Chapter 10 C : Will at the Helm -
A Carcass Fit for Hounds (1501-1502)
Sovereign Wilhelm VI von Hohenzollern, since 9 November 1495
A dull Mediterranean winter's day in the city of Ajaccio, the first day of the sixteenth century since the birth of our Lord. In the cathedral at the centre of the city, a woman's voice could be heard, her chants and prayers floating through the rafters as flickering candlelight illuminated the interior of the gloomy building.
"Yea, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil..."
"... ahem ... and do you, Giovanna Elsamaria Theodoli, daughter of Leopoldu Theodoli, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to be true in good times and bad ..."
"... thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me ..."
"Gianna!"
The roar of an old man, his voice hoarse with age, cut the woman's prayer short - a feat which the clergyman's patiently intoned rituals had failed to accomplish. As if startled out of a trance, the woman rapidly glanced from left to right, flustered at the interruption, before meeting the stare of the priest standing before her, and settling on the eyes of the shorter man standing beside her who watched her with a curious gaze.
"I do."
"Very good. And do you, good sir, take this lady to be your lawfully wedded wife, to be true in good times and bad, in sickness and health, richer or poorer, sickness or health, hunger or fullness, uphill and down, northwards or south, verbosity or brevity ..."
"O father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as in ..."
"
Gianna! Don't interrupt!"
"... I am sorry, father."
"Ahem. So do you, et cetera, et cetera, &c., good sir?"
There was a pregnant pause as the shorter man looked upward, at the eyes of his slightly taller wife, to ensure that she was paying attention this time. And then, nervously and quiveringly, his lips began to tremble.
"
Ja."
"What do you mean, I can't make an appointment to see His Majesty the King?"
"I am sorry, your lordship, but King Louis will not see anyone. Please label your petition according to the subject matter and direct it to the relevant member of the
Conseil du Roi, who will deal with it accordingly and respond within twenty working days..."
Wilhelm von Hohenzollern, Sovereign of
Holland and Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, cut a dismal figure, arguing with the rather bothered clerk whose responsibility it was to staff the front desk of the Diplomatic Enquiries office at the Sorbonne in Paris. The army dispatched to assist France in the frontal assault (in truth a diversion) on the Castillian borders had already marched ahead of him, and he had remained behind with a small guard in a futile attempt to secure an audience with his French contemporary. And while he had known much about and had first-hand experience of
Holland's tryingly stubborn bureaucracy, even this consummate bureaucrat was at his limits, having his skills (and tolerance) tested to its limits in a foreign land and foreign tongue.
"I ... does he not realise his country is at war?" Wilhelm spluttered, trying his best not to lose his cool, "There are crucial matters which must be discussed! Logistical considerations, demands, peace terms, the excommunication ... You
must allow me to speak with the King. Don't you know who I am?"
"I do, your Imperial Majesty, and his Majesty King Louis will see no one.
He does not see anyone." Repeating those last words for emphasis, the receptionist demonstrated how he, too, was possessed of unflinching resolve. "."
"He does not see anyone, that is ..." interrupted a voice, in accented, somewhat provincial French, "unless they know how to change diapers, or force food and victual into his mouth. If you aren't aware, your king is a drooling imbecile completely incapable of governing. Even a farm animal has more political acumen than that idiot!"
The speaker was a stranger, leaning against the wall behind the front desk of the diplomatic office, some distance away from the receptionist - but clearly within earshot. The man who had been eavesdropping all this while looked to be in his thirties, thin and underfed, and had short black hair with a sort of wave or curl to it, his most distinctive feature being the bushy yet perfectly groomed moustache he wore which extended no further than the ends of his lips. As those lips of his twisted into a sort of mocking smirk, barely-stifled giggles could be heard emanating from Wilhelm's personal
Hollander bodyguards, standing behind him.
"
Louis!" the clerk yelled, violently sweeping a hand back in the direction of the man's voice. "We won't have words like that abour our King in front of an honoured guest! Unless you want your head separated from your shoulders, get out, now!"
Giving a knowing chuckle, the moustachioed man unfolded his arms and casually sauntered back down the corridor from whence he came.
"Ahem. I apologise for the interruption, and I'm sorry I can't be of any further assistance, your Imperial Majesty." said the clerk, quickly glancing back to make sure that the intruder had left. "As I said, you'd be better served writing directly to members of France's privy council, who manage all affairs due to the ... incapacity ... of our monarch."
"Very well. But who was that, anyway?"
"Ach, I'll tell you what I can. That man's name is Louis, suppposedly hailing from the Burgundian lands, but a French citizen - a roguish sort of chap, obviously clever yet thoroughly unpleasant. I know little about him, except that he recently enlisted as an assistant to the
Hollander Ambassador to France. He must have realised you were in the building and stole away from his duties to sneak a peek - the cheek of that man."
"No doubt." Wilhelm observed, stroking his white-streaked and comparatively less immaculate moustache in contemplation. "He has a lean and hungry look about him - clearly he thinks too much."
"Aye ... that is true. Such men are dangerous."
First blood! FATALITY!
Back at his base camp, some distance from the outskirts of Paris, Wilhelm surveyed the battle reports which were just about now flooding in from the front lines. The news was pleasing. It was true that his strategy, of using France's strikeforce as a diversion to permit
Hollander crack troops to outmanoeuvre the Castillian defenders, had not produced the hoped-for weak spot in the Castillian flank. The Castillians, having realised the immense strategic threat posed by the Duchy of Galicia despite its military weakness, had stationed a sizable border guard there in expectation of an invasion from that direction.
Nevertheless, the division of their forces weakened their ability to resist both groups of invaders. Castillians manning the conventional defensive line against the massed French troops found themselves hopelessly outnumbered almost five-to-one, while the detachment they sent to neutralise the Galician threat failed to seal off the narrow mountain passes against the amphibiously-landed expeditionary force, instead finding themselves forced into the open and cut down by barrages of deadly cannon fire. The result was an overwhelming victory on both fronts.
Unlike Floris, Wilhelm was not the sort to personally lead his troops from the front lines - he was an administrator, not a soldier, and he was able to exercise the privilege of securing his personal safety because his soldiers trusted that the workdesk was the best place for a man of his talents. After all, it was he who drew up the battle plans that produced victory after victory, and ensured that logisitical operations ran smoothly to maintain an unimpeded flow of supplies and reinforcements to the front lines. And it certainly wouldn't do to have an old man of over sixty - the Holy Roman Emperor, at that - crossing swords with enlistees less than half his age on the killing fields of war.
However, while Wilhelm orchestrated the encirclement and annihilation of the Castillian resistance from this safe outpost near Paris, he still relied on multiple lieutenants to ensure that his orders and instructions were carried out in all the theatres of war. As always, the judicious Marshal of the Mint Joost Schönebeck remained in Amsterdam to keep the economic machinery funding
Holland's war effort functioning in tip-top shape, a role Wilhelm himself had fulfilled when his brother served as field commander - in any case, due to Joost's advanced age, it would not be reasonable to have him venture any further from home than was necessary.
Closer to the frontlines (in geographical terms, actually further away), the irrepressible Dirk Culemborg had been entrusted with the responsibility of ensuring the neutralisation of Castille's overseas territories and holdings. Due to the distances involved, this was a task for which the results would only be known in several months' time - and indeed Wilhelm was looking forward to the good news from that front - the countering and suppression of resistance from regions which Wilhelm had never visited, would certainly never visit in his lifetime, and in some cases did not know of until several years beforehand. Today was that day - the first concrete battle results, for which reports had been written by Dirk Culemborg, had reached Wilhelm in his base camp. Steeling himself in anticipation, Wilhelm tore open the envelopes.
Argh, how horrible, the sickly yellow of Iberian expansionism everywhere! Kill it! Kill it!
To my liege, His Imperial Majesty Wilhelm VI von Hohenzollern of
Holland,
I bring dire news. The Castillian infestation of the newly-discovered continent has spread beyond our predictions. Even now as I write this, explorers and adventurers from Castille who have escaped the net of blockades we have cast around the Iberian peninsula continue to scout and map uncharted lands and waters. I predict that knowledge of these discoveries will trickle down to our intelligence network in time, but until then we must reconcile ourselves to the fact that we have conceded the strategic advantage to Castille.
The discoveries and inventions of that Castillian villain, Cristóbal:, have truly democratised the concept of exploration, but in a way which is detrimental to our interests. With the aid of the 'colonoscope', even novice sailors are able to chart an accurate path from Europe to this newly-discovered continent, and are able to further their explorations in relative safety, while pioneers and other adventurers, convinced of the security of such ventures, happily flock to this new continent to develop outposts and settlements in the so-called 'Nova Castilla' for the accursed glorification of their hateful monarch.
It is also with a heavy heart that I must relay to you the news, that our reliable and much trusted Admiral, Gerardus Appingedam, was severely injured in a skirmish with Castillian stragglers patrolling the waters of this new continent, who were equipped with superior navigational equipment for use in these distant lands. It was a failure of our judgement to underestimate the firepower these brigands were able to muster. I'm not sure what, exactly, drove the Admiral to such a degree of desperation, but according to the survivors of the ambush, the part of him which was mortally wounded was his pride. In shame at his defeat, he scuttled his flagship before it could reach European waters.
I guess you could say he was out of his depth.
Mind the gap. Mind the gap.
My liege, I have become familiar with a term used to describe these 'new' settlers, the tyrants and subjugators of a new age, who have accomplished what they have with only with the aid of the colonoscope. Appropriately enough, they are called 'colonists', and the settlements they build are called 'colonies'.
Well, Lord Wilhelm. It's a terrible business, isn't it? We can't let Castille preserve an advantage of this scale over us. Therefore I've devised a plan ... that we do a spot of de-colonisation.
You know that I first got involved in politics to fight the Castillian oppression of our Flemish brothers. To see them perpetuating atrocities of this magnitude, against wholly defenceless and unknowing natives distant from the loving embrace of God, wrenches my heart to the extreme. It is my greatest wish to see these people freed from the Castillian chains, and restored to their rightful liege lord. However, the disorganised, barely even tribal state of these uncivilised natives makes it impossible to 'liberate' them in the conventional sense, for who would take charge of them, save the Lord above himself?
As such, I have indicated that we instead 'liberate' the Castillians instead. By which I mean, liberate them from this mortal coil. I trust you will find the results of our íntercontinental expeditionary force to your satisfaction.
And yes, my lord, you were asking me quite insistently in your last communique about the present overseas 'duty' of your nephew and heir, Eberhard von Hohenzollern. I would have supposed that news of his accomplishments would have reached you by now, but in the event that they have not, you can find a succinct elaboration of these accomplishments in the documents accompanying this letter.
Good health and long life to your Imperial Majesty.
Your loyal servant, Acting Chancellor Dirk Culemborg.
You maniacs! You blew it up! Damn you, damn you all to ... oh wait, it's okay. Castillians don't have rights.
Revenge for our Admiral! Also, hooray for another (potential) free HRE core.
Leaning back in his seat, Wilhelm pondered the numbers of Castillian 'colonists' who had been forcibly relocated as a result of Dirk Culemborg's liberation plan. The number couldn't have been more than several thousand at most, but the action was bound to be seen as controversial and somewhat excessive by certain elements hostile to
Holland's vision for its place in the world. Chief among those was England, ruled by King Edward IV 'the Red' of Lancaster, who had recently sought to expand their influence in the backward continent of Africa on the justification of 'extending the equality of man' to the natives. The conflicting philosphies of these three strong-willed sovereigns, Wilhelm VI's liberty, Juan III's order, and Edward IV's equality, threatened to spiral from rivalry into outright confrontation, and the sooner the debate was settled decisively in
Holland's advantage, the better.
Still deep in though, his brows furrowed, Wilhelm felt his clarity of thought slipping, his weariness beginning to get the better of him in his advanced age. Heaving a great sigh, Wilhelm shifted in his seat, and rested his chin upon his collar. Within minutes, he was asleep, distant from the prying eyes of the world, for that moment free from his lifetime's burdens, stresses, and obligations. But he was certainly not free ... from being out of the thoughts of a certain mustachioed young man, who at this moment many miles away wondered what Wilhelm was doing at this moment.
The Ambassadors' public house, in the docks of Amsterdam, a renowned watering hole frequented by foreigners, the well-heeled, and true gentlemen. Indeed, at this moment there sat a certain well-heeled foreigner, glancing over a document bearing the latest news, his diplomatic case lying sealed on the table beside him.
Mortimer Featherstonehaugh, second son of the Earl of Leicester, was a true gentleman in the English mould. Like all such English gentlemen, he was well-educated and intelligent, in addition to being reasonably affluent and possessed of a fitting type of prideful wit. Like all such English gentlemen, he only understood one language, which was English, the language of the only true gentlemen in the world. And, like all such English gentlemen, he was at this moment in the depths of inebriation, having satiated himself with a pot of bitter, spiced with a little lime, which contained not much more alcohol than a piece of fermented fruit.
"Wisla Krakow 2, FSV Marienberg 0. Meh. Real Madrid 0, Paris St Germain 3. Boring. FC Seville 1, Ajax Amsterdam 2. How dull." As was typical of English gentlemen, Mortimer Featherstonehaugh was well aware of the importance of keeping oneself up-to-date with current affairs. "Leicester City 1, Redditch United 1? Bloody hell! What the (expletive) are those (expletive)s doing?"
While thus engaged in such gentlemanly activities such as rightfully questioning the impartiality of certain individuals whose duty it was to ensure the fair distribution of boons and penalties, Mortimer Featherstonehaugh became aware of a second presence, hovering somewhere behind him and watching him abase himself while wearing an air of disdainful haughtiness.
"Lester Fenshaw, I presume? His Majesty's Edward IV's ambassador to
Holland?"
"The same," said that very gentlemanly ambassador, glancing over his shoulder and attempting to observe that presence behind him. Though his vision swam before him in the dusky candle-lit atmosphere of the public house, aided not least by his appriopriately gentlemanly state of intoxication, Lester Fenshaw was able to discern that the man now speaking to him was relatively tall, at or almost six feet in height, and had curly hair and a bushy moustache which well suited his deep bass voice. "Well met - and you are? It's about time I met someone else in this cesspit who also speaks His Majesty's language."
"I'd rather you didn't refer to my country that way, Ambassador." The tall man angled his head, as if to give the seated man a sideways glance. "I am Dirk Culemborg, acting Chancellor of
Holland."
"Oh ...
oh?" Lester, about to return to the documents spread on the table before him, was startled by the name and title. "Well, sir, your English is excellent. Not the hint of a
Hollander accent in the slightest."
"Thank you."
"So,
what the hell do you want?" growled Lester, his eyes narrowing as he continued to glare at the shadowed face of the man standing just behind him. "Either you have business for me, or you'll turn around and head out of this establishment right now."
"Truth be told, master Fenshaw, I do have business for you," the man replied, producing a folder he had been concealing behind his back. "His Imperial Majesty, Sovereign Wilhelm VI von Hohenzollern, has been rather ... lax, in promoting the cause of the liberation of peoples throughout Europe. This is of grave concern to, ahem, young political activists like myself who would like to see a little more gumption and forcefulness in our Sovereign's actions."
"And this concerns me how, master Culemborg?" Lester Fenshaw was visibly unimpressed - or at least as far as his unchanging expression showed in the dim light of the tavern.
"You're right, perhaps it doesn't, please pardon me." the man said, raising a fist to his mouth and giving a meaningful cough, before continuing. "However, authorities such as ourselves are ... concerned, at Sovereign Wilhelm's attempts to propagate this half-hearted support for liberty while still clinging on to monarchist ideals of absolute power as vested in the sovereign. This is especially evident in his, shall we say, rather doubtful choice of 'heir', which has cast aspersions on his legitimacy in continuing to rule this country."
"Get to the point," the English ambassador snapped, his patience wearing thin. "Specifically, get to the point which might get your head removed if you were found out. What exactly do you want?"
"Yes ... yes ..." the tall man said, as he raised the folder he was carrying in Lester's direction. "Well, I have genuine documents here, demonstrating the neglect into which Sovereign Wilhelm has permitted his extended dynasty to fall. Specifically, the last words of his neglected and unloved wife, who died pining for him even as she lamented ever marrying him."
"Her wedding ring is enclosed, as proof of its authenticity - the ring will match that on Sovereign Wilhelm's finger. And what I need is for you, the representative of the last European nation who still dares to resist the authority 'His Imperial Majesty' claims to assert, to spread this message and mar his name forever. With his dynastic legitimacy irreversibly tarnished, we of
Holland will seize the opportunity to restore the rule of this nation to its people. I trust this plan will benefit both your nation and ours."
"... a plot, master Culemborg? How intriguing." Lester Fenshaw's lips twisted into a cruel smile, matching the expression he expected this mysterious stranger to be wearing. "Give me those documents. I will see to it that they are ... appropriately publicised."
"Very well. I trust you with these priceless heirlooms." the man in the shadows said, handing the leather case to the English ambassador while rattling it slightly to give a hint as to its contents. "And do not contact me - we shall meet again once you have upheld your side of the bargain."
"Give it here."
That evening, in The Ambassadors public house, two men of gentlemanly persuasion met, came to an agreement, and parted - their minds united in a single thought, albeit a thought which mostly regarded the other distinguished gentleman. And that thought was "Sucker."
My parents are deaaad!!! Anyway this plot's power is 0.00% - we're definitely better writing a new one.
A warm July afternoon, in the year of our Lord 1501. Standing in the carpeted hallway of the Diplomatic Enquiries office, Sovereign Wilhelm VI von Hohenzollern of
Holland appraised the short and somewhat weedy-looking man who had been assigned to meet him. Apparently, this unassuming lad of about thirty-something years was one of the members of the Privy Council of France, the
Conseil du Roi. Imagine that!
"Actually, your Imperial Majesty, I'm not a member of the
Conseil, just an advocate on matters regarding our crucial alliance partners," the man said in a meek voice. Since
Holland was France's only real ally, ignoring several minor countries freed through wars with Castille and England, it sort of made sense to send the man through whom all
Hollander matters passed in the French court to meet with Wilhelm. "Special Advisor Anne de Niall, at your service. It's an honour to meet you, excellency."
"Oh ... greetings to you, sir." Wilhelm felt somewhat underwhelmed by the fact that the council had sent what amounted to
another clerk to meet with him, but any semblance of annoyance was ameliorated by his being somewhat used to this being normal procedure in his own country, and his recognition that this man had an importance in Franco-
Hollander relations which could not be understated. "A de Niall? It seems that you have some Celtic blood in your veins."
"Indeed, your majesty, for I am a descendant of Breton immigrants," Anne affirmed, albeit somewhat reluctantly, "although I admit that such a status has brought me a lot of hardship in the French court. Nasty jibes, teasing, the sorts."
"I can't imagine why."
"It's my first name, your majesty," the Frenchman continued, smiling sheepishly as he did so. "To tell the truth, my first name is Yves. But I don't want people making fun of me for having a name like that, so I use my middle name. And I stay away from any towns called Saint-Laurent."
"Ah ... I see. Do not worry, I have no desire to humiliate you in any way," Wilhelm reassured the younger man, before his expression grew stern once more. "However, on to business - I recently submitted a request to discuss the matter of French participation in the war against Castille with a member of the privy council, and I presume you are prepared to speak on behalf of your King?"
"Yes, sire. The
Conseil du Roi has noted your request and ensured that everything has been exactly prepared before sending me to speak with you," said Anne de Niall, as he opened his diplomatic folder and drew out copies of what looked like a signed treaty document, handing one to Wilhelm. "Here, you may have this."
"This ... what?"
FRAAANCE!!!
"Everything has been exactly prepared, your Imperial Majesty! You are now free to demand exactly as you please from Castille with our nation's full approval."
"This, shall we say, French propensity toward the rapid cessation of hostilities is becoming somewhat of a pattern. A rather troubling pattern," observed Wilhelm, scanning through the text of the document. There were certain aspects of it to which he objected, such as the French decision to annex the territory of the former Kingdom of Navarra, which rightfully should have been permitted to regain its independence, although he could not object to the French attempt to create an independent Neapolitan state for the second time.
"I sincerely apologise, sire - I am certain you have heard this many times, not least from our humble Ambassador to
Holland Ross de Boeuf, but we are really just the messengers. These are the collective decisions of the
Conseil du Roi of France who have taken upon themselves the duty of administering the kingdom due to the ... unfortunate state of our monarch."
"This is unfortunate indeed. I believe we had an understanding that we would prosecute this war to its fullest extent," said Wilhelm, his grimace betraying his dissatisfaction as he rolled the copied treaty into a scroll. "On my part, I have given my own expeditionary force the instructions not to let up until every Castillian brigade has been routed, and they have captured or scuttled the armada hiding in the port city of Valencia."
"There's not much we can do, I am sorry to say," Anne explained, his nervousness showing through despite having to be as diplomatic as possible. "There's a large group in the Council who feels that we are obliged to aid you in your wars due to how you saved us during the English attempt to resurrect their claim to our throne, and also how you protected the sea lanes and held off Emperor Bohemia during the Genoese war. However, there's also another large group - one with a very vocal populace backing them, who feel that we should not aid you in your objectives any more than is necessary to accomplish our own. These are internal political divisions, plain and simple, and thonestly speaking agreeing to join your wars but limiting the scope of our participation is the best way to appease both these parties, your Imperial Majesty."
"I see ..." grumbled Wilhelm. It's true that he had never faced such a degree of internal opposition during his service in the administrative echelons of
Holland, except possibly during the Austrian and Bavarian wars, and that was mainly due to how the country's commerce and prosperity remained mostly untroubled except during those particular wars. But
Holland had moved on since those dark years, so many decades ago, and it was somewhat disconcerting that France had failed to do the same. "Well, I believe there is little more to discuss."
"Again, I truly apologise for bringing you this disappointing news, and I hope that the fruitful and productive relationship between our two nations will long continue."
Anne de Niall bowed deeply, so slender was he that he was able to lower his head to about knee-height without toppling over. It was no use continuing this discussion, thought Wilhelm, and he satisfied himself with the promise of continued goodwill which as always accompanied yet another unilateral denial of the same.
The heralds brought in the peace proposal from the King of Castille, Juan III de Trastimara. He had hoped to save his beloved ships from annihilation by giving up everything, including the territory on the new continent his citizens had unlawfully seized from their local native denizens. Dirk Culemborg had earlier written to inform his liege of the intercontinental expeditionary force having encountered resistance from the natives themselves, including some who now considered themselves fully assimilated into the Castillian culture. It would be impossible to dislodge them or dissuade them otherwise, Dirk said, without attempting to directly annex and administer the territory in
Holland's name - an unacceptable proposition from the point of view of liberationists such as Dirk and Wilhelm himself.
Of course, all the begging and promises in the world would do nothing to save Juan III's precious armada, given that the destruction of such was one of the objectives of the
Hollander war. Castille would be cut down to size, and
not permitted to explore and expand whether by military means or civilian - the only way to enforce this was to ensure the destruction of every oceangoing ship in Castille's possession, at the same time breaking the back of its military establishment and inflicting such severe war exhaustion that the Castillian ship-building industry would be unable to re-establish themselves for almost a decade. It was also to be hoped that the temporary deprivation of Castille's ability to reinforce its overseas provinces would permit secessionist and patriot rebels to arise in those provinces and enforce their demands against a country who had not the means to further maintain the oppression enforced by representatives outside its mainland.
Castille's offer of territory, whether in Iberia, the new continent, or even the Holy Land (at this very moment being overrun by horde tribesmen, descendants of Timur)? More oppression and subjugation. This was the only way which monarchs of the present age knew how to discuss things - an outdated, traditionalist feudal mindset, a concept innately repelling to Wilhelm and many of politically-active elites of the maverick liberal democratic establishment of
Holland. How ironic that it was this very same pariah state who had been elected to take the Empire of the Germans into the new century - perhaps it was such reform which the imperial electors sought to see extended across Europe.
"What is your response, your Imperial Majesty?" The voice of the guard captain standing behind Wilhelm jarred him from his thoughts. He shook his head vigorously as if awakening from a dream - it was undeniable how his age had begun to affect his ability to manage his stressful and ever-growing workload with the acuity he possessed in his younger years.
"The scuttling of the Castillian fleet, and for Castille to relinquish all their claims on the peoples they formerly subjugated across Europe, including Flanders, Galicia, and Naples, and ..."
"And ...?" Not hearing the continuation of the sentence, the guard captain had the temerity to prompt his monarch - after all, it was a pittance to demand for a war which had lasted almost two years and cost lives, including that of a certain daring but not especially deep Admiral.
"And ... nothing more. That is all." Wilhelm's voice could not hide his exhaustion and exasperation at the tasks which lay before him, but his words had the air of finality about them.
"Very well, sire." The guard turned to leave, but upon reaching the door he wheeled about, having forgotten something very important. "Also, sire, we have received a message from our homeland, sent by Marshal of the Mint Joost Schönebeck. He says to return immediately - someone is stirring up trouble for you in Amsterdam."
"What?"
Animated by the suddenness of this declaration, Wilhelm whirled to face the exit of his temporary office - but the soldier had already left. The Sovereign's eyes dimmed, his brows wrinkling as he considered those cautionary words. Stirring up trouble for him, while he was away from his homeland? Had one of his enemies managed to outmanoeuvre him, Wilhelm VI von Hohenzollern, the Sovereign and now the Holy Roman Emperor who had become famed for his wise, calculating, and incredibly prescient nature?
Wilhelm sighed. The truth of the matter was that with his body and mind being as they were, weary of this mortal coil from his many years of enervation, it would not take a man of extraordinary capability to outsmart him ... and what more if that enemy turned out to truly be a genius in his own right?
To be continued in the next part! Chapter 10 D : Will at the Helm - Spurned like a Cur (1502-1503)
A nice combination of plot and levity. I'm hoping for more Florises if only to see how you react to the lack of a good equivalent of 'Caroline' or 'Jacobean'
