Chapter 119: Traveling Through the Middle Ages 119

Chapter 119: Journey Through the Middle Ages 119

Drinking, chatting, and playing cards was a marvelous way to pass the hours—for modern people, let alone medieval people with limited entertainment options. Thus, the Duke of Westminster found himself completely immersed and accidentally stayed awake through the night!

It’s worth noting that people in this era were far less capable of staying up all night compared to modern individuals, usually succumbing to sleepiness at their usual bedtime. Yet, they played with such enthusiasm throughout the entire night, a testament to how much fun the card play brought them!

Exhausted but delighted, the Duke of Westminster returned home with the deck of cards and practically collapsed into bed—Lucas, of course, had noticed the Duke’s keen interest in the cards. Given the Duke’s temperament, waiting for a deck to be purchased from Troyes just to play at his leisure would have been unbearable. So, Lucas graciously bestowed the deck to the Duke.

He quite enjoyed the card game himself, but he lacked the Duke’s passion for gaming. At worst, he could simply order another deck from Troyes—he didn’t mind waiting a few days to play again… Though this time, he decided to order several more decks. It was clear that card games would soon become popular on the Île de la Cité. While the cards were still rare, they could be used as favors!

Once they became more common, or even when local artisans in the Île de la Cité could produce them, they’d lose their novelty and value as gifts.

The Duke of Westminster, who didn’t wake until afternoon, received news that was surprising yet not entirely unexpected. A servant hurried into his residence and reported, "My lord, the latest news from the palace—His Majesty suffered another stroke during lunch. The royal physicians have already attended to him, but we don’t yet know his condition."

Louis III had been paralyzed on one side for years after his first stroke. Frankly, given the medical standards of the time, it wouldn’t have been surprising if his condition worsened or if he had died long ago. The fact that he had survived for years, even outliving two of his sons (Jacques and his twin brother Thierry had died during this period), was the real shock!

Everyone said he was tenacious, with a will to live stronger than most!

Now, the death of Crown Prince Jacques was another heavy blow. Under such swift turns of fortune, another stroke was hardly surprising—Louis III, like many noblemen of his time, had paternal instincts toward his children, but they were limited. At the very least, his sons were far less important than himself—a fact evident in how he had sown seeds of trouble for his heir and the ruling family just to satisfy his own obsessions.

Still, Jacques had been his heir for years. His death couldn’t have left Louis III entirely unmoved. First, there was the joy of Guillaume’s triumphant return, followed by the grief of Jacques’ passing. The emotional whiplash made this latest stroke seem sudden yet understandable.

"...Such news is unexpected, though not entirely surprising..." the idle nobleman murmured as he hastily ate some roasted venison, drank a few sips of wine, and then rushed to the palace.

He might have been an idle nobleman, but that didn’t mean he was a fool devoid of political awareness as a member of the royal family!

This event could very well spark a chain of future incidents. Failing to be present at the palace wouldn’t just earn him accusations of lacking filial piety as a nephew or loyalty as a vassal (the Middle Ages still valued such things). More critically, he’d miss firsthand information, and absence meant no voice or participation—risking becoming an unwitting casualty!

The latter was especially important and not hard to grasp. It was essentially like playing a game with friends and later reckoning their defeat—the one absent from the discussion would inevitably shoulder all the blame. Sound arbitrary? Yet, power struggles sometimes boiled down to something as trivial as assigning blame after a lost game.

The world was a haphazard theater, and the Middle Ages were no exception.

Soon, the Duke of Westminster arrived at the palace in haste—almost simultaneously, the royal physicians concluded their treatment. Addressing the gathered noble "family members," they said, "...His Majesty is advanced in years and has suffered a severe stroke before. His current condition is not favorable. I’ve tried every means at my disposal to preserve his life for now, but I cannot predict what will follow."

This royal physician was renowned for his skill—at the very least, he was reliable, not the type who only knew cupping and bloodletting... Cupping wasn’t unique to China; the West had its own version. However, their cupping wasn’t strictly for dispelling dampness or other therapeutic purposes—it was mainly to facilitate bloodletting.

The fact that Louis III had survived a second stroke already earned the royal physician newfound respect. Any rational person wouldn’t demand more.

But Queen Anna was the exception. Upon hearing the physician’s words, she immediately snapped, "Are you shirking responsibility? No, absolutely not—you must save His Majesty!"

If this outburst was meant to suggest deep marital affection, no one present believed it. Their relationship had long been transparent. Queen Anna’s reaction stemmed from her awareness that her power and privileged status relied entirely on Louis III’s stroke-induced need for a political ally!

Compared to supporting a son not in line for succession—a move fraught with future troubles—Queen Anna, whose own sons stood no chance of inheriting the throne, was the perfect choice. Few would oppose it, and a queen acting as regent was both reasonable and lawful.

This political arrangement made Queen Anna one of the least willing to see Louis III perish (though she certainly didn’t wish for his recovery either). If Louis III died—or even became entirely incapacitated—people’s final shreds of royal deference for him as king would vanish. How much obedience would they then show his proxy, Queen Anna?

Of course, over the years, Queen Anna had cultivated her own loyalists, and some of Louis III’s former supporters might rally to her—particularly those who had unbridgeable enmity with Guillaume or whose interests severely encroached on the crown’s authority... Louis III’s condition had allowed them to escape reckoning, but a new monarch would never tolerate them!

Yet, for a queen to challenge the new heir without the king’s backing was illegitimate. While some queens in history had wielded immense power, reducing heirs to puppet rulers, that required extraordinary circumstances—deep familial backing, formidable political acumen, or an exceptionally inept heir.

Queen Anna’s humble origins were modest, and she had only gathered followers in the years since Louis III’s stroke. Her political skills, while not lacking, were far from the caliber of history’s master statesmen. As for hoping Guillaume would prove incompetent—that was a fool's hope!

In terms of reputation alone, Guillaume far surpassed Jacques! If Queen Anna had struggled against Jacques, how could she hope to contend with Guillaume? The people eagerly anticipated a ruler who was both a capable warrior and a clear-eyed statesman!

Faced with the Queen’s "command," the royal physician could only reply, "Your Highness... I will do my utmost."

"Not your utmost—you must succeed!" Queen Anna cut him off sharply. In this moment, she was no different from those who berate healers, refusing to accept anything but the outcome she desired.

Yet the world operates on material and objective principles. The royal physician’s skills were advanced for the era, but even he couldn’t guarantee saving a patient after a second stroke—indeed, even modern medicine, far superior to that of the Middle Ages, makes no such promises to families of stroke victims.

It's always wise to err on the side of caution. Making careless promises is practically begging for trouble—giving others ammunition to use against you and making life harder for yourself, isn't it?

The royal physician sighed, offering no guarantees. He merely allowed a select few to enter and see the king, though no more than ten people were permitted—only the most crucial members of the royal family and a handful of powerful ministers. Even the Duke of Westminster was denied entry.

Louis III lay on the bed, appearing as though asleep, leaving everyone momentarily uncertain whether he was alive or dead. Soon, however, the quiet room echoed with his faint breathing, confirming that the king was, at least, still alive.

What was there to see in an unconscious man? Even if this were the last chance to demonstrate loyalty, it would be like casting pearls before swine. After a brief, cautious observation, everyone quietly withdrew. Nearly all of them urged the physician and servants to take good care of Louis III, as if none of them wished for his demise.

Well, perhaps that was true. Louis III’s condition was plain to see, and for his unruly subjects to continue supporting him as king, he had long mastered the art of "turning a blind eye and deaf ear"—playing the benevolent ruler who turned a blind eye.

This leniency had allowed many to live comfortably and even seize benefits they would never have obtained under normal circumstances. Over time, they grew accustomed to these privileges, even forgetting their origins and assuming them as natural rights. Now, with Louis III seemingly on the brink of death, their concern was not returning what they had taken but preserving it.

The best outcome, of course, would be for Louis III to recover unscathed, returning to his previous state—everything would continue as before.

Yet, things did not unfold as they hoped. Louis III did eventually wake, but the man who regained consciousness could barely move—only his head and one arm, and he could no longer speak. Only his eyes revealed his undimmed intellect.

But as the saying went, being fully aware yet imprisoned in an unresponsive body might be worse than death—at least for the afflicted. For others, however, this was neither the best nor the worst outcome.

At the very least, as long as the king lived, the Crown Prince was unlikely to be crowned, depriving him of the legitimacy that came with the title. There were precedents in history where a Crown Prince was crowned while the king still lived, but only under the king’s own decree—usually to ensure a smooth transition or to placate certain factions. This was how traditions like "dual kings" or "child kings" arose.

Of course, Guillaume, the new Crown Prince, could theoretically "issue a false decree," claiming Louis III had ordered his own coronation—but many would undoubtedly oppose it, turning the matter into yet another political struggle.

"...Given His Majesty’s dire condition, he can no longer rule Vason or fulfill his duties as liege lord," declared one who clearly sided with Guillaume. "The Crown Prince must assume governance—it is the only way to benefit Vason!"

Those rallying to Guillaume included staunch loyalists who supported the rightful heir, longtime allies eager to elevate him for future rewards, and disgraced nobles hoping to regain favor.

"No, this defies convention. The king still lives. If he cannot govern, then the Queen should, as has been done before," others insisted weakly.

Such "convention" held little weight in the West, where customs lacked the deep-rooted rigidity of the East. Compared to a speechless, incapacitated king and a queen wielding power in his name, a capable, battle-hardened Crown Prince seemed far more reasonable.

Unsurprising—the Middle Ages still bore traces of their ancestral warrior ethos, where loyalty to strength outweighed adherence to rules. The term "tribal" here was no insult; their ancestors had endured harsher realities, forging a colder, more pragmatic nature. Survival demanded following the strongest—a brutal truth etched into their bones.

Words meant little against the tide of circumstance. Once Guillaume discerned friend from foe and made his decision, the matter would be settled.

In a way, Guillaume was not cruel, and in such delicate times, excessive force was unwise. Drawing on his grasp of war psychology, he showed restraint, avoiding a purge before his ascension—ironically allowing Queen Anna to retain some control over the court. Though Guillaume himself rarely stayed there, many key figures also kept their distance...

Guillaume preferred the outskirts of Cité, a humble place called "Robendou"—literally "farmhouse" or "manor," as the name suggested. Yet it housed a royal hunting lodge (along with vast surrounding woodlands), later gifted to Guillaume for a birthday and placed under his name.

Under his ownership, the lodge underwent expansion by a renowned architect, expanding fivefold and adopting a peculiar blend of styles—neither castle nor villa, yet both elegant and comfortable. Perhaps for this reason, Guillaume favored it over the palace when in Cité. Now, residing here also served another purpose: distancing himself from Queen Anna and her faction, granting him freer rein.

The palace, from its stewards to its servants, was peppered with Anna’s allies—or those accustomed to her patronage. Working under such limitations was not Guillaume’s strength, so he simply withdrew, much like his battlefield tactics: avoiding enemy strongholds, dictating the terms of engagement.

"Your Highness, many well-meaning souls wish to advise you on a matter—your marriage! As Crown Prince, you ought to wed a virtuous lady and produce an heir, putting minds at ease," the Duke of Westminster remarked casually during a visit to "Robendou Villa" (already dubbed "Robendou Palace" by some).

The request came from numerous quarters—relatives and friends he couldn’t outright refuse. Yet his tone was almost jesting, even hinting at who these "well-meaning souls" might be.

Their motives varied: some genuinely wished Guillaume well, as elders often did; others sought to promote their preferred candidates for princess consort, eyeing future gains.

Yes, all knew of Guillaume’s past affection for "Louisa of Brudo," but that was as a mere prince. Now, as Crown Prince, his priorities might shift—why be bound by past preferences when any noblewoman was within reach?

Some even fantasized about him wedding Princess Catherine, Jacques’ widow, to win over his late brother’s faction. Wedding his brother's widow would reassure former allies of their place under his rule.

This notion, however, found little traction—Holy texts warned that such unions bore no heirs. Likely an old custom repurposed to stamp out tribal "levirate marriage." Reason alone seldom swayed, but superstition gave pause—what if the curse proved true?

In fact, Guillaume's desire to marry Louisa was already skirting the line. However, since Louisa was merely Philip's fiancée and not his actual wife, aside from some private murmurs, no one openly made an issue of it.

Compared to the proposal involving 'Princess Catherine,' which was only championed by a vocal minority, far more people recommended 'Princess Barron.'

Excluding the various noblewomen recommended by those seeking personal gain, Princess Barron's status was simply too advantageous. She held the strongest claim to Barron, and her dowry was exceptionally generous—originally reserved by Queen Anna for her younger son, Prince François.

The lack of an engagement was partly due to Jacques' earlier opposition. He didn’t want to face the combined pressure of two younger brothers if he were to become king—both being Queen Anna's sons and natural allies. Another reason was the blood relation between François and Princess Barron, necessitating a 'dispensation for consanguinity' (Princess Barron's mother was a royal kinswoman of Vason, a cousin of Louis III, sharing the same grandfather. She had indeed been married off to Barron during her grandfather's reign).

For the high nobility, obtaining a 'dispensation for consanguinity' was rarely an issue—a ‘donation’ to the Church usually made it a mere formality. However, the current King of Barron, Princess Barron's uncle, was wary of his niece, who held the strongest claim. His agents lobbied the Church, bribing various prince-cardinals to ensure the dispensation was never granted.

With Jacques, the prince of Vason, entangled in the matter, Vason couldn’t fully back the dispensation. Thus, Queen Anna had to 'strive' on her own, leading to a tug-of-war with the King of Barron. At one point, Queen Anna even considered abandoning the dispensation and simply arranging the engagement and marriage between Princess Barron and Prince François.

After all, such issues only became crises when someone deliberately raised objections. Many minor and mid-ranking nobles practiced 'marriage among kin' without bothering with a 'dispensation for consanguinity' (while the high nobility found it easy, their status and wealth made the difference—others lacking either would struggle). As long as the blood relation wasn’t so close as to be seen as outright incest, it usually went unchallenged.

But Philip rationally dissuaded his mother... The most valuable aspect of Princess Barron was her strongest claim to Barron. If her marriage had legal vulnerabilities, her children would inevitably inherit those issues. In such a case, the 'strongest claim'—a legal tool—would become a target for enemies, drastically weakening its effectiveness!