Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
16 September 1020, L’École du Sorciers
My dearest cousin Armand,
I have much to tell you; and I am afraid I must begin with a modicum of Provençese history, as explained to me by Claude Bergeron.
Within the living memory of the oldest citizens of Provençe, the land was ruled by the kings of the House of Armagnac. Charles VIII and his Queen were decapitated by Jean Gaston and his followers, who slaughtered as many of the old nobility as they could find and then established the Première République. Having little in the way of funds, they settled on conquest as a way to fill their coffers…and were overthrown in turn by the marshal they appointed to command their armies. I do not believe I need to remind you what became of the Maréchalate.
After Le Maréchal’s death the Provençese established the short-lived Deuxième République, which lasted until Charles XI acceded to the throne this past year. He, and his two noble “advisors”, claim descent from the Armagnacs—along, it sometimes seems, with half the Provençese countryside on, on one side of the blanket or the other. Though it does seem that Charles and his advisors do have the closest claim out of those who survived the Reign of Blood.
In short, as Claude hastened to point out, in quite a short time the Provençese have had: a kingdom, a republic, a marshalate (if that’s a word), a second republic, and now another kingdom. While no one wants to see another Reign of Blood, it is unsurprising that Charles has been sitting uneasily on his throne.
I write all of this so that you may appreciate what happened this morning.
I was with Dr. Laguerre in her cottage when a messenger summoned us to the Porter’s lodge. I do not believe I have described the odge in detail, but it is the entrance to L’École, and includes not only the Porter’s lodgings and desk but also the gate; and beside the gate a large (if simply appointed) space for receiving visitors that the Masters choose not to admit to L’École proper. It was to this receiving room that we were summoned.
As we approached I observed two horses standing just inside the gate, their reins held by one of L’École’s footmen: chestnuts, the pair of them, fine beasts, I believe Jack would call them, with simple but well-made tack.
Within we found Dr. Guisman and the other masters; and facing them Comte de Marigny, who was wearing a much more subdued outfit than I had ever seen him wear, and beside him another man I did not know.
This man was wearing a dark green cloak, fraying at the lower hem, with a hood he had pushed back onto his shoulders. Under the cloak he wore the simple attire of a country gentleman. His mouth was tight; his countenance bore a closed expression, and I noticed his fists trembled beneath the cloak.
De Marigny inclined his head to me as we entered and joined the masters; and then bowed most profoundly, nearly prostrating himself before them. When he rose and began to speak, his manner was jarringly different than I had expected: humble, almost apologetic.
“Masters, Madame Archer,” he began, “we come to you for sanctuary. Even now the palace guard are quartering the city for us.”
My eyes widened—I felt them do so—as I realized with a start that the man in the green cloak was in fact His Majesty, Charles IX of the House of Armagnac.
“De Lancey and de Mauritaine have betrayed you, then, Your Majesty?” asked Dr. Guisman. His manner was calm, yielding nothing.
His Majesty—no, “His Majesty” is the King of Cumbria. Charles spoke then: “They have, for I would not go along with their plans.” His voice quavered, but his tone was resolute.
“And those were?” asked Dr. Guisman.
“Does it matter?” said de Marigny. “Had you been there—had Madame Archer been there—she could have stopped them in their tracks. With the two of them dead, the guard would have no reason not to follow His Majesty.”
I bowed to Charles—who after all was the crowned king of Provençe, however tarnished that position might be—and said, “I could not have done what you wished of me, Your Majesty. But I am sorry it has come to this.”
The king looked down.
One of the other masters asked, “And now you come seeking sanctuary. Had you not better seek the Church?”
“The Church is much decreased since the Troubles,” said de Marigny, “and the Archbishop of Toulouse is in the pocket of de Mauritaine. There is no help for us there. Nor can we flee to the countryside. Nowhere in Provençe is safe for us.”
“Nowhere but here,” said the king, quietly, still looking at the floor.
“L’École has long declined to play any part in the politics of Provençe, though the pressure has at times been great,” said Dr. Guisman. “Why should we depart from this policy now, a policy that has preserved Provençe from the greatest destruction?”
The king huddled further into his cloak; and de Marigny sighed.
“We do not wish you to engage in politics,” he said. “De Lancey and de Mauritaine have won; and now they must fight it out between them. We only wish you to hide us until we can be smuggled out of the country.”
“But why here?”
De Marigny shrugged. “It is known to all watchers how we have importuned you, and all to no avail. No one will think to look for us here; and L’École is large enough and secretive enough that we will not be seen by outsiders. More, a packet could easily land here by night and carry us away.”
“And is such a packet to be expected?”
De Marigny waved a weary hand. “No. I fear we must again presume….”
Dr. Guisman exchanged glances with the other masters.
“Very well,” he said. “You may enter L’École while we confer.”
The figure in the green cloak, for I suppose I no longer need to refer to him as the king, relaxed and then began to sway. De Marigny took him by the arm to steady him, and then Dr. Guisman led them out into the quadrangle.
And so things stand. De Marigny and the late king are ensconced in rooms down the hall from our own; the students are in a tizzy; and soldiers (so I am told) are to be seen throughout the city.
We dare not approach the Courier’s Guild for help, as they must remain on cordial terms with the Provençese crown; but the Amelie is known to call here on her way to Yorke on her occasional voyages. Might you send her to come to L’École by night, and carry away a special cargo.
I will give this letter to Maximilian, who will take it to the Embassy; from there it will travel to Armorica by diplomatic pouch.
Your conspiratorial cousin,
Amelia
____
Photo by Gabriella Clare Marino on Unsplash
Zymurgia House 