In a feudal age [IC, AltHist RP, Semi-open]

[Of the Quendi]

The Domains of Burgundy
The Royal Castle, the City of Arles
The Kingdom of Lower Burgundy

---

Claude Jehan des Moulin, Archdeacon of Josas

---

Through the dark Gothic corridors of the somber Royal Castle of the Kingdom of Lower Burgundy in the capital city of Arles a grim figure walked forth with determined steps forcing servants and commoners to frightfully move aside with trembling limbs and subservient bows. The figure was tall yet slender and dressed entirely in the dark robe of a dominican with the hat of an archdeacon resting on his head. Bony, dour and prematurely aged with balding white hair the figure bore an uncanny resemblance to the Grim Reaper and was widely considered to be a sorcerer or a vampire. Most people feared and shunned him. His name was Claude Jehan des Moulin and he was the archdeacon of Josas and one of the ministers of King Philip the Great of the Burgundies.

The archdeacon of Josas was a much celebrated figure at the upper Burgundian circles. He was a man of great knowledge and wisdom whose studies of law, medicine, science and theology where widely respected at the Burgundian court despite his young age of barely thirty six years. But he was also a man whose morose and stern mood had made him no true friends at the court of his liege and sole patron. His demeanor did not inspire friendship and solely the king, who had seen his intellectual prowess, had treated the archdeacon with anything but the callousness that council and court showed him. That was one of the reasons he was so agitated by the message he had received.

As the archdeacon reached his destination, the chambers of the lady Geneviève, heir to the Burgundian Domains, he slowed his steps knocking politely on the door to the heiress. The cold and stern archdeacon seemed almost pleasant, concerned, as he stood before the door of Lady Geneviève of Burgundy. A chambermaid opened and without giving her as much as a single look the archdeacon entered humbly.

Geneviève, Heiress of the Burgundies, was not the most beautiful woman in the world, far from it. For that her features was too ordinary and her form too modest. Even so none would describe the young heiress as anything but comely. Ordinary as her features was they lacked for no pleasantness or symmetry. Her dark hair and grey eyes was quite enticing and her expression was filled with vivid emotions, strong feelings and royal dignity. Her smiles, and they where many, where warm and inviting and her bearing regal. She was not the type of woman men would fight a war for rather she was the type of woman that men would make peace for. Or so it had been. Claude had no trouble imagining wars, devastating wars, being fought over lady Geneviève now.

For a moment the archdeacon stood quietly observing the young heiress. As was so often the case a book was resting on the lap of the king's daughter. That had always been Lady Geneviève's greatest fault, her endless fascination with knowledge and all sorts of unfeminine pursuits. To make matters worse she appeared to have been reading to her ladies, the daughters of the finest dignitaries of all the Burgundies, preaching even. The heiress caressed the book as where it her lover with her gentle and elegant hand and sighed. "L'Épistre de Othéa a Hector, where have you been all my life." The heiress mumbled. It was then that Claude, concerned by the unwomanly behavior of the heiress coughed with some of his usual brusqueness.

Geneviève looked up, and then the unthinkable happened; seeing des Moulin, the shunned and despised sorcerer from Paris, in her chambers brought a welcoming smile to her lips. "Archdeacon." She greeted Claude warmly with a graceful nod of her head. "To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?" Geneviève asked giving the archdeacon her undivided attention. Claude paused for a moment, then he sighed. My Lady." He spoke apologetically. "It is your father." A slight wrinkle formed on the otherwise flawless brow of the heiress and a glimpse of concern appeared in her eyes. "Yes?" She asked, making Claude wish to be anywhere but in her presence. "My Lady ..."

---

Sign-up and OOC thread

[Machtergreifung]

The Kingdom of Scotland
The Royal Castle of Stirling


Robert III, King of Scots

The King was old, that was plain for all to see. A man of sixty years old, he seemed worn down by the effort of ruling a realm as troublesome as Scotland. He seemed a shrunken figure, stitting on the wooden throne in the Great Hall of Stirling Castle on that dark winter's afternoon, under the pretense of a feast to celebrate the reign of Robert the Third.

What contributed even more to the shrunken aspect of the King was the two figures preparing to fight a battle over the old, dying King. Robert Stewart, Duke of Albany, brother to the King, was a man three years younger than his leige, yet reamined sound of mind and body. Denied the crown, Robert Stewart had turned his life towards amassing considerable lands and power for himself and his off-spring. He had enjoyed great success, he was one of the foremost men in the Kingdom, serving as a regent for the realm twice already, and his son, Murdoch, held the post of the Justiciar of Scotia, the foremost legal title in the realm.

Squaring off against him was young David Stewart, Duke of Rothesay, the King's firstborn son, a lad of twenty-two summers and destined for the crown. He had been apointed "Lieutenant of the Realm" in the face of his father's growing infirmity and his sucession seemed imminent. Young, with little experiance in politics and untested in battle, he seemed to be well outclassed by his uncle Albany, who had established himself a considerable power-base to depend upon.

On the fringes of the royal family sat young James, a lad of six years, who together with his older brother David, was all that stood between Albany and the throne. Old, frail King Robert might not have the sense remaining in him to understand it, but there were few of the nobility of Scotland that gathered in the windy Great Hall of Stirling Castle that joined him in his ignorance.

[Alleniana]

Basement, Palazzo di Arno, Pisa
The Council of 8 men, who chose the Consul biannually among them, had met again, along with their consul, Alberto di Pisa. This was his second term as Consul, but he had served as Councillor for many years, and before that, as one of the popularly elected Signores, of which there were 256, and who were elected from anyone, and chose Councillors from among themselves. It was a nice system that had developed in Pisa, nothing like the patriciates of, say, Florence, and formerly Genoa. Indeed, Alberto di Pisa had come from a poor market vendor's family from just outside the walls as 3rd child. He was rare, but it happened. Pisa drew talent towards itself like those mysterious metal rocks they had seen in the market recently drew other pieces of metal.

Sitting around an old table in a cellar, a surprisingly down-to-earth location for such rich people, though well guarded, they began to talk business. Alberto, as always, despite his fragility and age, spoke first.
"So, councillors, it is good to see you. I know you're all well, so let's get onto business."
He paused for a moment, coughing in an odd way that sounded like a sort of quiet hacking away, then resumed, continuing to talk.
"The University has purchased the block of land, and they are due to begin building. They expect it will have to close for some time, bout our good studium can handle that. They, however, are unsure about what to build in their expansive new location, and have drafted this list.
He put a piece of parchment on the table; all of them there were literate, which, though not common, was not unusual among the higher class people.

Orto di Pisa (Botanical & pleasure garden)
Grande Palazzo (Grand hall)
Edificio di umanista (Humanities building)
Duomo sapienza (Theology)
Facoltà giustizia (Law school)
Accademia di medico (Medical academy)
Università ospitare (Lodgings)
Gestione ediliza (Administrative building)
Torre di scuola (Tower)
Collegio retorica (Logic, inc. maths)

They studied it for a few seconds before one councillor piped up.
"Lodgings? Is that really necessary?"
Alberto responded,
"Not essential, but it certainly helps to attract scholars and students when they have a good place to live within the university. And besides, we sort of started a craze across Europe when we built the first ever one in the old University of Pisa."
Satisfied, the councillor nodded, but another question came from elsewhere.
"So, this is Pope approved?"
"The last one was, this is the same thing, just in a different place."
More queries came from around the cherry-wood table.
"What's the tower for?"
"The last one we built leans. We need a proper bell, viewing and landmark tower for the city."
"Fair enough. Maybe next order of business should be repair of the old one."
The councillor who had asked about the lodgings spoke again, with the last question.
"This... garden. That's interesting. Does any other university have one?"
"Nope."
Coughing again in his unusual way, Alberto turned away, then back.
"Alright then, so it's pretty much settled then."
Nods came from around the table.
"Right-o, onto the next thing, then. Perhaps repairing that old cathedral bell tower that leans?"

[Kottonian Noblemen]

The Duchy of Bavaria

Munich, old stronghold

Bavarian diet, anno domini 1400

"His highness, Duke Wilhelm III. of Bavaria-Munich, Bavaria-Straubing, Bavaria-Landshut, Bavara-Ingolstadt, Count of Scheyern and Niederbayern, Baron of Wittelsbach, herewith disposes the "Law of Primogeniture" to avoid any future division of the Duchy. The former fragment-duchies headquartered in Munich, Straubing, Landshut and Ingolstadt will be reunified to the Duchy of Bavaria, headquartered in Munich"
Wilhelm was sitting on his wooden throne, while the herald annunciated the new law.
His succesors shouldn't have to fight for the Duchy like he had to. He knew that this was an importante step to enable the Bavarian line of the Wittelsbachs act in the politics in- and outside of the "Imperium sacrum",
the Holy Roman Empire.
But his power still wasn't completly certain. He ascended the throne only three years ago and he waged war against the other bavarian nobles. He would use this diet to insure himself of the loyality of his vassals and to let them pledge their loyality.
He knew that his brother Ernst was standing somewhere in the shadows behind his throne.
Could he be sure about his loyality?
After all Ernst should be the Duke now, not him, but he ruined his chances with his father, so Wilhelm became Duke.
Time will show how Ernst stands to Wilhelm.

[Of the Quendi]

The City of Pavia
The Kingdom of Italy
The Holy Roman Empire

---

Conrad III, Holy Roman Emperor

February 21st, 1401

---

The solemnly hushed mumbles of lords and bishops close to him awoke Conrad of Luxembourg, called Conrad III, Holy Roman Emperor, King of the Romans, King of Germany, King of Italy, from his uneasy feverish slumber. Barely lucid Conrad squinted his red eyes in an attempt to focus and discern what his retainers said in their hushed voices. "… Won't last the night …" "… Entire campaign a folly …" "… Hundreds perished …" "… Papal arms gathering …" Those where the fragments of sentences that Conrad heard and they terrified him.

Things had all started so well for him, Conrad thought bitterly. The year 1401 of the Lord would have finally marked his rise as the most powerful man in Europe, no longer subject to the whims of his ambitious vassals or that Orsini pope. A surprise crossing of the Alps at winter time with a small force of his finest troops able to quickly join forces with the Guelphic forces in Italy and the enemies of the corrupt Orsini papacy would have decisively asserted the primacy of the Emperor over the Pope. And for a time it had looked like success. A large army had been gathered in the winter and marched from Aachen to the forest cantons. Five thousand men he had had when he began ascending the Alps.

But providence had robbed him of what looked to be a triumph. The weather had steadily deteriorated becoming harsh and rough and cold. In the mountains the army had advanced only slowly due to the heavy snow that fell and most of the supply wagons had been abandoned. Hungry, cold and increasingly believing it to be God's will that they should not war against the pope Conrad's men had lost heart. And he himself had lost his health. In the cold winter even Emperor's was not spared from sickness and disease.

And now Conrad was dying slowly in a castle with his army while the Orsini was gathering his allies throughout Italy to crush those Imperial allies, the Colonna, the Republics of Ancona and Bologna, the County of Urbino, the Duchy of Spoleto and all the other enemies of the pope who had hoped for Imperial aid. They could all burn, Conrad decided, if only God would spare him, the Emperor. Feeling his feverish body tremble at the thought of purgatory and the fires of hell Conrad began quietly sobbing. "I don't want to die." He tried to entreat with whatever saints would listen. But it was his magnates that offered reply. "He is delirious, I have to administer a leeching." The Imperial Physician declared. Conrad desperately tried to refute the doctor but the greatest prince of Europe no longer commanded his own voice.

~*~

Like the two headed eagle that was the sigil of his mighty empire Conrad was soaring above the ground looking down on the city of Pavia from high above, which was odd as the Emperor did not recall having ever before managed to fly. Somehow it seemed a most unusual thing to do yet Conrad could not quite be bothered to think much on it. He felt so very light headed, almost elated, as if all of his earthly worries had been lifted. Maybe that was how he managed to fly?

Hoovering for a while over Pavia Conrad noticed with increasing indifference the poor state of the small army gathered at the city and the vicious glances the people of Pavia was casting at it. His army, yet was unconcerned with it and when he began to fly southwards his gaze readily abandoned the army to its own devices, and drifted towards Rome.

The eternal city was filled with gleeful crowds gathering around a procession carrying Orsini and papal banners of Alexander VI the Pope who was in the middle of the procession on his sedia gestatoria followed by his cardinals. His ungainly features was twisted in a smug triumph that for some reason could no longer infuriate Conrad. The self-satisfied old pope was no longer Conrad's concern even if he realized that what the people of Rome celebrated was the defeat of the Emperor. But not all cheered, men with knives and swords approached Alexander VI with determined grimaces, unseen by both Pope and Cardinals, to end the Orsini pontificate.

Conrad tried to smile, remembering that such a thought should be pleasing to him, but in truth he cared only slightly more about the approaching death of Alexander VI than he had about his own army and when he began to rise through the layers of the air towards the skies Conrad looked away.

He rose rapidly until Rome was but a tiny dot beneath him and the Alps, the mountains that had undone him, seemed little more than small knolls and he looked the sky, anxious to see the Kingdom of Heaven unfold before his eyes. Behind the veil of the clouds the rays of the sun emanated light from Heaven down towards him and the world bellow him. But just when Conrad thought that he was near paradise a glimmer of interest prompted him to look down upon the world. For a moment he saw nothing, but then from the earth too emanated a light, though of a different nature. Fire.

Spreading from Rome and Pavia a fire was ravaging the Earth. The fire of change. It soon reached from Italy where Cardinals bickered amongst one another while plotting with intriguing Italian lords and deep into the Holy Roman Empire where armies and princes rose and did battle against one another in a quest for a crown. And it spread further into France where a weak king saw his land divided between foreign Kings and upstart vassals.

Hoovering midway between Heaven and Earth Conrad in a moment of clarity pondered if what was beneath him was Hell. For now the fire had reached every corner of the continent bringing war and treachery to even the most remote of places and there was no refugee from the chaos. But Conrad's eyes began to betray him and both the view of Heaven and Earth began to fade and somewhere far away Conrad heard the voice of his physician, little more than a whisper, declare; "The Emperor. Conrad III, our Holy Roman Emperor, has passed away."

[Alleniana]

Basement, Palazzo di Arno, Pisa
The Emperor was dead. The Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, King of Germany, ruler of one of the largest and most power areas of land in Europe, if in a very decentralized way, was gone. And now, Pisa had to deal with it. The University had been building on its new grounds when the news had come through, and immediately, in respect to the man whose predecessors had helped make Pisa great, and a highly respectable and powerful figure besides, a day of mourning had been declared. On that day of mourning, the Council convened to decide what should be done.

The mood was subdued as the nine men filed into the room they had been in so recently. Once again, Alberto was the first to speak.
"So, our feudal leader is dead."
Nobody was sure how to respond. Alberto filled the silence.
"I will have our cardinal make a journey to the city and lead his archdiocese in saying prayers. We ought to pay respect to him, despite his shortcomings and failures. It would do well to curry our favor."
Meandering into the realm of politics now, the others opened up.
"Won't this offend any Papal factions?"
"I doubt it. We are going about it in a rather religious way, similar to how we might respect any other great leader. Besides, they'e busy."
"Hmm... alright then."
Similar discussions went on for about half an hour before the preparations were finally made, a few other issues talked about and the convened departed, exchanged salutations. They would probably have to meet sometime soon, but for now, they stepped into the street, under the watchful of the the Tower That Leans.

[Kottonian Noblemen]

The Duchy of Bavaria

Munich, Church of St-Peter

Mass for remembrance of the dead Emperor

"...imperator magnus bonusque erat, bello domique. Honorem et gloriam imperii sacri auxit. Requiescat in pacem.
In nomini patris et filii et spiritu sancti.", prayed the priest.
"Amen!"
(...he was a great and benevolent emperor, in times of war and peace. He increased the honour and glory of the holy empire. May he rest in piece.)
The faithfulls:"Amen."

Duke Wilhelm sat on his balcony, together with the rest of the ducal family and the dignitarys of the city of Munich.

"The people really believe everything you tell them", he thougt
"Or they would at least if they understood Latin. But some things just aren't determined for the simple man's ears. They don't need to know everything."
For Wilhelm himself, the Emperor's death was very favourable. While all the bigger houses would fight each other to set the next emperor, he would use the coming power vacuum to expand the Duchy.
The Upper Palatinate. Reincorporate Salzburg into the Duchy. Maybe even Tyrol. Maybe Bavaria would reach its size from 976, when it ranged from Nürnberg in the north to the sea in the south! He would be the greatest of all Dukes.
But at the moment that's all just pipe dreams. He wasn't even married yet. And then there was Ernst. Wilhelm was sure that his brother would be plotting against him. But what should he do? Should he murder him? Should he banish him? Anyway he should double his guard and set spies on him. Thw hole day. The whole night. Ernst should never be able to move anywhere again without him knowing it.

He would find evidences against him, by hook or by crook.

[Of the Quendi]

The Domains of Burgundy
The Royal Castle, the City of Arles
The Kingdom of Lower Burgundy

---

Geneviève de Bourgogne, Countess of Flanders

---

The King of Burgundy, rightful Lord of France, had in his life been an imposing shadow towering over Geneviève, his sole surviving offspring, and most of the Princes and Kings of Europe. Philip the Great had been a force of nature brining under the domain of his enduring Burgundian dynasty large tracts of lands in what had once been Middle Francia. More than twice the territory he had inherited from his father Hugh the Bold did he rule over and only very narrowly had he lost the title of Holy Roman Emperor.

But for all his imposing accomplishments and glory the man Geneviève, clad all in black with a veil covering her pale face, stood above was nothing like the mighty sire she had known. The King was dying, and not quietly or peacefully. With the remnants of former greatness the large corpulent figure lying before Geneviève roared out in pain from the festering wound in his leg that emanated a nauseating stench in the entire royal bedchamber.

Every roar of her father, roars that even now was filled with the rage and zest that had characterized Philip the Great's entire life, made Geneviève tremble. The royal physician, Charles Montague, was desperately trying to cure the King and had been for four days. At first he, and with him all the court, had been hopeful. Once the King had been washed the wounds he had sustained when his horse fell upon him had seemed rather benign. A few broken bones certainly but that was nothing new to King Philip. Geneviève had somehow known better. As if God himself had sought to prepare her for the dignity she had never desired; and now her father was dying from a small wound no one had thought much of. Soon she would be Queen.

Montague sighed looking down at Geneviève not bothering to conceal his frustrations about asking her permission. "Lady Geneviève." He spoke with all the smug superiority a man would use to address a woman on a matter too complex for the female mind. "We must leech the King. There is too much yellow bile in ..." The doctor lectured before Geneviève coldly cut him of. "No." She plainly commanded. The doctor sighed. "My Lady ..." He insisted, receiving the same reply this time more forcefully. "No, doctor."

The man sighed, and not for the first time Geneviève cursed herself for not having insisted her father appoint a Jew or Saracen to the position of royal physician. Geneviève doubted Montague had even read Avicenna, much less knew how to employ the teachings of that great scholar. "My Lady, if you will not let me administer a leeching I must amputate your father's leg." The doctor insisted. A jolt went through Geneviève as the thought she had tried to suppress for two days was spoken by another. The proposition sounded wiser. Clearly the corruption was spreading from her father's leg so severing it should suffice to halt it. But that was the professional medical assessment void of human emotions.

Looking down on her father Geneviève thought back on her memories of him. Though they had never been close Geneviève had always felt loved, even if at a distance, by her father who had always stood as a semi-mythical figure so much larger than life in her mind. Always out warring or hunting someplace sending small souvenirs to Geneviève he was a man who had in his fifty eight years lived a fuller life than three ordinary men. Taking his leg, letting him live his last years as an infirm cripple unable to do all the things that had filled his life that would be torture. But Geneviève did not wish to be fatherless. But as she hesitated the King of the Burgundies in a moment of clarity grabbed her forcefully by the arm causing her to shriek. Fixating Geneviève with his cold grey eyes Philip the Great spoke pulling her close. "Better dead." He ordered adamantly.

~*~

Sobbing quietly underneath her veil Geneviève walked through the halls of her father's chambers filled with hunting trophies and martial honors. No more stuffed boars and seized banners would be hoarded in the gothic Castle of Arles she knew. She entered the large throne room where her ladies awaited her. But they where not alone. A dozen men, nobles and clergy both, awaited her pleasure in the throne room. The Royal Council of the Burgundies, her father's ministers.

The archdeacon of Josas immediately detached himself from the sour group and moved towards Geneviève. "Lady, are you well?" He asked sympathy clear in spite of the man's grim appearance. "Well enough archdeacon." Geneviève assured as she composed herself. No more words where exchanged between the pair of them before the Count of Nevers, her father's cousin, stepped forth. Count Raynald was a large man in every sense of the word who towered over Geneviève and no doubt weighed twice if not thrice as much as she. He was a boisterous and proud man who had been her father's closest friend and chief minister. Geneviève was terrified of him.

The count, dressed in the full regalia of a Burgundian prince, bowed courteously, yet not reverently, before Geneviève. "My Lady, the council of Burgundy grieves with Your Ladyship for the misfortune that has befallen your Lord Father, our King." The Count spoke formally his facial expression void of the emotions Geneviève did not doubt he felt. "Yet even in dark times the affairs of the Kingdom must be tended to. As Your Ladyship are aware the recent defeat of the Waldensians had led your father to conclude that it was time to reassert the Burgundian claims on the French throne. Fortune favors the bold it seems, the French king is struck by madness and his court divided by the designs of our supporters. If we act expediently we may ..." The Count spoke, shocking Geneviève by his words. War? Her father had not yet died and his closest friend desired to throw thousands of lives away for a war over land. "No." Geneviève insisted, interrupting the Count.

The Count paused confused and stunned by the defiance. For a brief moment Geneviève felt a tingle of enjoyment at his look of utter confusion break through her grief. Then the Count blushed and his demeanor turned cold. "I beg your pardon My Lady?" He growled at Geneviève. "I will not war against our neighbors while my father yet draws breath." Geneviève spoke, trembling fearfully before the powerful and threatening magnate who she daunted to defy. "I see." The Count replied incredulously. Geneviève nodded. "I will pursue with diplomatic means the rights and claims of my House, My Lord, but I will not begin my reign with war and bloodshed." The young heiress declared her voice trembling.

For a moment the Count and the Princess stood before one another both unwilling to bend. Then the Count, who hopefully could not hear how fast Geneviève's heart was pounding, bowed very lightly before Geneviève. "As My Lady desires." He spoke venomously, caving, before stepping back towards the rest of the council that for the most part seemed shocked at the impudence of Geneviève. A shock she herself shared.

[United Nez Perce]

The County of Montbéliard
Chateau de Montbeliard

A gentle wind blew through the air as the doors of Montbeliard Castle's largest church opened and Pierre de Sauveterre stepped out into the open, taking a deep breath of air after having spent several hours in the stuffy confines of the building. Walking slowly to where his carriage and driver awaited, he let his thoughts wander to the matter of his elder sister, Agathe. The memory of her husband's death was still strong in her mind, and the woman had almost exclusively spent her time since being widowed shut away in her bedchambers, admitting few visitors and speaking in a cold emotionless tone. Pierre wondered whether his sister had truly been sent into a long period of mourning, or whether she was just putting on a show to try and attract the attention of sympathetic suitors, of whom there were certainly many since her elevation to the status of Dowager Queen of Burgundy.

The pudgy Count heaved himself into the seat of his carriage, leaning back against the hard wood as he ordered his driver to return to the manor. Pierre preferred traveling this way. He had never been a very good horseman and his awkward weight meant that he usually felt uncomfortable riding. The carriage plodded along slowly through the streets of the castle, it's passenger turning his head from left to right as they passed the various workshops and hovels that dotted the area along the route to the keep. The local peasantry were mostly going about their daily chores, but as the cart drew nearer the driver suddenly pulled up on the reigns and brought it to an abrupt halt.

Confused, Pierre leaned slightly out of his seat to see what had happened. His eyes met the sight of an elderly woman, clad in rags and caked with mud, who appeared to have fallen in the middle of the road as she attempted to cross it. The driver of the carriage let out a low curse and motioned for her to get out of the way. Pierre slowly clambered down out of his seat and approached the spot where the woman lay, ignoring his driver as the man turned in surprise.

"My lord, please resume your seat. I shall deal with this piece of dirt."

"No need for that." The Count called back as he bent slightly to gaze at the woman. She turned her head slowly at the sound of his heavy footsteps and looked into his face with watery, fearful eyes.

"Your grace, please forgive me. I--I'll be out of your way."

She attempted shakily to get to her feet, but fell back as her legs failed her. Pierre turned to his driver and spoke.

"Get down and help this woman to her feet. Escort her across the road and..."

He rummaged for a second in the folds of his robes, drawing out a small purse of leather which contained one or two coins.

"...give this to her."

The driver raised an eyebrow and hesitated for a moment, but obeyed his masters orders and stepped down. As he raised the old woman under her arms and helped her to the other side of the road, Pierre turned and plodded back to his seat, quietly calling after her.

"May the lord watch over you, good woman."

The driver returned and they soon resumed their course, moving past the small group of citizens that had gathered to watch the incident.


Back in the manor, Pierre sat gazing over several scrolls of parchment laid out upon a desk. The dim light of several candles illuminated the otherwise dark room as the sun slowly set outside. Flicking his thumb through the documents, the Count came upon one that grabbed his attention. It was a letter from his Bishop, Raynald of Montbeliard, and the text spoke rather emphatically of the man's second request for his liege to address the issue of elevating his diocese into an Archdiocese, representing the county in the election of a local clergyman to the College of Cardinals. Pierre scratched his chin. His county was very small, to be sure, and he knew that his Burgundian lieges were already in a position to elect their own man to the Cardinalship. But having a representative of his own, as a distinct symbol of the County of Montbeliard, would certainly help give him an increased influence in not just regional but also international religious politics.

The Count set aside the letter and took a drink from a cup of wine near his hand. This was something to consider. He would make a point of addressing such an issue the next time he spoke with his Bishop. With any luck, the church leaders would agree to his request.

[Eaglleia]

The Kingdom of England
London
Palace of Westminister

"Your Grace?" The timid voice of the young messenger standing in front of him shook Henry out of his thoughts, which he had been cast into when the boy had delivered the shocking and sudden news, which had stunned much of the court into harsh whispers and mutterings. The Holy Roman Emperor, Conrad the third, had passed. Though perhaps by and far more shocking was the death-assassination!-of His Holiness, the Pope Alexander VI. The court was indeed shocked. Though, Henry himself reacted differently, drifting into thought rather than into shocked whispering. To the death of the Holy Roman Emperor, there was little or nothing he could do to affect anything on that end-apart from holding considerable hopes that it wasn't a Burgundian elected to the Imperial Throne, lest they use the power that came with it to claim his rightful Crown of France-but he could, perhaps, offset that by influencing the affairs in the Holy City...to see a good, pious, and above all loyal Englishman become the Vicar of Christ.

"You may go." Henry informed the messenger-boy. The messenger bowed and left. "Thomas." He motioned his Minister over. "Come with me." His usual posse would follow in any case, they needn't to be told. For a brief, paranoid moment he briefly wondered if underneath the suits of armour of the men there to guard him, there might be the very thing he needed guarding from-an assassin. After all, it had happened to the Pope Alexander, so why not to him? There were still those who called him an usurper. Those few who remained loyal to Richard. But no, he knew each man, having selected them personally. He had slept in his armour for some time out of fear. The moment passed and Henry simply sighed. "You may all go." He announced, addressing the rest of the court. "Go." He repeated, louder, as some of the muttering impudently continued. "Come, Thomas." Henry stood up, and began to walk out the other way, followed by his servants, guards and Minister. "What do you think?"

"Your Grace?" The man seemed confused.
"Conrad and Alexanders deaths." Henry clarified. "What do you think they mean, and ought we to do something about them?" Henry believed the man capable, and already knew what he wanted to do. He just wanted to see if the young Earl of Stafford could give the same answer. He had proved himself capable so far, after all, and had much potential to rise higher.
"I..." Thomas mulled it over in his head. "Perhaps we could do something to attempt to prevent a Burgundian claiming the throne of the Holy Roman Empire, perhaps help some of their opponents in whatever way we can. I believe we should encourage and assist Cardinal....Welbus, perhaps....to become Pope, Your Grace."
Henry nodded. "Good. I thought the same. Now come with me, I want you to help me compose a letter to our Cardinal."
"Of course, your grace." Thomas replied, following the King to his own quarters.

---

The candle flickered in the breeze as Henry finished scrawling his signature on the letter to Augustine. "Your Grace." Thomas began. Henry did not interrupt, and he took it as a sign to continue. "There is another issue at hand, the death of another great man of Europe-your would be great enemy, Phillip. The messenger found himself delayed, but I thought you would wish to know soon. He died of an infection in his wound, just yesterday." Henry said nothing. He hadn't given much thought to the man beyond what future conflicts to two may have had, though for a King entitled the Great to die of a wound infection seemed a great shame, if naught else.
"Who then shall inherit the throne of Burgundy now?" He inquired.
"Her Grace, Princess Geneviève shall ascend to the rank of Queen." Thomas answered, dutifully as ever.
"A woman, is it?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Henry drummed his fingers on the table in thought. "Will she...make war, do you think?" England was still recovering economically from the Edwardian phase of the Great War. It was possible, Henry was acutely aware, that it would not be completely ready again, until well into his sons reign. 'We lost much of Edwards land under Richard...but Hal....'. Prince, Henry, or Prince Hal, as he was known familiarly, had already proven himself a brilliant military commander and leader, even at his young age. 'Born to be great, some would say.' Henrys thoughts were broken again by the Earl Stafford.
"I cannot claim to know, Your Grace. Our people tell me she is very much against war. Still, I do not trust the Burgundians. She could be fickle and fell, claiming as they ever do your rightful crown. She may choose to make war, but I think that we can say, from what we know, that she does not-all the same, there is no harm to being ready..." Thomas pondered the issue. "Perhaps, Your Grace, you ought write your sympathies to her for the death of her father. And I have another suggestion...Her Grace is unmarried, so too is your son. With a few negotiations, you could unite the claims and conquer France, your grandchildren would be Kings and Queens of Burgundy, France and England. Though not now. Now is too soon, too near to the grief over her father. We should wait, but not too long." Henry thought over what he had said, though the lack of a response seemed to imply disapproval to Thomas. "...Did I offend Your Grace with my impetuosity?" There was nervousness there.
"No, no, Thomas, you have pleased me with your cleverness." A praise or two never hurt, especially when it was perhaps well deserved. Still, there was some difference in age to consider, even if not particularly significant, and he may not be the only King in England interested in such an issue. But waiting was more courteous, if nothing else, and not disrespectful of her father. "Come, stay until I finish writing to Her Grace, and then we can dine together whilst we discuss a suitable reward for your loyal services." Thomas practically beamed, but only nodded obligingly in response.

To Her Grace, Geneviève, Queen of Burgundy,

Your Grace, We offer Our condolences for the death of Your father, King Phillip, who, by and far was deserving of his title 'the Great.' Though We were not always in agreement with Him, His Grace was truly deserving of his title, and deserved not such a death. We are sorry for Your loss. Secondly, We congratulate you in your coronation, and hope your reign and rule shall be met with great success in time to come, being long and prosperous. The memory of King Phillip, We are certain, shall live on for many an age, and he shall be missed and mourned by many.

Sincerely,

His Grace, Henry IV, King of England.

Henry considered adding the title King of France, though creating more antagonism was not needed, and to be avoided. Thus he simply styled himself the King of England in his letter, which was then sent off to Burgundy. Another letter traveled with it, though would head farther south, into the Holy City, to reach the eyes of Cardinal Augustine Welbus, who may yet, or so it was hoped, become the Pope.

[Of the Quendi]

The Domains of Burgundy
Church of St. Trophime, the City of Arles
The Kingdom of Lower Burgundy Arelat

---

Juniper Regina Burgundiōnes

---

The interior of the Church of St. Trophime, cathedral church of the city of Arles, was dimly lit, its exquisite romanesque sculptures casting long and twisted shadows down on the magnates and dignitaries of the Royal Burgundian Court. Surrounded by the saints as the smell of incense overwhelmed her senses Geneviève slowly advanced up the nave of the cathedral feeling like she was in a different world. Above the altar of the cathedral was a magnificent depiction of the last judgement, a horrid remainder to mankind of the hell that awaited the sinners. Geneviève wondered, did her father, that larger than life figure she had thought immortal, suffer now in purgatory?

For a moment as Geneviève's eyes widened at the graphic depiction of sinners suffering the fires of hell. The Princess halted her slow and ceremonious advance towards the altar and the awaiting archbishop; the thought of her father in hell too horrible not to stun her. A mumble broke out among the assembled nobles as the Countess of Flanders paused. A friendly voice whispered. "My Lady please." Geneviève nodded slowly, identifying the voice as that of her precious handmaiden and friend Christine. Then she continued her advance towards the altar under the scrutinizing eyes of the Burgundian magnates, the Count of Nevers chief among them.

Reaching the altar Geneviève kneeled before it making the sign of the cross as her handmaidens arranged her magnificent coronation robe behind her. The archbishop of Arles, a grandson of Joan of France, and as such a relative of Geneviève and yet a scion of the true-born Capetian house of Burgundy, stepped towards Geneviève extending his hand to help her rise. Then he led her forward. To where a throne awaited her.

The coronation ceremony was no ostentatious affair. Ordinarily the ceremony would have been held in Lyon but the Council, and the Count of Nevers especially, had insisted on expediency. That was why, just two days after the demise of her father, before his funeral, Geneviève was to be crowned Queen of Lower Burgundy. The haste had to do with the tragic death of Conrad III in Italy, and the Imperial Election prompted by it. It was not often such elections took place and at the last election Geneviève's father had only narrowly let the imperial mantle slip him by. This time the council wanted Burgundy's voice to be heard.

Geneviève cared not. What was it to her which man sat the throne. Bohemia, Austria could be as good as one of the smaller german principalities, neither made any difference to her. She considered none a friend, and none worthy of the dignity. Her father was dead. What man could hope to be but half as suited for the title of emperor? None she was willing to wager.

As the Countess of Flanders pondered the election with nothing but dislike and contempt the archbishop of Arles gently guided her through the steps of the ceremony. Geneviève apathetically went through the motions with no enthusiasm. Only when the archbishop administered the eucharist for her did she live up and honor the sacred ritual set forth by the Savior with her undivided attention. Then, when she was anointed with the sacred oil she knelt before the archbishop receiving her sceptre and orb before finally the prelate lifted for all to see the crown of the Kingdom of Arelat. "Behold, people of Burgundy, the sovereign crown of Arles." The archbishop creed.

Then, as he still held the ornate crown high above Geneviève's head, he led the congregation in the Pater Noster. "Pater noster, qui es in caelis ..." He prayed with the congregation, Geneviève serenely mumbling along, finding some solace in the prayer and the hope that God would see her father safely to Heaven and spare him purgatory. As the prayer was done the archbishop completed the ceremony. "In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, ex hoc ego corona, regina Arelatensi. Diu viveri, Juniper Regina Burgundiōnes." The archbishop proclaimed placing the heavy crown on Geneviève's head.

As she rose from her kneeling position and walked towards her throne the congregation repeated the words, this time in French "Long live Juniper Regina, Long live the Queen, long live the Queen, long live the Queen." The shouted as Geneviève slowly got seated on her new throne looking out on her subjects. From the Count of Nevers whose lips barely moved, over her skeptic magnates, lay and spiritual alike, to the large and diverse crowd in the church; they where now all her people. To her, from God, their welfare was entrusted. As the mass began in earnest Juniper Regina said a private prayer to the Virgin Mary. "Help me to help them." She whispered quietly.

~*~

After the mass had ended Geneviève, Queen of Burgundy, exited the cathedral first, followed by her handmaidens and retainers as the organ beautifully played a postludium written specifically for the occasion by Geneviève's favorite composer. A cheering crowd greeted their new queen as she advanced towards a royal carriage to take her back to the royal castle. As she entered the coronation coach trumpets was sounded and as the wagon began rolling towards the castle the people of Arles flocked around the carriage to catch a glimpse of their new queen.

From the luxurious interior of the coach Geneviève, in solitary majesty, observed her subjects waving gracefully while maintaining an immaculate regal facade. There where cheers and there where joy in her subjects eyes but also grief and mourning for the dead king, fear of what the new regime would bring. Geneviève saw it in the eyes of the wealthy merchant families glancing down on her from their apartments as well as in the eyes of the paupers and commoners in the street. Young and old, rich and poor, man and woman all looked on her with weary concern but also with hope.

Her father had oft been called Father of the Nation. A fair epithet as there had been little nation before he created it with fire and steel and blood. Yet though Geneviève had loved her own father and prayed that he was now in the care of the Savior she was not blind to the faults of the man. So much fire and steel and blood, too much, had her father claimed when he crafted his Burgundy. So many of his subjects had died for the creation of the Burgundian Realm, or even in pointless foreign and civil wars. Geneviève could not rule thus. She would not rule thus.

As the coronation coach brought her closer to the looming grim with its eight irregularly built towers and linking curtail walls Geneviève contemplated what kind of Queen she intended to be. If her father had been the Father of the Nation, and like a harsh sire raised it to be strong and independent then Geneviève would be country a gentle and kind mother, a teacher and guide offering comfort and warmth. Yes, she would be her country a benevolent ruler. Her first order; she would pardon all lesser criminals. The time for torture, executions and undue incarcerations would be at an end. She would temper the inquisition, its righteous and desirable work all too often turned into mindless brutality and oppression. And what of the poor? The Romans of old had distributed to its paupers a grain dole what stopped Burgundy from doing the same. She would bring to her people education, mandate that every parish priest take time to teach the young, of both sex, in each parish to read and write. Those who showed skill could then be sent to real diocesan schools. She would bring her people healthcare, she would introduce a certificate for those midwives practicing medicine in her land protecting them from ignorant accusation of witchcraft. Yes, much and more would she do to make her people prosper as no people since the time of the House of David.

Geneviève smiled out on her subjects nodding solemnly. "My people." She whispered affectionately as if addressing a lover. "My beloved people. I am your Queen and you are my people, my children. I am your mother and you are my children, and in me you shall find a mother every bit as compassionate as the ones who brought you into this world. Mary, Mother of God, Theotokos, guide me to be my children a good mother. To create for them a Kingdom of Heaven, a Land of Milk and Honey, a Garden of Eden, not in the afterlife or in the distant deserts of Palestine but right here and right now." Geneviève prayed with great zeal and as she did so her grief began to fade. Her father was dead but his daughter would serve his subject well. Philip had made Burgundy great his daugther would make it blessed. "My children I swear, I shall be for you, all that a mother is for her children. Let other princes fight for land and glory, for the imperial mantle, I shall fight for you and your happiness for it shall be as dear to me as my own, nay more so. I swear it on the Virgin and on her son; may God help me." The young queen pledged.

As Geneviève prayed her coronation coach had reached her castle and entered its courtyard across its moat. She exited to renewed cheers from her children, which on the special occasion had been allowed entry to the courtyard, and as she waved to them she smiled a smile restrained by no regal demeanor but filled with love and mirth. As she walked towards the gates of the castle half a dozen riders arrived led by the Count of Nevers. The man quickly jumped from his horse leaving it to his guardsmen to see it tended to as he walked quickly towards Geneviève. Waving one last time at her children Geneviève entered the dark keep, closely followed by the count.

Barely had the pair of them entered before the Count turned towards Geneviève, demanding attention. "A beautiful ceremony Your Majesty; for a beautiful queen." The man spoke with something in his voice and gaze that Geneviève could not quite identify but misliked as he complimented her. "It gave me little joy to be crowned Queen of my father's kingdom when he is not yet in the ground." Geneviève spoke in light reproach. For a moment a look of sorrow for his dead friend showed on the face of the mighty magnate but then he shrugged, the moment of weakness giving way to callousness. "A necessity I fear. Not the only one either. The Holy Roman Empire is in turmoil and Burgundy must thread carefully in the days to come." He callously declared.

Geneviève detected some ill suppressed emotion in her father's best friend and chief minister, the man wanted badly to say her something that much was clear. "Another ... Necessity?" She asked wearily seeing a glimpse of desire in the eyes of the magnate. He coughed. "Your Majesty. In these trying times, yes indeed in any times, it should be clear that a woman, especially an unmarried maiden of so few years, cannot hope to rule a mighty kingdom on her own. Geneviève, in the interest of preserving the proud heritage of your lord father it is my desire to wed you and become your co-ruler. God be good you will give me many sons to continue the great work of my friend, your father, Philip the Great." The count spoke bluntly.

Geneviève was taken aback, stunned, disgusted even. The Count was of an age with her father and had been like something of an uncle for her through most of her life. And she disliked the man; he certainly wouldn't fit in her vision for a peaceful land and a tranquil people living in a Kingdom of Heaven on Earth. "You would wed me?" She all but barked at the count. He frowned at the tone. "It only makes sense Your Majesty." He coldly insisted. "If we travel north at once and marry in Lyon there is just enough time to confirm me as Elector for Burgundy before the Imperial Election and secure a worthy emperor for the Holy Roman Empire."

As the shock of the proposal diminished Geneviève began to seethe with anger at the man for his proposition. "So Your Lordship covets the Throne of Charlemagne, the mightiest seat in all Europe. For the Count of Nevers and Rethel and Eu, Baron of Iles that is no measly prize My Lord." Geneviève spoke haughtily holding her head high before the large man.

The Count looked utterly stunned; for a moment. Then his demeanor darkened as an angry blush colored his fleshy face. "Where you my daughter I would let you taste the whip for such a remark." The man growled. "My intentions ..." He continued before being cut of by Geneviève. "I am not your daughter My Lord." She spoke, watching surprise appear on the Count's face as he realized that she would not silently hear his words. "I AM YOUR QUEEN!" She roared at him, for the first time in her life raising her voice against a man. "You are my vassal My Lord, and no fitting husband for the Queen of Burgundy at that. I will not seat you on the Throne of Charlemagne, much less that of Burgundy. I care little for this Holy Roman Empire that the world covets, but I care for Burgundy and it shall know only one master; We, Juniper Regina Burgundiōnes. And a great ruler We shall be. Now bother Us no more, leave Us be and serve your purpose, in this Kingdom you will have to earn your keep My Lord." Geneviève spoke her voice filled with power and regal charisma she had not known she possessed. And the count caved. Stunned, disappointed, for the moment beaten, he retired from her imperious presence.

But as he left behind the Queen of Burgundy he had time for one last quip. "You will come to care for the Throne of Charlemagne girl." He growled. "The coming imperial election will determine not only who shall sit it but also whose bed you shall crawl into. It may be that you will regret this refusal, if so I may be willing to forgive you this impudence due to your grief for your father, a man whose greatness you can never hope to fully comprehend, much less emulate." The Count snapped at her.

For a moment that made Geneviève waiver. "Most the electors will have wives, they will not desire ..." She spoke hesitantly, her previous strength fading, the Count ready to exploit her weakness. "Then they will have sons. If you are not claimed by the Emperor you will be by his heir." The Count of Nevers barked triumphantly. "I bid you adieu my Queen, my future Empress Consort, your indifference to the election will not prevent it from determining your fate and the fate of your father's heritage." The Count said, before making a mock bow and leaving Geneviève alone in the hall of her castle.

The Queen stood silent for a moment. Then she nodded her head slowly in ponderous contemplation. "Then I shall not be indifferent." She mumbled. "Then I shall be my father's daughter." She added assertively a look of grim determination on her young innocent countenance. "I shall chose my own fate, and the fate of my People."

To His Grace, Henry IV, King of England

We are most grateful for the kind words of Your Grace and the prayers and well wishes of the House of Plantagenet and Kingdom of England. As We have ascended Our father's throne We shall strive tirelessly to live up to the grand example he has provided Us and ever seek to be Our people a kind and just sovereign. So help Us God.

Sincerely,

Juniper Regina

[United Nez Perce]

The County of Montbéliard
Chateau de Montbeliard

Pierre raised his head, twidling his fingers as he looked into the faces of the three men sitting opposite him: Bishop Raynald of Montbeliard, one of his household knights (a German named Eberhard von Tubingen), and the castle treasurer. The Count leaned back into the comfort of his cushioned chair, taking a moment as he tried to formulate the best way of addressing what was on his mind.

"Loyal sirs, I have been busy these past few days with numerous matters that buzz through my head like a swarm of bees."

The three men said nothing, listening obediently as their lord continued.

"Bishop Raynald," Pierre nodded toward his chief clergyman. "I have received your letters advising me to seek the elevation of your most holy diocese to one of greater regional significance. I mean you no offense when I say this, but of late I have grown weary of such an idea. The lords of Burgundy maintain their clergymen's position as those of most importance in this land, and I wish to offer them no competition or reason for offense by seeking to elevate our own position in the world of spiritual politics. Time enough we have for going about the business of cleansing and maintaining the unblemished status of local souls. Does this not provide sufficient work for you and your colleagues?There are still many areas on the fringes of our territory that have yet to experience the benefit of a localised spiritual centre. I have heard the tales of our poor farmers walking many hours to reach the nearest church for formal occasions. I would suggest to you, most venerable sir, that you turn the attention of our priests to delivering the spiritual services required by the people of our own home soil, rather than those of clergymen abroad in places such as Rome."

The Bishop shifted slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as the words of the young man before him sank through his ears. Be he a Count or not, he was certainly acting very highly to address the most senior clergyman of the county in such a manner. Raynald bit his tongue as a less polite reply edged it's way to his lips.

"I understand, my lord. I shall look in to the matter of dispatching monks to some of the more rural areas regularly to see to the needs of the people. In the mean time, perhaps your lordship can put to one corner of his mind my suggestion, and hold it in your thoughts until such time as you see fit to discuss it again?"

"Yes..." Pierre shrugged, turning to the other two. "Perhaps another day we shall discuss the prominence or advanced prominence of our diocese. Now then..."

His gaze fell upon the treasurer.

"I am somewhat troubled by the reports you have given me indicating a drop in our annual revenues, good sir. Might you be able to explain such an event? I had hoped sincerely to devote a good portion of my own financial possessions to the preparation of a wedding for my youngest sister, who as you all know has yet to find a husband..."

His eyes darted briefly to the figure of Von Tubingen, before returning to the treasurer.

"Well, my lord..." the treasurer muttered, his thin hands tapping nervously against his lap. "You--your recent policies in cutting back on the tax revenues due from all citisens of the county has--somewhat lessened our regular revenue. If I may be so bold as to suggest, perhaps there might be a chance of dispatching agents to the peasantry to acquire a slightly greater percent of the harvest this coming season?"

"Oh, come now," Pierre chuckled. "Have we not taken more than enough from these poor people in exchange for their hard work? Do we not owe it to them as men of noble birth to ensure that their children do not go hungry or their livestock does not suffer due to harsh taxation on our part? Surely there must be another way."

The treasurer seemed uncertain. "Well, my lord..."

"If I may engage myself in this conversation, my lord?" Von Tubingen interjected, bowing his head politely in the direction of the Count.

"But of course."

"Well my lord, given that your most generous and chivalrous policies dictate a lessened burden upon the peasantry of our own nation, might I remind you of the possibility of acquiring revenue from...others?"

"I am not sure I follow you, good sir," Pierre replied, rubbing his chin.

"Well," the Knight continued, his rumbling voice quieting slightly as he leaned forward an inch.

"There are others, in the neighboring provinces outside the Burgundian domains, who perhaps have not acted as chivalrously as they should when engaging in diplomacy with our great homeland. There is always the option, given of course that we can find a suitable reason, of engaging in military action to put these persons in their place. Of course, as a man of noble training, I am sure you recognise the potential for financial gain in any such operation."

The Count sat up straighter, his normally soft voice becoming slightly more authoritative.

"If what you are suggesting entitles warlike actions against another lordship, then I will hear none of it. This is not an era for needless bloodshed. I took an oath in the presence of this honorable clergyman,"

He motioned to the Bishop.

"That I would do all in my earthly power to avoid violence and carnage both at the hands of our own troops and by others against our people."

Von Tubingen nodded, his voice returning to its usual booming tone.

"Of course, your lordship."

Pierre turned his head toward one of the rooms windows, looking out at the afternoon sky.

"Well good sirs, I think we shall conclude our meeting here. I have business to attend to and would prefer solitude for the time being. My greatest thanks for your attendance here today."

The three men all stood, bowing respectfully and exiting the room. The Count turned to his desk and fetched a scroll of parchment, dipping a pen into his ink pot as he began to write.

To Her Fair and Most Honored Ladyship, the Queen of Burgundy

My heart weeps at the stories I hear of the death of your father. Like a young bird whose mother has flown from the nest, we must gather ourselves together and spread our wings under your enlightened leadership to ascend to new heights of prosperity and happiness. I offer you my most sincere condolences in this hour and wish to inform you that any service you may require of the County of Montbeliard and our people will be yours as sure as the day sinks into night.

I remain your faithful servant,

Pierre De Sauveterre
Count of Montbeliard

[Imperium Nova]

The Archduchy of Austria

Vienna, Stephansdom
Early Morning

The young Austrian Archduke, Maximilian I, was sitting in one of the long rows of benches in the Stephansdom. The chanting of the Gregorian monks had gone on for many hours now, and the church was filled with many people, all quietly praying to the Almighty Father, hearing the chanting. It was all in honour of the late Emperor Conrad III, may his soul be well and his time in the purgatory be short, his death had been sudden, and grieved everyone. Maximilian was no exception.

Even though the Archduke had his desires for the Imperial Throne, a title wanted by the Habsburgs ever since Rudolf I had been crowned King of the Romans in 1273. But his religious fervor burned more than his ambition, and his lust for power. He contained his sinful ways, and turned his attention to the Almighty Father, and to the spirit of the late Emperor Conrad III. He had sat there for many hours now, in the church. There he was but one man, as the others. For we are all the same in the sight of the Almighty Father, Maximilian thought to himself.

"Pater noster, qui es in cœlis;
sanctificatur nomen tuum:
Adveniat regnum tuum;
fiat voluntas tua,
sicut in cœlo, et in terra.
Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie:
Et dimitte nobis debita nostra,
sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris:
et ne nos inducas in tentationem:
sed libera nos a malo.

Quia tuum est regnum, et potestas, et Gloria,
in saecula. Amen." The Archduke silently spoke. He knew what it was to lose, he himself having lost his own father merely a couple of years ago, had barely left the church for a week. His advisers had then temporarily taken over the rule of the land, for he thought, nay, he knew, that the affairs of Austria could wait.

But that was then however. And now, he was not only pressured to take the reins of Austria and guide it in these times, for that he could be without for some time. He trusted his capable advisers and kinsmen on these regards. But, no. He had to travel to Frankfurt and fulfill his duty as an elector. For that was what the realm needed, and what he had promised his dear father on his deathbed. He could remember it even now.


That cold night in December, in the year 1396 of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, he had been summoned to his father's chamber. The Archduke was not very old, not even 60 years of age, but he had been struck with a terrible pneumonia, and his condition was getting worse. And the cold baths that the Archduke had been ordered to take did not seem to be helping. Nor did the leeches that had been hung to his body like, well, leeches.

Rudolf was laying still on the bed, one of the chamber maids holding a damp cloth to his forehead. He was so pale, as though all the life had been sucked out of him. And when Maximilian came rushing through the door, past guards and priests, he saw only a frail fragment of the once imposing patriarch that had been Rudolf. Maximilian had then rushed to his side, and bent down beside him. He took his father's hand, and simply wept for him. His father looking over to him with a strain.

"Son..." He said, his voice weak, "My son..." He continued, barely getting the words out. Maximilian looked up to his dying father. "You," he said, Maximilian listening intently, trying to hold back his tears. "You must promise me, my son..." his father said, Maximilian nodding."Promise me, that you will always do your duty, and..." He said, coughing heavily, "to always speak the truth. You are now the head of this family. You must take care of your brother, of your sister. Of all your kin." He said, Maximilian's eyes tearing up. His father, his strong and loving father, was now passing away.

"You must uphold the Habsburg line... I, I, give you, my blessing..." He said, his voice becoming weaker and weaker. The Archduke then shut his eyes, and they were never again opened in this life.


Maximilian sat in his carriage, in the long caravan which was headed for Frankfurt, and the Archbishop of Mainz. Maximilian gazed out the window, seeing the peasants toiling away in the fields. They were his people, by the grace of God. And he would do what was necessary for his people, for his Archduchy, and utmost important, to the Almighty Father. He then rested back, against the carriage's interior, and said a silent prayer before nudging off.

[Kryskov]

The Kalmar Union

January 25, 1400

---

"Perhaps you should get married, my King."

"But everyone tells me that, Henrik."

"Then perhaps it is true." Henrik Karlsson, bishop of Uppsala, shuffled around his chamber at King Eric's palace in Copenhagan. He was shoving clothes and other personal affects into a bag. "I hear the new Queen of Burgundy is of a ripe picking. A marriage of that high rank could bring you in contention for Emperorship, or at least the throne of France."

"But Archbishop," Eric began his reply, "I care not for the French nor the Roman throne. I care for the ones I have alone." The young king paused, starring out a window. "I had a dream last night, Your Eminence. I was not a king of three nations, but of one. A united nation not seen since the days of Cnut." Eric turned back to Henrik. "Besides, I hear that Geneviève is not the fairest maiden in the land."

"Greed for looks is as much of a sin as greed for money, Eric." Henrik was one of the close circle of people who called the king by his first name.

"I shall dispatch myself to the Burgundians, then. I shall probe my ambitions." Eric replied. The Archbishop closed his bag and prepared to leave the castle. Outside, at the carriage, Eric spoke once more. "Must you leave so soon?"

"We have been over this Eric. My trip here was to check on our missions in the north and tend to the Church's economic affairs in Sweden. I have been summoned to return to Rome." Eric looked disappointed. The Archbishop was his closest mentor, and also a father figure. "Cheer up, my Lord. All good things shall end." The Archbishop entered his carriage. "Now remember, my King, that you must'nt offend the Queen by trying to court her while she be mourning." And with that, the Archbishop set out on the long voyage to Rome.

---

"Does anyone speak French?"

To the Most Honorable Queen Geneviève, Queen of the Burgundians and future Queen of France

Madam,

My heart is most sorrowful now that I hear of the loss of your dear father. Though we lived so far apart, his renown was known well by me, and I am lucky enough to have corresponded with him while he was in the Lesser world.

Please accept my request to travel to your lands and pay my respects to him. In the process, it may be beneficial for all of our people if you allowed me to have an audience with you, my fair queen.

Sincerely, and most cordially,
Eric, King of Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Duke of Schleswig-Holstein, and so forth

[Of the Quendi]

The City of Rome
The Patrimony of Saint Peter
The Papal States

---

Pope Alexander VI

March 7th, 1401

---

Cheering crowds was a sight Gianbatista Orsini, or Alexander VI as his pontifical name was, had not often seen during his seven year long pontificate. He had never cared much for them, paupers and commoners ought to know their place, and they in turn had never been too humble to whine about high taxes and spending on the beautification of the city of God. They had spat at him and his plans and visions for a strong church, preparing the bread and theater offered by the Colonna and he had cursed them and their recalcitrant disobedience and lack of foresight. But today as he was carried through Rome in procession on the day of Perpetua and Felicity Pope Alexander was universally loved by the people of Rome. Those who thought differently was absent.

The Colonna, cardinal Lorenzo Colonna chief among them, had been driven in exile, so had the ambassadors of Perugia, the dignitaries of Spoleto, the magnates of the Romagna and all other foes of Gianbatista. All thanks to the deceased emperor Conrad. The thought brought a rare and cruel smile to the stern face of the grim pope. His greatest enemy had fallen to disease and all the vermin that had longed to overthrow God's annointed Vicar on Earth had found themselves friend- and allyless when the Lord struck down the savage Barbarian from the north.

That was the cause for the celebratory parade. The day of Perpetua and Felicity was perhaps the official cause for the parade but the true cause was the death of Conrad and the opportunity it had brought with it. Stefano Colonna, father of the accursed Lorenzo, had been the first of Alexander's enemies to rue to death of Conrad. Just three days prior his broken and mutilated body had finally given up, not before he had signed away the entirety of his possessions to Alexander's "nephew", Gianbatista Orsini the Younger, leaving his exiled family penniless. Bishop Pietro Pignatelli, the treacherous vicar of Ravenna, walked naked in chains somewhere behind Alexander's sedia gestatoria, and numerous others had payed dearly for their disobedience. "To defy Our will is to deny Christ." Alexander mumbled piously to himself as he deigned to give the crowd of commoners a paternalistic wave of his hand.

Never had Alexander been so powerful. Throughout his entire papacy the Colonna had lead an "imperial" party supported by Conrad. No more. Now, at last, the Orsini ruled supreme. He ruled supreme. So he decided that it was time to take a drastic step.

Looking down on a handsome young man barely twenty years of age with fine features and dark curly hair wearing the robes of a bishop despite his young age, the grim-faced pope lit up in a smile that momentarily softened his stern appearance. Clerical celibacy had never been a priority of Gianbatista's as numerous former mistresses could attest to. He had fathered numerous bastards but the finest fruit of his loins and God's greatest blessing apart from the papal tiara was without a doubt his "nephew" Gianbatista the Younger.

Officially Gianbatista the Younger was the a younger son of Gianbatista's older brother, Romano, who had chosen to follow in his great uncle's steps and take the cloth, having no hope of inheritance from his "father". Now, at last, Gianbatista could give to his son what he deserved. As if the youth had read his father's thoughts he chose that moment to look up at the smiling pontiff and flash him a smile in return. "Today, my son, I shall make you a cardinal, tomorrow you shall be pope." Gianbatista declared.

Gianbatista smiled and looked about to say something but then his gaze was caught by something and his expression changed to one of surprise, then mild annoyance. Turning away from his beloved progeny Alexander looked into a nearby alley towards which Gianbatista the Younger seemed to gaze. A drunken brawl seemed underway. Three unkempt commoners was shouting and going at each other with the lack of grace characteristic of drunks. Alexander growled, annoyed at the disturbance of his parade. He gestured coldly towards the men looking down at the captain of the guard, his cousin. "Have these men flogged Giuseppe. No one disturbs the procession of the Pope." Alexander instructed, prompting several of the Papal guards to move towards the alley to break up the fight, and instigate one of their own.

Attention caught by the spectacle Alexander VI was distracted until he heard a gasp from Gianbatista the Younger. Turning sharply a terribly sight awaited him. From out of nowhere a man in the black robe of a Dominican had appeared waving a knife against Gianbatista the Younger. For a moment the Alexander froze, all of his papal pride fading as paternal fear filled his cold heart. But his fear seemed misplaced, Gianbatista, bishop or not, was an able fighter and managed to plant a fist in the face of the Dominican that fell down, dropping his knife. Gianbatista, magnificent to behold, kicked the man in the groin and lifted up his voice in a shout; Guards, pro …"

Gianbatista would never hear the end of his son's sentence. In that moment a huddled beggar who had been watching the procession trying to persuade the Roman public to offer a few coins on the festive day lunged forward towards Gianbatista's beloved son. In his hands was something far more sinister than the platter on which people dropped coins, a crude and sharp knife. A knife that caught Gianbatista the Younger by surprise being driven with great force through the young bishop's chest before the eyes of Gianbatista himself.

His world collapsed. In a fraction of a second Gianbatista's mind refused to accept what had happened. It couldn't be, not Gianbatista, his son who he had watched grow from a little toddler into a good young man. Not him. A horrible sound of mourning filled Gianbatista's ears, he barely realized it was escaping from his own throat. Blinded by rage Gianbatista jumped down from his Sedia Gestatoria, blind to the screams of the crowds and the fleeing cardinals, grabbing for the knife the Dominican had dropped before he charged towards the beggar.

He saw that other men was now converging in a concerted effort on his person but Gianbatista did not wait for the guards nor did he retreat. A look of surprise, then fear, appeared in the eyes of the beggar as Gianbatista went on him and the Pope focused all of his thoughts on the pleasure that fear gave him so that he would not even for a moment pause to consider how his world had just come crashing down with the death of his son. As knives and even swords where driven into his flesh the pope felt not pain, so much did he revel in the fear of the beggar before as he drove the knife into him over and over. Before he fell. Slayn by assassin's blades in Rome herself, leaving the Church, and with it Christendom, in Chaos.

[Kottonian Noblemen]

The Duchy of Bavaria

Munich

The Duke was standing leaned forward, leaning on the heavy tabletop. Dark walnut wood. He ran his hand slowly over the tabletop, feeling the numerous notches.
His spymaster was to his left, the captain oh his guard to his right.

"So Albrecht, what have you found out?

His spymaster, Albrecht von Blankfels, did a little step towards him.

"Your higness, I bring good news: It looks like your brother has the habit to abandon himself to vice, by name harlotry. But not enough: Bawdiness! With men!"

"Brilliant!!

Wilhlem pushed off the table clenching his fist triumphantly.

"That's all we need! I suppose your witnesses have all been checked for their authenticity and so on? Yes? Alright, so nothing can now get into the way of an arrest. Set up a letter to the archbishop of Freising, tell him to prepare an Inquisition court case. Captain, I exspect you to dispose anything that's necessary to arrest my brother."

Baron Joseph von Toerring, captain of the ducal guard nodded, indicated a little bow and walked off the room, slowly mumbling "Your wish is my command".

"Oh and Joseph! I have another very important mission for you: Halt Archduke Maximilian of Austria when he passes through the Duchy. Before we meet each other in Frankfurt I need to have a talk to him. Choose one hundred men and watch any road that he could use. Order him to stop, but fulfill ANY wish he has until I arrive. He shall lack for NOTHING, give him any comfort he wants to have.
That'd be everything for, I rely on your abilities."

[Imperium Nova]

The Archduchy of Austria

Bavarian Countryside, Archducal Carriage
Late Afternoon

Maximilian was looking out the window, as nightfall started to come down upon the Bavarian fields and hills, he heard some of his companions discussing about topics, topics that for the moment did not interest him. His younger brother Ernst, and one of his vassals, Friederich, was in a heated dicsussion about some earthly matter. It might be about taxation of the peasants, or it might also be how Ernst slept rather long this morning. In any case, they were not getting along.

Finally, they both queited down, no one seeming the least satisfied from their discussion. But nonetheless, Friederich turned to Maximilian and waited until the Archduke had looked away from the window and gazed upon the Count, and nodding slightly, as to permit him to speak.
"Your Grace." He said, and slightly looked over to Ernst. "It seems as though the dark is falling, and I would suggest to Your Grace that it is time for the caravan to perhaps find a place to rest. I am sure there is an inn on the nearby area where Your Grace could rest."

Maximilian pondered over the matter for some time. Time was drawing late, and once the sun had set, there would be poor visibility, and bandits would roam around. Even though his caravan was protected by guards, it would still be an attractive catch. He nodded slightly to the Count and simply replied.
"Indeed, shall we notify the choachman?" Maximilian said and Ernst, sitting opposite of him, at the front, knocked on the wooden panel behind him, signifying a halt to the coachman, who soon restrained his horses and they came to a halt, and so did the carriages behind him too. The guard from the coach stepped down and opened the door.

Freiderich, being the lowest ranking noble of them all, stepped out and spoke to the coachman to stop by the nearest inn, and then again resumed his position in the carriage, the guard then closed the door behind him, and stepped up on coach as they drove away again. Maximilian then gazed out the window again, as some debate started between Ernst and Friederich again.


The coachman soon came to a halt, stopping by a nearby inn, the Roebuck Tavern. The guard jumped down and opened the door, this time to Maximilian's side, and he stepped out, whilst the guard bowed his head in respect. After the Archduke followed Ernst and then Friederich. The Archduke looked up on the tavern, it was an unassuming tavern, situated around some trees along the country-road. Maximilian draped his cloak around him and opened the door to the tavern, stumbling in on the bar-like room, filled with some guests, and the innkeeper behind the bar.

Maximilian walked up to the bar, with firm steps, and nodded a hello to the innkeeper. Some of the peasants looking up to his finely made clothes and coat, even touching it if it were not for the guards that came close behind him.
"We would like to have some rooms for the night, and a small supper too. If it would not be too inconvenient for you." The Archduke said, staring down at the innkeeper. A fat, rather stout man with a grim face. The innkeeper took his time before opening his mouth.

"Aye, we have some rooms available, where you and your company can rest. And some food can surely be found for ye." He said, spitting on the counter, and then wiping it off with a cloth. One of the guards behind the Archduke was about to pull his sword to teach the innkeeper a lesson for his insolence, but Maximilian stayed his hand.
"Go out and look over the carriages." The Archduke said and the guard nodded, and complied, his chainmail clinking as he moved out. Ernst soon came up behind the Archduke.
"Find us a table, will you, dear brother?" Maximilian said, turning around. Ernst smiled a bit and then walked away to find a suiting table.

[Alleniana]

(is this the end?)

[Of the Quendi]

I am afraid so. Pity.

[Imperium Nova]

I am afraid so. Pity.

But, but... No!...

[Of the Quendi]

I am afraid so. Pity.

But, but... No!...

I am disappointed too, but the facts speak for themselves. The last IC post came three days after the second last which came four days after the third last. Since the OOC thread also effectively died out I consider that an RP failure. For which I take responsibility. In the future I will not improvise OP's but only launch RP's when I have taken some time to prepare them in advance.

[Kottonian Noblemen]

The Duchy of Bavaria

Countryside

"So this is the place?"

The highest ranked of the five Bavarian soldiers looked down on the child standing in fron of him. His face, was a mixture between benevolence, acerbity and also something authoritative.


"You know that lying is a sin, and your punishment would not only happen in your after-life!"

"I swear to god, it's the truth! The Archduke is inside there!"

"I hope you're right- for you."

The Sergeant flipped over a coin to the child, ordering his men to follow him inside.
The door opened with a loud bang, and the Bavarian swordsmen rushed into the inn.

"No worries, nothing will happen, unless you do anything imprudent." he said with a suspicious view to the Archduke's guard, having his hand on his sword.
After a hint from his lord the man sat down again, though he kept his eye on the bavarian.

" I come in the name of my master, Duke Wilhelm III. of Bavaria. He [i]asks his highness, Archduke Maximilian of Austria to wait here until the Duke arrives. He has to talk to your highness, before both of them can continue their way to Aachen.
We are here to ensure the safety of his Ducal guest."[/i]

The Archduke wasn't stupid. He would understand what was meant with "safety". At least that's what the Duke told his men...

[Imperium Nova]

The Archduchy of Austria

Bavarian Countryside, The Roebuck Tavern
Evening

The Archduke looked into the eyes of the Sergeant. Looking then again to his guards, who all seemed abit distressed by the Bavarian men storming into the tavern all off a sudden. The Archduke then looked to his two companions, his brother Ernst and the count Friederich. He was sure they would be of some use here.

"Thank you." the Archduke said to the Sergeant, yet again looking back to him. "I am assured that his Serene Highness Duke Wilhelm III. will be able to provide safety for me, during my trips through the realm, however I do not belive that I should take up such place in the Bavarian minds, that I be guaranteed protection just to travel through the lands. But I thank you for coming here, however I belive the effort may have been slightly..." He waited for a bit, thinking of the right word. "Umh, futile."

The Archduke suspected that his Bavarian counterpart may have other motives than just to provide safety for him, but for the moment, he was satisfied. He knew that God was watching over him, that the Almighty Fatehr ha dblessed him. And Maximilian would not fail his mission.

[Alleniana]

(the medieval AWRP, in case some didn't see viewtopic.php?f=31&t=278674)