Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
17 October 1020. L’École du Sorciers
My dearest cousin Armand,
I live in hope of waking and discovering the Amelie at rest in the quadrangle, and look for her every day, although I know very well that you cannot possibly have received my request before today.
It has been a long, slow month, though not without its excitement.
Three days after my last letter L’École received a vist from “their graces the Ducs de Lancey and de Mauritaine”, requesting to search L’École for the person of “the imposter posing as a scion of the royal line,” by which of course they meant His Deposed Majesty Charles IX. Not a visit from the “Ducs” themselves, of course, but from guardsmen representing them.
I did not witness the event, though Dr. Laguerre spoke quite scornfully, though briefly, of it to me that afternoon.
“Ducs? Bah. That title has been reserved to the brothers of Le Roi for centuries. They are nothing but a pair of parvenus, even if they have un peu de sang royal.”
“They weren’t allowed into L’École?”
“Mais non! According to L’École’s charte de constitution we are free from royal interface, and have been since before the Armagnacs came to the throne. They may take Dr. Guisman’s word, or they may suffer.”
“Suffer! But I thought we do not go to war?”
“Yet a man may defend himself.”
The day after, a larger force presented itself at our gate. They spoke to the porter politely, but it was made clear that they did not intend to leave without searching L’École. “My masters les Ducs do not give a fig for your charter,” said their commander from atop his horse. “We have been ordered to search every building in the city, and we will do so.”
I am told that several of the masters, including Drs. Guisman and Laguerre, had arrived at the gate by that time; or, rather, not at the gate but at a sort of balcony overlooking it from the top of the wall above.
Dr. Guisman spoke in mild tones. “You would be wise to return to your masters and suggest to them that they study the Royal Archives. It is unwise to interfere with L’École du Sorciers.”
Rage filled the commander’s face, and as he started forward to force his way in, two things happened simultaneously.
First, the gateway and the few windows on that face of the wall filled with stone. Had the commander been just a bit quicker his steed might have lost the tip of its nose, which would have been a shame.
And second, well. You are aware that soldiers and guardsman wear a great deal of leather harness from which depends this and that bit of kit. Every bit of leather strapping on their persons, saving only the girth straps of the commander’s saddle, immediately eroded into dust, causing various paraphernalia to fall loudly to the cobbles.
The commander wheeled away from the former gate, and dismounted; then stepping forward he ran his fingers across the new stone as if to satisfy himself that it was real. Stepping back, he looked up at the masters in consternation.
“There is no point to these confrontations,” said Dr. Guisman in the same mild tones. “Go and tell your masters that we are loyal sons and daughters of Provençe, and that there is nothing here for them. Nevertheless we will hold to our ancient rights, and though we do not make threats we will certainly defend L’École du Sorciers against any threat. I fear it would not end well for any troops sent against us. Now, good day.”
As Dr. Guisman said “good day,” the commander’s saddle straps evaporated and the stirrups fell to the ground with a clunk.
The commander’s face screwed up with rage—it had been a fine saddle, I’m told, and costly—but he turned, and waved at his men.
And with that, the guardsmen gathered up their things, not without a few considering looks at their commander, and they all toddled off, much inconvenienced by their burdens.
Since then it has been quiet. It seems that de Marigny was right, that “Les Ducs” had no real expectation of finding Charles on the grounds of L’École, and that having been shown the foolishness of their royal snit they unwillingly backed down.
Myself, I have had several conversations with His Deposed Majesty over the course of the month. That is his title for himself, not mine; and spoken always in an ironic and bitter tone.
Our first conversation occurred in the chapel late one evening. Unable to sleep—as has been increasingly common of late—I had taken my sewing and was sitting quietly with it when Charles entered the room and flung himself prostrate before the tabernacle. It was rare for me to see him, though he and de Marigny were lodging next door, for they did their best to remain out of sight.
The king’ s posture seemed to call for privacy, so I put my sewing in my bag and rose as quietly as I could; but detecting my presence, the former king rose and bowed.
“Pardon, Madame Archer,” he said. “I did not mean to intrude upon you.”
“Nor I on you, your majesty. I will leave you to your devotions.”
“You need not make way for His Deposed Majesty, Madame Archer,” he said, waving a hand at himself. “I am done with that. And I ought not be here at all, but I felt I must walk, must breath. I am not accustomed to being confined within four walls.”
He came and sat by me—not beside me, but in the pew in front of me, well out of arms reach. I sat down again, nodding to him in thanks for his delicacy, which he returned in kind.
“May I speak with you?” he said.
“As you wish.”
“I must make the apology. I am sorry for my requests to you; one ought not ask another to go against her principles.”
I bowed again. “No harm came of it, not to me,” I said, “save only a degree of irritation; and one need not walk far to find that in this world.”
“Vraiment,” he said, then turned to face the tabernacle. “I thought I was doing the right thing, claiming the throne. My family are among the upper gentry, not the nobility, and so we escaped the Troubles; but my ancestor, a comte, married a second cousin of Le Roi, so we always knew we possessed le sang royal. ” He shrugged in that Provençese way. “My father’s cousin, le comte, was put to death along with his family, while we, we went on.
“My father sent me off to the university in Boulogne when I was of an age, for he said that advancement was now due to learning, not blood. I returned home at his death; and then the royalist sentiment began to rise in the countryside.”
He glanced my way, briefly, and it struck me that he was much younger than I had thought him. “I thought long and hard, with much prayer, before seeking the throne. Provençe was badly governed; I thought I could do better; and it seemed my duty to do so. Now it seems that I was mistaken on all counts.”
“Men of principle are often routed by the ruthless and unprincipled, I believe,” I said.
“So it has been in this case.”
I had been watching him as he spoke. He seemed less desperate and far more resigned than he had the day he had come to L’École.
“Are you aware that your so-called advisors have declared themselves ducs?” I asked.
Charles snorted, then shot an apologetic glance at the tabernacle. “That was one of our points of contention. As the next closest to the throne, as my ‘designated heirs’, as they chose to put it, they felt it was their due.” He shook his head. “It was their men who put me on the throne, but they have no more idea how to run a country than I do. Less, perhaps. They wish the rewards, but not the duties. I fear it will not be long before Toulouse is plunged once more into bloodshed.”
His chin sank to his breast for a moment; and then his gaze rose once again to the tabernacle.
I rose, and wishing him well returned slowly to our lodging.
Your somewhat unwieldy cousin,
Amelia
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Photo by Jacob Bentzinger on Unsplash
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