was Genista. Laid out on the deck to rest, he sat up to see the island with the help of Magnusson and others that had surrounded him. Apologies and praise poured forth at the same time. He silenced them all, saying never to question an old sailor about the ways of the sea. But, he added, that he was glad to see they had made it, and that he was sure Magnusson would get them the rest of the way safely. “Remember”, he said, “don’t forget how you all started, and help those that need it when they come to you. Always live with respect for what God has given you.” And with that the old man closed his eyes and died with an air of contentment on his face. So the Captain was wrapped in blankets, and a small dinghy prepared with kindling. Placed inside they put it forth onto the open seas, and shot a flaming arrow into it. The flames shot out, and lit it in brilliant light as the sun began to set. And so the Captain was laid to rest in the embrace of the ocean he loved so dearly.
Afterwards Magnusson steered the ship towards Genista. Sailing along the southern coast they spied the landscape for a decent harbor. But they found none. Becoming discouraged some feared they had made the wrong choice to come here. The shore was rocky, filled with crags, and the landscape barren, marked only by large areas covered in broom scrub. But they pressed on. The death of the Captain must not be in vain. Their efforts must not be in vain!
So they rounded the eastern side of the island and began to work there way north. Slowly the rock became less craggy, and the shoreline smoother. Eventually they came to a point where a small harbor formed. It was here after many long months that they decided to drop anchor and settle. Going ashore the land proved fertile enough, and grass was plentiful for the sheep they had brought along. Stone was also plentiful for building homes, as trees were all but non-existent here. Magnusson led them in building the first few makeshift shelters, lending his knowledge of the homes built in his native land, which was very similar to these lands.
The broom scrub was collected to thatch the roofs of the new homes, and as the dominant form of plant life, as well as its utility to the people and name of the island, they decided to call the village Plantagenet. And so the migrants found their new home, and nurtured it with love and care. And it blossomed into fruition, as the fields began to grow wheat, the sheep grew fat and prospered, and the peat bogs provided fuel. It was not the life of kings or noblemen, but it was a good life nonetheless, and what’s more – they finally had a place to call home.
