Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Nine
We would keep Rosais and the surrounding lands. It was our decision. I sent a messenger to both the Reconquista and the Tristain-Germanian army about Gallia's decision, and then I calmly waited for the storm to explode. Reconquista would be torn, but in the end would cave in if they had a bit of a brain. Taking on all three countries was madness, and if the price to pay to not have to worry about Gallia was to go without a port city, then they would most probably accept said deal. Even if they might renege on it later, it would be after having kicked out Tristain and Germania.
The fact was, if Henrietta wanted my aid, then she had no choice but to give me something I wanted. If she didn't accept the deal I proposed about conquered cities of Gallia belonging to Gallia at the war's end, stating that all of Albion belonged to Wales, then I would demand enough monetary compensation to outright bleed her kingdom dry, and keep hold of Rosais until the price was paid for its return. It would be a mere trifling million or so of ecus, after all. In a few decades, they might be capable of paying it back and take Rosais.
They wouldn't declare war on Gallia, not for the city of Rosais, and not until Reconquista was dealt with. Since an alliance between Reconquista and Tristain was out, the country that held the ball was Gallia, so to speak.
Tristain and Germania could win the fight against Reconquista, but the number of losses would be staggering, and if then Gallia decided to mop up the continent, then they would be powerless to stop it.
I was sure Henrietta had gone into this war fully prepared to make concessions about Albion's lands. Even if Wales had but half of Albion, rather than all of it, he'd still be back on his throne. That was what I was counting for.
If she accepted the deal I offered, I'd march a terrifying Blitzkrieg tactic to lay claim to Saxe-Gotha, send messengers to the cities by the coast claiming the alliance of three countries against Reconquista, and offering them the option to surrender to Gallia for benefits in the post-war rather than have to fight, lose, and then find themselves under the command of, perhaps, Tristain and Germania who would bleed them dry to recoup the losses incurred during war.
This was my plan.
The Windland stood calmly docked on the outskirts of Rosais, the troops camped either in tents outside or within -if they didn't like to sleep in cramped quarters, they were free to set up camp in orderly lines near the flying fortress.
The leader of the Tristanian and Germanian forces was a certain General de Poitiers, a good general, one smart enough to be recognized as the best among those that Tristain had to offer, and his second in command was a Germanian. A Marquis Handenburg was there for the Germanian side, and as both men looked torn in my presence, it was clear they knew it wouldn't be easy.
"Let us dispense with frivolities," I snapped to them both, standing on the field outside the city, as much of a slap and show of anger as it could be, not even allowing ambassadors the benefit of coming inside for refreshments. This was a message, a message of anger, and it was clear that such a thing was shared by every other soldier that was on the walls, the spite in their eyes a palpable thing even from a distance.
A small table had been set with three chairs, and a cloth roof had been put into place to cover the three of us from the sun. It was as far as I'd go to show I was willing to negotiate, but my negotiations would be without much of a wriggling room.
The Generals knew, of course, and had come prepared.
"Her majesty, she conveys her wishes that the aid of Tristain and Germania will be welcomed-"
"We both know that's a lie," I said curtly. "On these matters of conquest, I am fiercer than a fire dragon, General. Dispense the frivolities, I said. I want you to get straight to the point."
The General swallowed, his portly face turning slightly green. "Her majesty wishes to aid in the restoration of the rightful King of Albion to the throne, but is willing to pay handsomely for Gallia's help. Low tariffs on windstones, monopoly on the commerce of certain types of food, privileges for the merchants trafficking the roads of Tristain towards Germania-"
"Right of conquest to all cities Gallia captures on the way to Londinium," I said calmly, making the General choke on his saliva. "That is the price for Gallia's aid. Otherwise, we will keep ourselves out of the war entirely. Also, Rosais and the lands near it will remain ours until the price for its conquest will be paid. Currently, it tallies to one million ecus," the General couldn't choke twice, so he simply began to cough and widen his eyes as if he was staring at a mad man. "We can leave Londinium and Dartanes to Albion's new government, and a strip to land to allow communication and commerce between them," I added with a nod.
"B-But! Reconquista won't allow it!" de Poitiers spoke, "They will aim to reclaim the port-"
"And? Between the might of Gallia and that of Tristain and Germania, which is the strongest? Which the most dangerous? We will either conquer to our heart's content or stay entirely out of this," I clasped my fingers together, "But I am not a merciless man. I suppose the Valliere lands and the fiefs beneath them can be ceded to Gallia, in which case I would gladly help."
"That's-those lands-it would mean the loss of a fourth of Tristain's territory as well as the loss of an ancient and most respected family!" de Poitiers exclaimed. "This-is there even a hope for compromise?"
"Yes, there is," I said. "We keep Rosais, and we do not march. If, on the other hand, you wish for Rosais too, then you must pay for it a million ecus. If you do not, and come to claim it, then...well, we will be waiting for you." I smiled gently. "I suppose your forces will be able to handle it?"
"You may keep Rosais then!" Handenburg spoke harshly. "Our forces won't need Gallia's help-and when this is over, let us see if Gallia can stand alone when its merchants are refused entry!"
"We will still have Romalia," I pointed out, "and I suppose the loans that Gallia has given to Germanian and Tristainian nobility will thus be repaid faster, much to my wife's sincere relief," I hummed. "You know your way back, I suppose," I said as I locked eyes with them both.
"One last thing," General de Poitiers said. "Tristain called to arms all nobles, but her majesty expressed her disbelief at the lack of participation from her friend, your youngest sister. Her family denies knowing where she went precisely, claiming she intended to spend the holidays with her brother. The royal palace of Lutece claims they have no idea where she is, and to ask you directly. Her majesty really wishes to see her friend, and if she is among your troops-her duties as a noble of Tristain-"
"My sister has a penchant for independent adventuring," I replied. "She did come to me, but only as an excuse to go explore the countryside of Gallia. She might be sleeping in inns and looking around for monsters to hunt. If I were you, I wouldn't bother searching for her, nor do I think my wife would give you permission to do so." I stood up from the negotiation table, and the two generals did the same. "Good luck, generals. You'll need it against Reconquista's fifty thousands strong army."
"Luck is for those who do not have the skills to win a war, your highness," de Poitiers said firmly. "Our twenty thousands will do just fine."
Twenty thousands?
I blinked. Weren't the numbers supposed to be higher? Oh, right, the mercenaries' losses-it had meant that rather than hire fifty thousand men, they had hired only twenty thousands. Well, they wouldn't stand a chance then, why even declare such a war then? Clearly-
"You are outnumbered quite heavily, and Albion still has most of its fleet," I said as I furrowed my brows. "What hope do you actually have of winning this?"
The General de Poitiers twirled one side of his mustache, "Oh? You do not know? The Heavy Wind, who alone fought off the whole of Germania's army-she stands with us. Why, she's at least twenty thousands men strong by herself, if not more!"
The impromptu cloth roof shredded itself off together with the iron poles supporting it as the table itself turned into minced pieces of wood.
There is one rule that you must never break if you wish to live long.
You must never involve the mother of an Italian.
