A Conspiracy of Ravens
Nantes, July 12 1418
Old de Beaudiez had done everything to keep it quiet. But even he, one of the richest non-royal man in Christianity and a potent webweaver, could no more stop the waggling of servants‘ tongues than could a man keep the sun from rising, no matter his wealth or influence. He should have killed them. But it seemed that even de Beaudiez would not stoop to the arbitrary murdering of petty peasants. Or maybe he was getting senile, maybe he was losing his touch just as he was losing his hair and his voice. Whatever the reasons, whatever the circumstances, the rumour spread throughout the castle like a wild fire, and spilled out into Nantes like a torrent. Servants, upon entering the Duke‘s chambers in order to change his bedsheets, had found those same sheets soaked through with blood, the Duke lying spread-eagled upon them, pale as a ghost, a deep cut down the length of either wrist.
“Might as well have wielded the knife himself,” muttered Roparzh de Boisguéhenneuc.
“Well, he did, didn’t he?” asked Jean d’Angennes, clutching a stack of books and papers and looking Roparzh, his already wide eyes enlarged to comical dimensions by his glasses.
Roparzh glared at the thin man. De Beaudiez had called an emergency meeting of the council as soon as the Duke’s death had been confirmed. Or when he could bother to haul his decrepit arse out of bed. The details were not clear on that account. Naturally, Roparzh had the misfortune of showing up early and having to socialize with d’Angennes. The young man had been recruited to replace his retired father, Artur d’Angennes, as Master of Mint and, just like his old man, he was invited to these council meetings as a bad habit. A brick wall was a more stimulating conversation partner.
“Not the Duke! De Beaudiez!” he spat the name like a foul curse.
“Oh, of course,” agreed d’Angennes, staring thoughtfully at an unremarkable corner of the ceiling.
“He robbed that boy of everything he was,” the Treasurer growled on. “John de Dreux was supposed to rule this duchy, not that Turk-bedding Beaudiez bastard. When you take away a man’s purpose in life, is it any surprise that he loses the will to live it?”
“Oh, of course.”
“You really are a useless, wretched little minnow, aren’t you, d’Angennes?”
“Oh, of course.”
Roparzh renewed his glare at Jean, who responded with a perfectly innocent expression. Roparzh groaned loudly and banged his head on the double doors leading to the conference room.
“There you are!” called a new voice. “What are the two of you plotting this time?”
The treasurer turned around to find Gaël de Bain, Duke John and Artur’s teacher of history and philosophy, approaching them, a wide smile on his face.
“Don’t get cute, Gaël,” Roparzh growled.
“Plotting?” asked Jean, still wearing a distant expression.
“Yes!” exclaimed Gaël, “Plots, plots, plots! The castle is rife with them! And you two are not helping! Can’t turn my back on you without you hatching some scheme or other! Is anyone in here?” he opened the doors to the conference room and looked inside.
“Scheme?” asked Jean. Gaël looked over his shoulder at him.
“You really are a useless wart, aren’t you, d’Angennes?”
“Oh, of course.”
“I told him as much,” Roparzh added helpfully.
De Bain rolled his eyes, “Get in here, the room is empty.”
Roparzh entered and Gaël slammed the doors shut in d’Angennes’s face. He moved further into the room and indicated the treasurer to follow. “Don’t want to be overheard,” he muttered.
“By that buffoon?” asked Roparzh, hooking a thumb back to the doors, “He probably didn’t even notice he’s being left out.”
“Don’t put faith in appearances. De Beaudiez was just a merchant before he took over, remember? D’Angennes is Beaudiez’s creature through and through. If he hears anything, he will report it.”
Roparzh frowned, a sense of apprehension welling up inside him, “What would there be to report?”
Gaël de Bain inhaled deeply through his nose and walked to a nearby window. “I was… fortunate enough to view Duke John’s will today. Written just before his death, apparently.”
“Like father, like son, I’m guessing. Who’s the poor fool chosen as regent this time?”
“His will states that his brother, Artur, shall rule as Duke, with all titles, incomes, and responsibilities until such time as his son Pierre reaches twenty years of age.”
“That is… unorthodox.”
“It will never happen, of course,” sighed Gaël.
Roparzh opened his mouth to speak, but stopped to think. “Because… Because Artur has never been a focus of de Beaudiez’s manipulations. He will never allow a man not under his influence to take the throne.”
“Exactly,” Gaël spoke through gritted teeth.
“What about the others? If we can garner support from the military and clergy, we can overthrow the old man and install Artur as duke.”
“The clergy is in de Beaudiez’s pocket, and the inheritance is too unorthodox for them to risk going against him. The military will go wherever Captain Rohan goes, and he’s unpredictable. He may relate to Artur as a soldier, but he’s been close to de Beaudiez for far too long to turn against him easily.”
The treasurer gritted his teeth. “Artur is a soldier anyway, not a ruler. He has been prepared all his life to become the marshal of Brittany. War is everything he knows. He would run the economy into the ground financing poorly-thought foreign adventures. It would be the Spanish Wars every year.”
Breton involvement in the Second Spanish War was fairly uneventful. The Bretons were already at war with Castille but refused to come to the aid of King Martin of Aragon when the Portuguese attacked. King Henry of Castille initially refused to sign a peace with the Bretons, hoping to punish them for their involvement in the first Spanish War, but Duke John captured the city of Bilbao and routed a small force of Castilian infantry outside León, convincing King Henry of the merits of letting the Bretons go with a white peace.
“The alternative is another miserable puppet, courtesy of old de Beaudiez.”
Roparzh sat down and groaned. “Are these our only two options? Artur or Pierre?”
“If we wish to have a duke, they are.”
There was a short silence. “If?” inquired Roparzh, furrowing his eyebrows.
Gaël turned and faced the other man, gripping the back of the chair at the end of the conference table, the one usually occupied by the duke. “What if we didn’t have a duke?”
“No duke?” asked de Boisguéhenneuc, nonplussed, “What are you talking about?”
“Think about it, Roparzh! Whatever de Beaudiez’s faults, we cannot but admit that Brittany has never before been so rich and powerful as it is now,” said de Bain, a fire kindling in his eyes and lending intensity to his voice, “Through proper inheritance laws, he would never have been duke, but men like him, men like us, men of low blood but great talent, we are far more able than some buffoon who just happened to be born with the right ancestor!”
Roparzh tensed up with apprehension, “You mean…?”
Gaël leaned in close and lowered his voice, “We remove the dukes entirely. We end the aristocracy. Offices will be filled with men not of high blood, but with men who have proven their merit through their wealth.”
“You are speaking of a republic like that of Venice and Genoa,” whispered Roparzh.
“And Novgorod, and the Hanseatic League. States commanding opulence such as could be
ours, Roparzh!”
“This… this is treason… heresy, Gaël.”
“Only if we fail. If we win, we shall be remembered throughout history as heroes, as founding fathers,” Gaël was now inches from Roparzh’s face, “Join me, Roparzh, and win glory and wealth beyond your imaginations.”
Roparzh paled. It was just too big. Overthrow the monarchy? It was insane! They’d be executed if anyone caught wind of this conversation. They’d be excommunicated if they succeeded! He worked his mouth soundlessly for a moment, but was saved by the rattling of the doorhandle.
The doors swung open and Roparzh’s heart sank. De Beaudiez had outmaneuvered them somehow. In the doorway stood the venerable man, now bald and heavily spotted, bent over with age and nearly blind, and supported by Artur de Dreux. The late Duke’s young brother had grown to become a tall, strapping, man, with a broad chest and a shoulder-long mane of light-brown hair. He also wore a heavy sword at his hip.
“Who’s that?” rasped de Beaudiez, squinting at Roparzh and Gaël.
“Roparzh de Boisguéhenneuc and Gaël de Bain,” replied Artur.
“Plotting some mischief, I’ll wager,” growled de Beaudiez, “Take me to my seat, my boy. We have a council to direct.”
My boy? Roparzh thought with incredulity.
And Artur doesn’t even seem to mind! Indeed, the young man dutifully led the old regent to his traditional seat, then set himself down in the Duke’s chair, much to the surprise of Roparzh and Gaël. Rohan and the naval captain d’Elbène, entering on the heels of de Beaudiez and Artur gave him surprised looks as they took their seats.
It was an uneventful meeting. De Beaudiez had prepared the succession impeccably and the council members offered Artur their oaths of fealty without complaint. There were the usual reports on the military, the navy and France, and then there was the planning of Artur’s coronation ceremony. When the session was finally adjourned, Roparzh discreetly handed Gaël de Bain a small note containing two words.
I’m in.
) characters. I will follow!
