Chapter 182 Traveling Through the Middle Ages 182

Chapter 182 Transmigrating into the Middle Ages 182

Louisa had more than one court shoemaker. When she first trained shoemakers, she deliberately "scattered seeds broadly while cultivating key talents." Only by allowing more shoemakers to understand her requirements could truly gifted shoemakers emerge... This was the mindset she adopted. As a result, many skilled shoemakers in the Troyes region came into contact with new shoemaking techniques to varying degrees.

At the Court of Brudo, some people followed Louisa's choices—or rather, the "trend"—and commissioned shoes from her preferred shoemakers. After trying them, they immediately recognized the benefits of the new-style leather shoes, and soon, such shoes gradually became more common in the Brudo court.

However, this was undoubtedly still unknown in the Île-de-France. Apart from Louisa and those around her, no one else wore such shoes. Mainly because, aside from the shoemakers serving Louisa, no other shoemakers knew how to make them.

But after Guillaume was noticed wearing the new shoes, things changed—unlike the common shoes of the time, including the well-known poulaines *(Poulaines were 14th-15th century shoes with exaggerated pointed toes, often secured by chains to prevent tripping)*, these new shoes were not exaggerated but appeared exceptionally refined.

They were unostentatious yet exquisite, standing out without being ordinary... In this era, nobles of means flaunted their status unapologetically—wearing bright colors, gold, and silver. Restraint, modesty, or quiet elegance simply did not exist.

Of course, the most important factor was that these shoes were worn by the Crown Prince. As the heir apparent, he was naturally under the spotlight, with every detail of his attire scrutinized by others. Even if he had no intention of being a trendsetter, he easily influenced fashion. Previously, nothing novel had ever appeared on the Crown Prince, but now that his shoes were distinctly different, people noticed immediately.

Soon after, the origin of the new shoes was discovered, and people sought out Louisa's court shoemakers to commission pairs. Since these new shoes were clearly far more comfortable—not just visually refined—they quickly became highly sought after... But this was all yet to come. At the moment, Guillaume had just started wearing the new shoes during the wedding of Prince Philip and Elizabeth, Duchess of Fujing, so most attention was focused there.

Of course, as planned, this event left Queen Anna run ragged. As for Louisa, thanks to Queen Anna's distrust, she leisurely skipped the wedding preparations. It wasn’t until Elizabeth of Fujing's bridal procession arrived at a town near the Île-de-France that Louisa was given her first real task.

Namely, serving as one of the two representatives in the bridal reception party at the castle where Elizabeth, Duchess of Fujing, was staying.

When Louisa had come to the Île-de-France to marry Guillaume, there had been a similar arrangement. The welcoming delegation required one man and one woman. Back then, the male representative was Prince Louis, Guillaume's half-brother—the Archbishop of Langcheng—while the female representative was the Duchess of Westminster. Both were eminently suitable in rank, being members of the royal family.

This time, the male representative remained Prince Louis, the Archbishop of Langcheng, while the female representative became Louisa... This was mainly because, realistically speaking, as the second-highest-ranking woman in the royal family, Louisa was the more appropriate choice—Queen Anna, the highest-ranking, naturally couldn’t go to welcome her own daughter-in-law.

Moreover, Queen Anna had previously been so overly guarded against Guillaume and Louisa that she refused to let them have any involvement in the wedding arrangements—despite the fact that this marriage was largely facilitated by Guillaume’s efforts...

Though Louisa herself didn’t mind—she had essentially stayed out of sight during the wedding preparations, and avoiding work suited her just fine—others didn’t see it that way. Under normal circumstances, no one would pass up such a high-profile opportunity! This wasn’t just about prestige; it was also a tangible way to gradually accumulate influence.

Just as Louisa had done in Brudo, gaining power required action—the principle was the same.

Perhaps to show she wasn’t being petty and that the royal family remained united, Queen Anna had no choice but to let Louisa serve as the welcoming representative. After all, while this role was visible and important, it didn’t involve actual responsibilities, meaning no real power was at stake—Louisa, of course, had no objections.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care about power. Even to secure some control over her own fate, she needed to grasp certain authority, just as she had in Brudo. But she understood clearly that competing with Queen Anna now was pointless. Not only would it look bad to outsiders, but with Queen Anna’s legitimate position as the rightful queen, Louisa would struggle to get her way.

The effort would far outweigh the gains—if there were any gains at all—so why bother?

Besides, she knew Guillaume would soon ascend the throne. When that happened, Queen Anna would naturally "yield her position," and Louisa could rightfully assume the role of lady of the household... What was the rush?

When Louisa and the Archbishop of Langcheng went to welcome the bride, their conduct was scrupulously proper—polite and proper, yet lacking warmth. This was only natural, as neither had met Elizabeth, Duchess of Fujing, before, and Prince Louis had to maintain distance from his future sister-in-law.

Yet in truth... Louisa did have some impression of Elizabeth, Duchess of Fujing, from the original tale. Though Elizabeth wasn’t a major supporting character entangled in some star-crossed affair with Prince Philip, the protagonist of the original tale, she had made an appearance.

To be precise, in the original story, she appeared as the wife of Prince François... Yes, that would be Prince Philip’s youngest full brother.

This was a case of the "butterfly effect." In the original novel, after Guillaume became Crown Prince, his engagement to Sophia of Potslia, the princess of a minor duchy, was broken off. Later, as some had hoped, he married Princess Alicia of Barron—those people still coveted her strong claim to Barron.

Meanwhile, Prince Philip, the protagonist of the original tale, married Eva, the heiress of Brudo, on schedule... This left Prince François as the odd one out. Thus, in the original story, after the royal family’s conflict with the Duke of Fujing, part of the spoils was realized through the marriage of Elizabeth, Duchess of Fujing, and Prince François.

But now, things were different. Prince Philip’s original fiancée, Louisa, had broken off the engagement and married Guillaume instead. As a result, Guillaume had nothing to do with Princess Alicia of Barron, and Queen Anna was now busy arranging a marriage between Princess Alicia and Prince François.

From this perspective, the only one left without a marriage prospect was Prince Philip, the protagonist of the original tale...

In that sense, it was also odd that Elizabeth, Duchess of Fujing, originally destined for Prince François, was now marrying him. Though the Western world had many kingdoms and duchies, making it seem like there were plenty of marriage options, at the highest levels, the standards were strict, and mesalliance was unthinkable. The marriageable prospects of suitable rank were always limited.

Though Louisa had some impression of Elizabeth, Duchess of Fujing, from the original tale, it was mostly based on her identity and her pairing with Prince François—in the original, Prince François had a notable presence, playing the role of a golden-hearted princeling.

When the protagonists were suffering over their star-crossed affair, he was the one offering encouragement... This kind of radiant prince, uninvolved in the main love story, was a genuinely appealing character. In a drama, he’d be the kind of role that shone independently.

So, Louisa truly couldn’t recall much about this highborn lady from the original tale. Her impression was that Elizabeth rarely appeared. There might have been mentions of her being beautiful... But honestly, in aristocratic circles, beauty was both currency and commonplace.

Compared to ordinary people, nobles have ample time, energy, and money to adorn themselves, and most can easily surpass the baseline of presentability. If they are young men or women in the prime of their youth, it goes without saying—they will inevitably possess some charm. As for beautiful people, one encounters plenty of them in noble circles.

However, the original novel’s official depiction does carry some weight, so Louisa isn’t surprised that Elizabeth of Fujing is a beauty far above the average—she is the sweet and charming type. From this perspective, she and Prince François are indeed well-matched. In Chinese terms, this would be called "looking like a matching couple."

Of course, Louisa merely thinks this to herself—she would never dare to publicly associate Prince François with Elizabeth of Fujing in this lifetime. Unlike in the original novel, Elizabeth is now set to marry Prince Philip, and that is the tangible "reality" before them.

During their brief meeting, it wasn’t just Louisa observing Elizabeth, the future bride—Elizabeth was also studying her.

She had long known that Louisa of Brudo, the renowned beauty of Vassin, would be her future sister-in-law and, barring any surprises, the Queen of Vassin to whom she would have to defer. Having never met Louisa before, Elizabeth was both curious and somewhat dismissive. After all, the bards who sang praises of Louisa tended to exaggerate, and Elizabeth had long stopped taking their verses seriously.

Louisa of Brudo was the heiress of Brudo, the current Crown Princess of Vassin, and would one day be its queen. Such status ensured that even if she were utterly unremarkable, she would never lack admirers. Even if her looks were plain, those who called her lovely would still be as numerous as the stars.

Yet Elizabeth was curious—partly out of simple curiosity about the unknown, but also because of her own personality. To put it plainly, Lady Elizabeth was deeply narcissistic. She was supremely confident in her own beauty, to the point of vanity. She was the type who would measure her neck, waist, and thighs with a tape, insisting they maintain "perfect proportions."

Moreover, in the name of "beauty," she had done many things that even by later standards could be called "extreme."

If that were all, it wouldn’t be a problem—what’s wrong with loving beauty? One could even argue it reflected discipline and self-control. But she had one flaw: she couldn’t stand others outshining her. If someone of equal or higher status surpassed her, she would stew in jealousy. And if they were beneath her, she would suppress them.

In this era, such a flaw wasn’t uncommon. In a patriarchal society, women—whether by choice or force—often struggled to escape the narrative of feminine rivalry.

With this "flaw," Lady Elizabeth predictably began to stew in jealousy upon meeting Louisa. Of course, while her inner turmoil was intense, outwardly it only manifested as a foul mood. Fortunately, with the wedding at hand, she knew better than to act out—only those familiar with her would notice her displeasure.

Still, some of her ladies-in-waiting had already picked up on it. In truth, one didn’t need to be particularly perceptive—just seeing Louisa and knowing Elizabeth’s temperament made it obvious.

Louisa was undeniably stunning. At just eighteen, the last traces of her girlishness were fading, leaving only a whisper of youthful delicacy. Otherwise, she was increasingly embodying the poise of a mature woman—well, Caucasian women did mature early. Some girls at fifteen or sixteen already carried themselves like adults.

This wasn’t a criticism. Unless one had a particular preference for girlish charm, anyone would admit that the present Louisa was even more beautiful. She had entered the peak of Caucasian beauty (generally, Caucasian women are lovely as children, go through an "ugly duckling phase" in adolescence, and then bloom between seventeen and twenty-five). Every aspect perfected.

Like the moon at its fullest, her radiance was like liquid silver.

The ladies-in-waiting were captivated by Louisa’s famous green eyes—the most celebrated in Vassin. They weren’t a perfect green, but they were absolutely right. The gray undertones lent her an ethereal freshness, like a misty forest—mysterious, deep, and hazy. One could easily believe fairies dwelled within.

Honestly, upon seeing her eyes, they barely noticed anything else. Later, when trying to recall the Crown Princess’s face, they found themselves drawing a blank.

It wasn’t until the next day, when the bridal procession resumed, that they could take in the rest of her.

Above those legendary eyes, Louisa wore a headband studded with white diamonds and sapphires, its brilliance almost blinding. Complementing this, her robe was cut from a single piece of gold-woven Eastern silk—unadorned with lace, pleats, jewels, or even embroidery. It needed none.

The silk shimmered magnificently under the sunlight, making it clear why such robes were left uncut and expansive. The silk itself was too exquisite to fragment, and there was no need to "enhance" it—it had no flaws.

This particular silk was exceptionally rare. While many silks were imported from the Far East, most were of middling or inferior quality. The finest were scarce, and this piece was among the very best—likely reserved in its homeland for royalty or high nobility.

Louisa, having been Chinese in her past life, knew a thing or two about silk. Though modern people generally understood little of it, the Hanfu enthusiasts had introduced her to wealthy ladies who commissioned robes from the finest silks. Through them, she’d gained "common knowledge" on the subject.

To her, this fabric would have been more than suitable for ancient Chinese noblewomen’s formal wear. Truly, only by seeing it firsthand could one grasp what "oozing luxury" meant—it was unmistakable.

Of course, in Louisa’s wardrobe, such fabric was high-tier but not exceptional. Wearing it for the bridal procession struck her as appropriately respectful without overshadowing the bride-to-be—hence why she’d even forgone a crown, opting only for the headband.

Yes, a headband. No matter how ornate the diamond-and-sapphire piece was, it remained, fundamentally, just a headband.

But Lady Elizabeth, the bride-to-be, was in no mood to appreciate Louisa’s "consideration." Privately, she grumbled to her maids: "What is the Crown Princess showing off about? Everyone knows Brudo’s wealth. Must she flaunt herself at another’s wedding, as if the rest of us lack fine clothes and jewels?"

This was looking for trouble. Anyone could see Louisa had toned things down as much as possible. Her attire was simply what her status demanded—anything less would have been unbecoming of a Crown Princess.

In fact, when Elizabeth married for real, she’d realize just how "restrained" Louisa had been during the procession and subsequent ceremonies.

With the bridal escort complete, Louisa had fulfilled her duty. As for the formal introduction ceremony between Lady Elizabeth and Prince Philip, there wasn’t much to say. Though she and Guillaume attended, they were little more than background characters—present out of obligation, given their positions.

"Prince Philip and Lady Elizabeth make such a perfect match," many remarked to Louisa after the ceremony.

Indeed, during their *first meeting*, Prince Philip appeared gentle and handsome, while Lady Elizabeth was lively and sweet, like an oak tree and a blossom tree side by side, earning continuous praise from everyone—perhaps only Louisa, due to Prince François from the original novel, couldn’t quite bring herself to agree that the two were a perfect match.

And it wasn’t just about Prince François. What Louisa couldn’t help dwelling on was Prince Philip and the original novel’s heroine, Sophia of Potslia… The two had yet to meet. If, as in the original novel, Sophia chose to work in the palace and they fatefully encountered each other, would they still fall in love?

Theoretically, yes. Though some circumstances had changed, the core situation was the same. Moreover, these two still possessed the inner and outer qualities that would make them fall for each other—the biggest variable now was Lady Elizabeth, who would become Prince Philip’s wife instead of Eva from the original novel.

It was Eva’s cruelty, even madness, in the original novel that left Prince Philip with no sympathy left for his wife. In fact, even if Eva had behaved as she did in the original, had she not died in childbirth, it was unclear if Prince Philip and Sophia would’ve ended up together. After all, this was the Middle Ages, and divorce was no easy feat.

Of course, given the cunning Prince Philip displayed in the original novel, Louisa had no doubt that if he truly desired it, he could have achieved it.

After the first meeting came several more days before the actual wedding. By then, though Louisa wouldn’t be as busy as the couple getting married, she certainly wouldn’t be idle either. Much like attending a wedding in later times, as a relative of the groom’s family—even one without responsibilities—she would inevitably have to show up daily.

Honestly, when the wedding day finally arrived, Louisa truly felt a sense of relief... Though there would still be days of celebration afterward, as someone of sufficient status, skipping an event here and there or sneaking off to relax wouldn’t be too difficult—after all, this wasn’t her own wedding, and Prince Philip, as an ordinary prince, couldn’t hold a candle to the Crown Prince’s back then.

If she had endured that, how much easier this would be!

The wedding day itself was pretty standard, following the same routine Louisa had experienced during her own wedding. It involved exchanging vows in a small chapel before a select group of witnesses, followed by a procession into the city... Well, it wasn’t as grand as the full-scale parade during Princess Catherine and Louisa’s wedding, since this wasn’t for a Crown Princess but merely an ordinary Princess Consort.

Even the gift-presenting ceremony was different. Instead of taking place at the highly symbolic and public gates of the Cité, it was held within the palace.

The gift-givers were no longer an all-encompassing representation of society, nor were the gifts themselves comparable in scale or grandeur.

Among the many gifts presented was one from Louisa! Her gift was simple—the safest choice: jewelry. It held value, was universally liked and useful, and suited her status perfectly.

Specifically, Louisa gifted a gold and gemstone-encrusted collar suitable for a man and a set of eight pearl bracelets, designed to be worn four on each arm. Anyone could tell—the former was for Prince Philip, and the latter for Princess Consort Elizabeth.