Louis best close up his castle until the plague passes or he might start losing some of those new family members. An excellent update.
In Flanders Fields
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Two for the price of one today ypu lucky people. Enjoy.
CHAPTER 10 THE COUNT OF NEVERS
Even the people had started to whisper that the visitation of the plague was a judgement from God on their duke. Dormant rumours about the demise of Duchess Marguerite erupted and Louis decided that the time was right for some public acts of normality that privately would also be offerings of repentance and humility. And so in December he gave orders for the construction of a monastery in Tir Eoghain and a Templar House in Tir Connail. In February, work began on a civilian harbour in Yperen, and in March there were at last signs of improvement as prosperity in Bruges rose. Louis gave thanks to God, and hoped that the corner had at last been turned.
The spring of 1346 was a sober time for Louis and his Flemish subjects. Bruges and Gent were still ravaged by plague and although Yperen had so far been spared, its economy was starting to show signs of strain under the influence of all the migrants from the plague-hit lands to the east, as refugees fled westwards in the hope of escaping the deadly clutches of the hated pestilence.
Louis was very fond of his three young sons from his union with Adele – he loved nothing better than to play with them, whether in the dark and still unfamiliar territory of Yperen castle, or, now that the weather was improving and the days were lengthening, outdoors in the castle bailey or in the green meadows that surrounded castle on its southern and western sides. On one thing was he adamant though; the boys must never venture anywhere near the waterside or the port area, for Louis had a hunch that this was where the plague would strike first when it came to Yperen, as surely, inevitably, it would. Young Louis was still his heir however, and duke Louis was equally fond of his first-born son who, as the years had passed, had grown to resemble his father more and more, with his high cheek bones and brown hair cut in its fashionable basin cut. The two Louis’s got on well enough. Young Louis had never been especially close to his mother, duchess Marguerite, but he had, of course, heard the ongoing rumours about her untimely demise, and although he could never quite bring himself to believe that his father had had anything to do with her death, neither could he quell that tiny element of doubt that lingered at the back of his mind.
Young Louis was 16 years old on 18 June 1346. He had hated the last 18 months stuck in what he considered the backwater of Yperen. Plague was something that only the peasants and poor people caught, thought Louis with the unshakeable self-belief of all 16 year olds. Why wouldn’t his father let him return to Bruges and to his own suite of apartments? It was not right and proper for the heir to the duchy of Flanders to be cooped up alongside his infant brothers and their young mother in such an old, cold, unwelcoming fortress as the castle at Yperen. Louis had decided that the time was right to confront his father, and he knew exactly what he was going to do.
“My Lord, father” began young Louis one morning as he and his father were breaking their fast together in the Great Hall within the castle keep “now that I am 16 years old, I want to serve you and the duchy. I want to become your marshal.”
The duke nearly choked upon the chicken wing that he was chewing.
“God’s balls” he swore “the bloody cheek of the pup! Is this the same boy who spent his childhood in the company of monks and priests rather than in the armoury or with the other squires training in the knightly arts? It is true that over many years I have failed to find anyone of suitable calibre, ability or experience to lead my troops in my absence, but I do not see that anything has changed now. I do have plans for you, but they most certainly do not include you becoming Marshal of Flanders.”
“Now that you are 16, you must put away for ever the things of childhood. You are now a man, and you must live and behave as one. I have been scouring Europe to find a suitable bride for you – one who will be your duchess and will bear you sons to inherit the duchy after you. It has not been easy – you are hardly the greatest catch in Christendom – but I have succeeded. You will marry Ermenegilde d’Este, an Italian girl from the court of Genoa. She is well-educated (better than you), speaks Italian, Latin, Greek and French, and is good-looking in a southern European way – I’m sure you can get her to shave her armpits if you try! Furthermore, it is not healthy for a man to live within the court of another man, even his father’s; I am creating you Count of Nevers. You will be my vassal and rule Nevers in my stead. Ermenegilde will be your countess after your marriage in Nevers cathedral. I suggest you go and start your packing; you leave for Nevers tomorrow. Go and play the martial cleric there to your heart’s content.”
Young Louis pushed his heavy chair back from the table, rose and bowed to his father.
“My, Lord, thank you” he said impassively, turned on his heel and left the Hall.
Duke Louis picked up the half-eaten chicken-wing, toyed with it absent-mindedly, before flinging it to the dogs lounging in front of the empty fireplace, wondering as he did so if he had not perhaps been a mite too hard on his son and heir.
CHAPTER 11 A PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES
One October evening, in the year of grace 1346, Louis de Dampierre, Duke of Flanders, Count of Bruges, Yperen, Gent, Tir Connail, Tir Eoghain and Man was sitting in the Great Hall of Yperen castle having finished his evening meal. The straitened finances of the duchy meant that even the duke ate more frugally than he would like; he had noted the beneficial impact on his waistline, but he longed for the old days when de Ramsay’s cuisine fed Louis and his court with regal magnificence. He had brought the temperamental Scotsman with him to Yperen initially, but the declining kitchen budget was too much for de Ramsay and he had left the duke’s service in acrimonious circumstances some 8 months ago. His replacement was the gentle
Madame de Liasmith, and it was her delicious rabbit stew that had, temporarily at least, filled Louis’s stomach. He raised one buttock and farted in satisfaction, much to his wife’s disgust, but to his young sons’ amusement. He was reflecting upon his recent decisions to found a Templar house in Tir Eoghain and a fishing wharf in the Isle of Man – one would aid his piety, the other his treasury. His mind turned towards his chaplain, Father Pierre, he who had kept the duke’s most secret of secrets for over four years now, and who had requested a private audience with Louis that evening.
Pierre had never been a loud man – his quiet demeanour and gentle nature seemed to have made him pre-destined for holy orders – but of late he had become even more quiet and withdrawn, and Louis worried about his old confidant’s health, if not physical, then mental. Was the strain of keeping Louis’s most precious secret becoming too much for the cleric to bear? Pierre was awaiting Louis as he swept into the dimly lit chamber above the Hall, whence he had departed, leaving his wife and Gisele to deal with his squabbling brood. (How he missed young Louis and his teenage sulks.) The duke took a seat by the roaring fire and motioned the priest to do likewise. Pierre did as he was bidden, but looked distinctly uncomfortable, constantly looking around himself, and fiddling nervously with the small ruby ring that he wore on the little finger of his left hand.
“Pierre, old friend. What can I do for you?” enquired Louis.
“A-A-are we alone?” stammered the chaplain in response.
“Of course we are. Why? Were you expecting someone else?”
“N-no. Not really. It’s just that I can never be certain. I keep hearing these voices in my head, and they’re so real, it’s as if someone else were in the room with me all the time. I’m sure God is punishing me for my past sins, however unwittingly committed.”
This news disturbed Louis, and confirmed his worst suspicions over Pierre’s mental state.
“It’s just this hell-hole of a castle” said Louis “I can’t wait for this damned plague to end in Bruges so that we can all get back there. Look, I am going to send you to Nevers. You can spend Christmas with my son and his new wife, and report back to me on how he is managing his new found responsibilities and lands.”
And so Father Pierre was duly despatched. Louis hoped that the trip would sort out his chaplain’s head. He had briefly considered a more drastic remedy, but the shortage of a suitably educated alternative to take Pierre’s place as chaplain meant that Louis would be reliant upon Pierre, however deluded he may be, for the foreseeable future.
Christmas came and went. Louis celebrated Mass in the basilica church of Yperen with Adele and his three young sons, looking every inch the virtuous Christian and family prince that he wasn’t. That winter was cold and snowy, and Louis spent his time cooped up in the dreary confines of Yperen castle, eagerly awaiting the return of the spring. Even his growing passion for the hunt did little to brighten the dog days of early 1347.
Pierre returned from Nevers in mid-February, bearing gifts and news from young Louis and his (still unimpregnated) wife Ermenegilde. Outwardly, the cleric looked no different, but there was no more talk of voices in his head, and although Louis knew he would have to keep a close eye on his chaplain, he was less worried about any unfortunate revelations than he had been six months previously.
And then, just as Louis was beginning to think that the worst was behind him, on 13 March 1347, the first confirmed case of bubonic plague in Yperen was confirmed. Even Adele, normally so calm and level-headed, as befitted the Flemish spy-master, was panicked, fearing that her young children would succumb. Louis tried to reassure her, pointing out that it was normally the poor and ill-fed and ill-housed who caught plague, not noble families living in castles (although privately he now wished he had not left Bruges castle with its modern apartments, wider spaces, and, incidentally, less vermin; the rats that scurried about Yperen castle in the dark. Louis shuddered as he thought of these disgusting rodent interlopers).
Louis’s depression over the persistent and spreading plague was ameliorated only slightly by news of infrastructure developments in his distant lands. The dullards in Man at last realised how to build a proper windmill, and then, as if borne magically on those giant wooden sails, news that a pike division had been formed in the Man regiment also reached Louis’s ears. The rocky coasts of these far-off lands, marooned in the western fringes of the mighty Atlantic Ocean, were a constant danger to shipping, and shipwrecks and drownings were a common occurrence in Tir Connail, Tir Eoghain and the Isle of Man. Louis granted a clergy petition for rights to the spoils of wrecks to be given to the church in Tir Connail. His piety with Holy Mother Church rose accordingly. As if to mock him though, news soon followed that the plague had reached Man.
On 2 October 1347, Louis’s 43rd birthday, a messenger wearing the distinctive livery of the royal arms of France but with the addition of a rouge bend sinister that marked him out as a servant of the Duke of Bourbon, arrived at Yperen castle. He was shown into the presence of the duke himself, who was attended by Jeanne, his chancellor-cum-mother.
“Your Grace, my lady” drawled the herald in a nasal French accent that Louis at once took an instant dislike to. “My Lord, Pierre, his Grace the Duke of Bourbon sends greetings and brotherly love in Christ and seeks an alliance between the noble houses of Bourbon and de Dampierre. He bids me await your response.”
The messenger bowed deeply to his noble audience, only slowly regaining his full height (which was not great). A glance was exchanged between Louis and his mother. It was the chancellor who addressed the short courier.
“Sir Herald. On behalf of his Grace, Louis, Duke of Flanders, I give you most heartfelt thanks for your master’s kind offer of alliance. Regrettably, Flanders is not able to comply with the request. Please convey this answer with our gratitude to the Duke of Bourbon.”
And the dowager duchess of Flanders swept out of the room in a manner which left the messenger in no doubt that his brief and unfruitful audience was at an end.
Louis’s spies had been active about the court of Bourbon and word had reached Louis that Pierre do Bourbon was not to be trusted. He shared the same liege as Louis, but his loyalty was uncertain, and Louis had no intention of becoming embroiled in any local dispute between the Bourbons and the king.
Another winter came and went, uneventfully. All Louis’s Flemish lands were still plague-ridden, and the population of each province had fallen alarmingly. This in turn reduced income from taxation and tolls, which meant there was less money to invest in relief for those suffering from the plague or in developing infrastructure. Nonetheless, the plague somehow seemed a distant and unreal event for the de Dampierre family. All that changed on one fateful morning in March 1348.
Little Phillippe had always been a sickly child; wheezing and coughing, unlike his robust older brother Arnaud. He kept Gisele occupied almost full-time with his ailments, and Louis and Adele both suspected that the old-woman’s skill had already prolonged their 2nd son’s life on more than one occasion. The morning of 26 March dawned dull and misty, and not unusually, Phillippe awoke coughing and spluttering. Gisele was quickly by his side, and equally quickly noted immediately the tell-tale rash in the form of a circle of red spots on the boy’s cheek and chest. She felt under his armpits, and was heart-broken, but not surprised, to detect a distinct swelling under the child’s left armpit. Phillippe had contracted bubonic plague.
Adele was distraught, Louis less so, for he knew that desperate times called for desperate measures, and that he would have to be strong to lead his family through this crisis. He gave immediate orders for the family to depart back to Bruges. Clearly Yperen was no safer than Bruges and this was the excuse Louis needed to relocate his ducal court back to the more splendid surroundings of Bruges castle. Not quite all the family though. Louis gave the unpleasant order that Phillippe was to remain in Yperen with Gisele in order to reduce the likelihood of the plague spreading to other members of the family. Adele pleaded with Louis to let her stay with Phillippe but the duke was adamant and two days later Louis and his court, including Adele his duchess, and Arnaud and Hugues his sons left Yperen for Bruges. Little Phillippe was too young and too ill to know what was happening.
The plague, it seemed, would never end. Its pustulous hand was laid unremittingly across Flanders. It had embraced the duke’s 3-year-old son (who surprisingly, given his sickly nature, was resisting the pestilence) and by September word had reached Louis that Tir Connail and Tir Eoghain were also now plague infested. All of Louis’s demesne lands were now afflicted with that most deadly of visitations, the Bubonic Plague.
CHAPTER 10 THE COUNT OF NEVERS
Even the people had started to whisper that the visitation of the plague was a judgement from God on their duke. Dormant rumours about the demise of Duchess Marguerite erupted and Louis decided that the time was right for some public acts of normality that privately would also be offerings of repentance and humility. And so in December he gave orders for the construction of a monastery in Tir Eoghain and a Templar House in Tir Connail. In February, work began on a civilian harbour in Yperen, and in March there were at last signs of improvement as prosperity in Bruges rose. Louis gave thanks to God, and hoped that the corner had at last been turned.
The spring of 1346 was a sober time for Louis and his Flemish subjects. Bruges and Gent were still ravaged by plague and although Yperen had so far been spared, its economy was starting to show signs of strain under the influence of all the migrants from the plague-hit lands to the east, as refugees fled westwards in the hope of escaping the deadly clutches of the hated pestilence.
Louis was very fond of his three young sons from his union with Adele – he loved nothing better than to play with them, whether in the dark and still unfamiliar territory of Yperen castle, or, now that the weather was improving and the days were lengthening, outdoors in the castle bailey or in the green meadows that surrounded castle on its southern and western sides. On one thing was he adamant though; the boys must never venture anywhere near the waterside or the port area, for Louis had a hunch that this was where the plague would strike first when it came to Yperen, as surely, inevitably, it would. Young Louis was still his heir however, and duke Louis was equally fond of his first-born son who, as the years had passed, had grown to resemble his father more and more, with his high cheek bones and brown hair cut in its fashionable basin cut. The two Louis’s got on well enough. Young Louis had never been especially close to his mother, duchess Marguerite, but he had, of course, heard the ongoing rumours about her untimely demise, and although he could never quite bring himself to believe that his father had had anything to do with her death, neither could he quell that tiny element of doubt that lingered at the back of his mind.
Young Louis was 16 years old on 18 June 1346. He had hated the last 18 months stuck in what he considered the backwater of Yperen. Plague was something that only the peasants and poor people caught, thought Louis with the unshakeable self-belief of all 16 year olds. Why wouldn’t his father let him return to Bruges and to his own suite of apartments? It was not right and proper for the heir to the duchy of Flanders to be cooped up alongside his infant brothers and their young mother in such an old, cold, unwelcoming fortress as the castle at Yperen. Louis had decided that the time was right to confront his father, and he knew exactly what he was going to do.
“My Lord, father” began young Louis one morning as he and his father were breaking their fast together in the Great Hall within the castle keep “now that I am 16 years old, I want to serve you and the duchy. I want to become your marshal.”
The duke nearly choked upon the chicken wing that he was chewing.
“God’s balls” he swore “the bloody cheek of the pup! Is this the same boy who spent his childhood in the company of monks and priests rather than in the armoury or with the other squires training in the knightly arts? It is true that over many years I have failed to find anyone of suitable calibre, ability or experience to lead my troops in my absence, but I do not see that anything has changed now. I do have plans for you, but they most certainly do not include you becoming Marshal of Flanders.”
“Now that you are 16, you must put away for ever the things of childhood. You are now a man, and you must live and behave as one. I have been scouring Europe to find a suitable bride for you – one who will be your duchess and will bear you sons to inherit the duchy after you. It has not been easy – you are hardly the greatest catch in Christendom – but I have succeeded. You will marry Ermenegilde d’Este, an Italian girl from the court of Genoa. She is well-educated (better than you), speaks Italian, Latin, Greek and French, and is good-looking in a southern European way – I’m sure you can get her to shave her armpits if you try! Furthermore, it is not healthy for a man to live within the court of another man, even his father’s; I am creating you Count of Nevers. You will be my vassal and rule Nevers in my stead. Ermenegilde will be your countess after your marriage in Nevers cathedral. I suggest you go and start your packing; you leave for Nevers tomorrow. Go and play the martial cleric there to your heart’s content.”
Young Louis pushed his heavy chair back from the table, rose and bowed to his father.
“My, Lord, thank you” he said impassively, turned on his heel and left the Hall.
Duke Louis picked up the half-eaten chicken-wing, toyed with it absent-mindedly, before flinging it to the dogs lounging in front of the empty fireplace, wondering as he did so if he had not perhaps been a mite too hard on his son and heir.
CHAPTER 11 A PLAGUE ON ALL YOUR HOUSES
One October evening, in the year of grace 1346, Louis de Dampierre, Duke of Flanders, Count of Bruges, Yperen, Gent, Tir Connail, Tir Eoghain and Man was sitting in the Great Hall of Yperen castle having finished his evening meal. The straitened finances of the duchy meant that even the duke ate more frugally than he would like; he had noted the beneficial impact on his waistline, but he longed for the old days when de Ramsay’s cuisine fed Louis and his court with regal magnificence. He had brought the temperamental Scotsman with him to Yperen initially, but the declining kitchen budget was too much for de Ramsay and he had left the duke’s service in acrimonious circumstances some 8 months ago. His replacement was the gentle
Madame de Liasmith, and it was her delicious rabbit stew that had, temporarily at least, filled Louis’s stomach. He raised one buttock and farted in satisfaction, much to his wife’s disgust, but to his young sons’ amusement. He was reflecting upon his recent decisions to found a Templar house in Tir Eoghain and a fishing wharf in the Isle of Man – one would aid his piety, the other his treasury. His mind turned towards his chaplain, Father Pierre, he who had kept the duke’s most secret of secrets for over four years now, and who had requested a private audience with Louis that evening.
Pierre had never been a loud man – his quiet demeanour and gentle nature seemed to have made him pre-destined for holy orders – but of late he had become even more quiet and withdrawn, and Louis worried about his old confidant’s health, if not physical, then mental. Was the strain of keeping Louis’s most precious secret becoming too much for the cleric to bear? Pierre was awaiting Louis as he swept into the dimly lit chamber above the Hall, whence he had departed, leaving his wife and Gisele to deal with his squabbling brood. (How he missed young Louis and his teenage sulks.) The duke took a seat by the roaring fire and motioned the priest to do likewise. Pierre did as he was bidden, but looked distinctly uncomfortable, constantly looking around himself, and fiddling nervously with the small ruby ring that he wore on the little finger of his left hand.
“Pierre, old friend. What can I do for you?” enquired Louis.
“A-A-are we alone?” stammered the chaplain in response.
“Of course we are. Why? Were you expecting someone else?”
“N-no. Not really. It’s just that I can never be certain. I keep hearing these voices in my head, and they’re so real, it’s as if someone else were in the room with me all the time. I’m sure God is punishing me for my past sins, however unwittingly committed.”
This news disturbed Louis, and confirmed his worst suspicions over Pierre’s mental state.
“It’s just this hell-hole of a castle” said Louis “I can’t wait for this damned plague to end in Bruges so that we can all get back there. Look, I am going to send you to Nevers. You can spend Christmas with my son and his new wife, and report back to me on how he is managing his new found responsibilities and lands.”
And so Father Pierre was duly despatched. Louis hoped that the trip would sort out his chaplain’s head. He had briefly considered a more drastic remedy, but the shortage of a suitably educated alternative to take Pierre’s place as chaplain meant that Louis would be reliant upon Pierre, however deluded he may be, for the foreseeable future.
Christmas came and went. Louis celebrated Mass in the basilica church of Yperen with Adele and his three young sons, looking every inch the virtuous Christian and family prince that he wasn’t. That winter was cold and snowy, and Louis spent his time cooped up in the dreary confines of Yperen castle, eagerly awaiting the return of the spring. Even his growing passion for the hunt did little to brighten the dog days of early 1347.
Pierre returned from Nevers in mid-February, bearing gifts and news from young Louis and his (still unimpregnated) wife Ermenegilde. Outwardly, the cleric looked no different, but there was no more talk of voices in his head, and although Louis knew he would have to keep a close eye on his chaplain, he was less worried about any unfortunate revelations than he had been six months previously.
And then, just as Louis was beginning to think that the worst was behind him, on 13 March 1347, the first confirmed case of bubonic plague in Yperen was confirmed. Even Adele, normally so calm and level-headed, as befitted the Flemish spy-master, was panicked, fearing that her young children would succumb. Louis tried to reassure her, pointing out that it was normally the poor and ill-fed and ill-housed who caught plague, not noble families living in castles (although privately he now wished he had not left Bruges castle with its modern apartments, wider spaces, and, incidentally, less vermin; the rats that scurried about Yperen castle in the dark. Louis shuddered as he thought of these disgusting rodent interlopers).
Louis’s depression over the persistent and spreading plague was ameliorated only slightly by news of infrastructure developments in his distant lands. The dullards in Man at last realised how to build a proper windmill, and then, as if borne magically on those giant wooden sails, news that a pike division had been formed in the Man regiment also reached Louis’s ears. The rocky coasts of these far-off lands, marooned in the western fringes of the mighty Atlantic Ocean, were a constant danger to shipping, and shipwrecks and drownings were a common occurrence in Tir Connail, Tir Eoghain and the Isle of Man. Louis granted a clergy petition for rights to the spoils of wrecks to be given to the church in Tir Connail. His piety with Holy Mother Church rose accordingly. As if to mock him though, news soon followed that the plague had reached Man.
On 2 October 1347, Louis’s 43rd birthday, a messenger wearing the distinctive livery of the royal arms of France but with the addition of a rouge bend sinister that marked him out as a servant of the Duke of Bourbon, arrived at Yperen castle. He was shown into the presence of the duke himself, who was attended by Jeanne, his chancellor-cum-mother.
“Your Grace, my lady” drawled the herald in a nasal French accent that Louis at once took an instant dislike to. “My Lord, Pierre, his Grace the Duke of Bourbon sends greetings and brotherly love in Christ and seeks an alliance between the noble houses of Bourbon and de Dampierre. He bids me await your response.”
The messenger bowed deeply to his noble audience, only slowly regaining his full height (which was not great). A glance was exchanged between Louis and his mother. It was the chancellor who addressed the short courier.
“Sir Herald. On behalf of his Grace, Louis, Duke of Flanders, I give you most heartfelt thanks for your master’s kind offer of alliance. Regrettably, Flanders is not able to comply with the request. Please convey this answer with our gratitude to the Duke of Bourbon.”
And the dowager duchess of Flanders swept out of the room in a manner which left the messenger in no doubt that his brief and unfruitful audience was at an end.
Louis’s spies had been active about the court of Bourbon and word had reached Louis that Pierre do Bourbon was not to be trusted. He shared the same liege as Louis, but his loyalty was uncertain, and Louis had no intention of becoming embroiled in any local dispute between the Bourbons and the king.
Another winter came and went, uneventfully. All Louis’s Flemish lands were still plague-ridden, and the population of each province had fallen alarmingly. This in turn reduced income from taxation and tolls, which meant there was less money to invest in relief for those suffering from the plague or in developing infrastructure. Nonetheless, the plague somehow seemed a distant and unreal event for the de Dampierre family. All that changed on one fateful morning in March 1348.
Little Phillippe had always been a sickly child; wheezing and coughing, unlike his robust older brother Arnaud. He kept Gisele occupied almost full-time with his ailments, and Louis and Adele both suspected that the old-woman’s skill had already prolonged their 2nd son’s life on more than one occasion. The morning of 26 March dawned dull and misty, and not unusually, Phillippe awoke coughing and spluttering. Gisele was quickly by his side, and equally quickly noted immediately the tell-tale rash in the form of a circle of red spots on the boy’s cheek and chest. She felt under his armpits, and was heart-broken, but not surprised, to detect a distinct swelling under the child’s left armpit. Phillippe had contracted bubonic plague.
Adele was distraught, Louis less so, for he knew that desperate times called for desperate measures, and that he would have to be strong to lead his family through this crisis. He gave immediate orders for the family to depart back to Bruges. Clearly Yperen was no safer than Bruges and this was the excuse Louis needed to relocate his ducal court back to the more splendid surroundings of Bruges castle. Not quite all the family though. Louis gave the unpleasant order that Phillippe was to remain in Yperen with Gisele in order to reduce the likelihood of the plague spreading to other members of the family. Adele pleaded with Louis to let her stay with Phillippe but the duke was adamant and two days later Louis and his court, including Adele his duchess, and Arnaud and Hugues his sons left Yperen for Bruges. Little Phillippe was too young and too ill to know what was happening.
The plague, it seemed, would never end. Its pustulous hand was laid unremittingly across Flanders. It had embraced the duke’s 3-year-old son (who surprisingly, given his sickly nature, was resisting the pestilence) and by September word had reached Louis that Tir Connail and Tir Eoghain were also now plague infested. All of Louis’s demesne lands were now afflicted with that most deadly of visitations, the Bubonic Plague.
That will teach Louis for killing his wife!
Actually I feel kind of sorry for him. Trapped in circumstances beyond his control.
Actually I feel kind of sorry for him. Trapped in circumstances beyond his control.
Ouch! Poor Louis 
Yperen is the root of all evil! Once you're back to Bruges, things will get better!
Nice updates by the way
Yperen is the root of all evil! Once you're back to Bruges, things will get better!
Nice updates by the way
Been away on holiday for a week hence the lack of updates. Another chapter follows.
Stnylan, Yeah it's funny how things have turned out for Louis after killing the missus. of course, some good things have happened too, like he now has a secure succession (for the time being maybe?)
LordScod, Thank you for the compliment. Glad you're enjoying it.
Jestor, I've nothing against Yperen, but maybe you are right (and maybe you are not!)
CHAPTER 12 WHAT’S IN A NAME?
Back in April 1348, not long after Louis’s court had re-assembled at Bruges, a weary and mud-spattered rider brought his tired horse to a grateful rest before the gatehouse to the castle. He was wearing no livery but demanded admittance as he bore important news for the duke. Under escort, the rider was admitted to the inner bailey of the castle and word was sent of his arrival to Jeanne, the chancellor.
“My lady” said the messenger once admitted to the chancellor’s presence. “I bring happy news. The Countess of Nevers has been delivered of a child! The Duke is a grandfather!”
“A girl then?” asked Jeanne rhetorically, for it was evident from the nature of the announcement that the baby was not the hoped for male heir.
“Aye, your Grace, a girl, Marie, born on the 12th of April.”
If Louis was disappointed, he did not show it when informed of this news by his mother. The future of the dynasty looked secure enough. Young Louis would rule after his death, and if, God forbid, anything untoward befell his first-born, he still had three other sons by Adele, and Arnaud was shaping up very nicely. And then in mid-November 1348 came news that Ermenegilde was pregnant again. Maybe the baby she was carrying this time would be young Louis’s heir.
Daily life in throughout the province of Bruges was hard in 1349. Plague still stalked the land and the population was greatly reduced from its pre-plague level. Life in the castle was equally affected. Louis and his family kept themselves to themselves and were rarely seen by those outside his immediate household, so keen was the duke to protect his family from the dreaded pestilence. Prosperity was reduced and as any building work took so long with the shortage of labour, Louis shelved all plans for infrastructure development throughout his realm.
On 16 August 1349, the same rider who had brought news of Marie’s birth, arrived once again before the impressive gatehouse of Bruges castle. This took the form of a barbican, projecting outwards from the main line of the curtain wall, comprising two circular towers with a pointed archway between them, its doorway guarded by a portcullis and heavy wooden doors, secured fast when necessary with a huge wooden beam that slotted in horizontally behind both doors. Beyond the doorway was a narrow passageway, scarcely wide enough to admit traders’ carts, in which confined space any would-be assailant would face assault from arrow slits set in the internal walls of the barbican and from murder-holes built into the floor of the guardhouse in the chamber on the gatehouse’s first floor. At the end of the passageway was a further archway, flanked by smaller towers and cut into the curtain wall, round-headed this time, being older than its external cousin, but with its own portcullis and heavy wooden doors, inset with iron studs for added strength. This gave direct access to the castle bailey. The messenger penetrated these mighty defences easily enough, which, supine, like a fierce dog at rest, posed no threat to this non-martial visitor.
There was something about the rider’s demeanour on this occasion that prompted the gatekeeper to send word to the duke himself this time, and ‘ere long, the messenger was standing before Duke Louis in the Great Hall of the castle. Louis was seated in a throne on the dais that ran the width of one end of the hall. The floor was strewn with fresh rushes; crushed lavender and rosemary gave the room a pleasant scent.
“Your Grace” said the messenger, bowing deeply before the duke “I bring greetings and news from the Count of Nevers. Five days ago the countess was delivered safely of a son. He will be called Castore.”
“Castore”, thought the duke, what sort of effeminate Italianate name was that? It was evident who had had the greater say in naming the baby. “What was wrong with the name Louis” wondered the duke. His father had been called Louis, and the duke had had no hesitation in naming his first born Louis too – he had always envisaged a string of Louis’s stretching into the future through each generation, but Castore! What a name for the future duke of Flanders.
“Sir messenger, I thank you for these tidings” said Louis, interrupting his own day-dreaming and tossing a silver penny in the herald’s direction “you will, of course, stay with us overnight whilst we prepare our return message and find suitable gifts for you to take to my son and his family.”
The messenger bowed deeply once more, and backed out of the ducal presence in the practised manner accustomed to one of his kind.
Uhtred, High praise indeed from one whose own writing I find equally impressive. Thank you.Earl Uhtred said:
Stnylan, Yeah it's funny how things have turned out for Louis after killing the missus. of course, some good things have happened too, like he now has a secure succession (for the time being maybe?)
LordScod, Thank you for the compliment. Glad you're enjoying it.
Jestor, I've nothing against Yperen, but maybe you are right (and maybe you are not!)
CHAPTER 12 WHAT’S IN A NAME?
Back in April 1348, not long after Louis’s court had re-assembled at Bruges, a weary and mud-spattered rider brought his tired horse to a grateful rest before the gatehouse to the castle. He was wearing no livery but demanded admittance as he bore important news for the duke. Under escort, the rider was admitted to the inner bailey of the castle and word was sent of his arrival to Jeanne, the chancellor.
“My lady” said the messenger once admitted to the chancellor’s presence. “I bring happy news. The Countess of Nevers has been delivered of a child! The Duke is a grandfather!”
“A girl then?” asked Jeanne rhetorically, for it was evident from the nature of the announcement that the baby was not the hoped for male heir.
“Aye, your Grace, a girl, Marie, born on the 12th of April.”
If Louis was disappointed, he did not show it when informed of this news by his mother. The future of the dynasty looked secure enough. Young Louis would rule after his death, and if, God forbid, anything untoward befell his first-born, he still had three other sons by Adele, and Arnaud was shaping up very nicely. And then in mid-November 1348 came news that Ermenegilde was pregnant again. Maybe the baby she was carrying this time would be young Louis’s heir.
Daily life in throughout the province of Bruges was hard in 1349. Plague still stalked the land and the population was greatly reduced from its pre-plague level. Life in the castle was equally affected. Louis and his family kept themselves to themselves and were rarely seen by those outside his immediate household, so keen was the duke to protect his family from the dreaded pestilence. Prosperity was reduced and as any building work took so long with the shortage of labour, Louis shelved all plans for infrastructure development throughout his realm.
On 16 August 1349, the same rider who had brought news of Marie’s birth, arrived once again before the impressive gatehouse of Bruges castle. This took the form of a barbican, projecting outwards from the main line of the curtain wall, comprising two circular towers with a pointed archway between them, its doorway guarded by a portcullis and heavy wooden doors, secured fast when necessary with a huge wooden beam that slotted in horizontally behind both doors. Beyond the doorway was a narrow passageway, scarcely wide enough to admit traders’ carts, in which confined space any would-be assailant would face assault from arrow slits set in the internal walls of the barbican and from murder-holes built into the floor of the guardhouse in the chamber on the gatehouse’s first floor. At the end of the passageway was a further archway, flanked by smaller towers and cut into the curtain wall, round-headed this time, being older than its external cousin, but with its own portcullis and heavy wooden doors, inset with iron studs for added strength. This gave direct access to the castle bailey. The messenger penetrated these mighty defences easily enough, which, supine, like a fierce dog at rest, posed no threat to this non-martial visitor.
There was something about the rider’s demeanour on this occasion that prompted the gatekeeper to send word to the duke himself this time, and ‘ere long, the messenger was standing before Duke Louis in the Great Hall of the castle. Louis was seated in a throne on the dais that ran the width of one end of the hall. The floor was strewn with fresh rushes; crushed lavender and rosemary gave the room a pleasant scent.
“Your Grace” said the messenger, bowing deeply before the duke “I bring greetings and news from the Count of Nevers. Five days ago the countess was delivered safely of a son. He will be called Castore.”
“Castore”, thought the duke, what sort of effeminate Italianate name was that? It was evident who had had the greater say in naming the baby. “What was wrong with the name Louis” wondered the duke. His father had been called Louis, and the duke had had no hesitation in naming his first born Louis too – he had always envisaged a string of Louis’s stretching into the future through each generation, but Castore! What a name for the future duke of Flanders.
“Sir messenger, I thank you for these tidings” said Louis, interrupting his own day-dreaming and tossing a silver penny in the herald’s direction “you will, of course, stay with us overnight whilst we prepare our return message and find suitable gifts for you to take to my son and his family.”
The messenger bowed deeply once more, and backed out of the ducal presence in the practised manner accustomed to one of his kind.
i've been away for some time (building my own castle ), now i' ve finally caught up with my AAR- reading. i am still a fan
), now i' ve finally caught up with my AAR- reading. i am still a fan
Good to know you're still out there and enjoying my story. I was in France on holiday, amongst other things "researching" more continental (including Belgian!) beers maybe to include in the story. Keep on drinking!the_k said:I've been away for some time (building my own castle
All being well I'll upload anotehr chapter tonight.
As promised, another chapter to compensate for the absence of updates last week. The good news is that there is plenty more to come (when I get around to writing it) for I'm now playing 1383. I said at the outset that my intention was to write a story around my game, using the storyline to illustrate the decisions I made throughout the game. That remains true, but I suspect that over time I have started to make some decisions based upon what the character would do, and also maybe for the good of the storyline. Without giving too much away, the central pivot of the game and the story was the need to beget more heirs and the subsequent decision to remove wife 1 (Marguerite). This was successful in game terms for it got me the necessary heirs, and in so doing it gave me two branches of the family - the descendants of young Louis, son of Louis's 1st wife, and the descndants of Louis via Adele his 2nd wife. This has given me great scope for game play, and as you will see (if you continue to follow the story in the weeks ahead) gives great scope for development of the story.
Many thanks to everyone for their positive feedback and compliments. You are all most kind. I hope you continue to enjoy the story as much as I enjoy following those of others in the AAR thread.
CHAPTER 13 THE GRIM REAPER
In February 1350, word reached Bruges that Ermenegilde was pregnant once again. Prosperity in Bruges seemed to be recovering, although there was no sign of the plague slackening its grip on the province, or on any others within Louis’s realm. Amazingly, little Phillippe, now aged 5, had survived the plague’s initial onslaught, and although still afflicted, nevertheless he lived yet, albeit in isolation from the rest of his family in Yperen in Gisele’s tender care (he had always been her favourite of Louis’s young sons). Louis gave repeated thanks to God for his son’s survival and that the rest of his family had seemingly been spared from the deadly infection.
But then on 28 March, it was evident that the duke’s youngest son, Hugues, aged just 4, had succumbed to the plague. His small body bore the same tell-tale rashes and buboes that Phillippe’s had – the duke and duchess could but hope that he would show the same resilience in fighting the pestilence that his older brother did. Adele nursed the boy herself, caring little for her personal safety, but spending hours mopping his fevered brow and singing him gentle lullabies to ease his restlessness. Louis felt helpless – he had far rather face Goliath, or St. George’s dragon, or an entire squadron of mounted knights than this invisible, insidious, invincible foe that he could neither see nor touch. Even the news of a war between the Duchy of Mecklenburg and the Holy Roman Emperor that had a small possibility of spreading to those imperial counties that bordered Flanders, failed to arouse Louis’s usual interest in such martial developments.
By the beginning of September it was clear that Hugues was declining fast. Although seemingly more robust than his sickly elder brother, the plague had robbed the boy of all vitality, and the duke and duchess of all hope. On 12 September 1350 Hugues de Dampierre died from the plague. He was just 5 years old.
Louis had the boy buried not within the family vault within Bruges cathedral, but in front of the small stone altar within the castle chapel of St. John, the self-same one in which the duke and duchess had been married. Somehow, it seemed that he would never be far away from them as long as his physical remains were in close proximity to his grieving parents.
Louis and Adele had still not recovered from their son’s death when in November, the by now familiar messenger arrived from Nevers with news of a 3rd child for young Louis and Ermenegilde – another son, this one to be called André. That was more like it, thought the duke, although he could still not see what was wrong with the name Louis.
Christmas 1350 was a sombre time for Louis and his court. Hugues’s death had robbed the duke of one playmate, and with Phillippe still ill in Yperen, Louis spent more and more time with his remaining son, Arnaud, whose potential grew seemingly day by day. Louis hoped and prayed that the plague would spare Arnaud for although the arrival of Castore and André made it unlikely that Arnaud would ever become duke, Louis could see that he would at the very least make a more than capable vassal, one who would one day rule his counties with a firm and efficient hand and with unswerving loyalty.
By now it was nearly 6 years since Louis’s last child, the still-missed Hugues, had been born, and the duke had started to think that Adele was now barren, despite, at 28, still being of child bearing age. Having already disposed of one wife though, and with the succession seemingly secure with five male heirs, Louis this time had no intention of seeking a further consort. Imagine the duke’s surprise an delight therefore when, in early February 1351, Adele informed her husband that she was once again with child.
The next significant news for Louis that year was less good. In April, word reached Bruges that the Irish peasants in Tir Connail were revolting (probably in both senses of the word thought Louis). The revolt was swiftly crushed by Louis’s loyal local troops.
Prosperity throughout the duchy was still suffering and in May Louis decided to reduce tolls charged on his road networks back down to 50% in a attempt to stimulate provincial economies, and yes, maybe the recent revolt in Ireland was also at the back of his mind. The last thing he needed now was disloyalty among the merchant classes.
Hugues’s death had made Louis even more protective over his remaining family. No-one from outside his immediate household was seen without an appointment, and despite Adele’s frequent pleading, he barred all direct contact with Philippe and Gisele in Yperen. However, one bright May morning, one of those days that you were simply glad to be alive to appreciate nature’s bounty, Louis called for the head groom to saddle his favourite mount. This was a chestnut mare called Maeve that Louis had picked up in Ireland. She was pliable and placid and generous of spirit and Louis loved to ride her through the Flemish countryside whenever he could. The duke mounted his steed, and dressed in a suitably magnificent, but not ostentatious, new surcoat and cloak, he galloped out through the gatehouse and turned Maeve’s head in the direction of Yperen.
His arrival took the small garrison in the gloomy old castle by surprise – no-one had forewarned them of their duke’s sudden arrival, just as Louis had intended. Handing Maeve to one of the stable lads for a well-earned rub down, feed and rest, Louis headed purposefully towards the old stone keep, and the private chambers on the top floor of the fortress. He remembered poignantly making the same climb up through the castle’s massive walls all those years ago to see his now-dead son Hugues for the first time. Now his goal was his youngest surviving son, Phillippe, now nearly aged 7. Despite his sickly disposition, the boy had resisted the plague for several years now, and Louis had come to make good his vow, made on the very day of Phillippe’s birth, to dedicate his education to the church.
“Phillippe, my son, may God be with you.” said Louis formally.
“F-f-father” stuttered back the boy “G-God be w-with you t-t-too”
Louis wondered if the boy’s stutter were due to nervousness or anxiety, or whether it was something that he had developed since last he had seen his son. For some reason he was reminded of the Emperor Claudius – hadn’t he read somewhere that he stammered and stuttered. At least Phillippe did not share the Roman’s physical afflictions, although maybe being plague afflicted was worse than some orthopaedic disorder?
The duke sat down on the stone bench that ran along one side of the chamber and motioned his son to sit by his side. The boy did as he was bidden, but looked up into his father’s eyes with uncertainty and not a little fear. After all, he hardly knew the man. Louis returned Phillippe’s gaze, and recognised the angst in the youngster’s eyes, and his heart was softened. He moved closer to the boy and put his arm around his shoulders, caring nothing for the deadly contagion that his son still carried. Phillippe stiffened to the unexpected and unusual touch.
“Phillippe, a long time ago now, on the very day that you were born, I made a solemn vow that, if you lived, I would dedicate your education to the church, in thanks to God for your deliverance. God has tested us both sorely with your plague affliction, but you are still alive, if not entirely well, and now that you are old enough it is time for me to make good my vow. I have made arrangements for my own chaplain, Father Pierre, who educated your older brother Louis, he who will one day rule these lands after my death, to come to Yperen and to take personal charge of your education. He will teach you Greek and Latin, and you will study all the great Christian writers – Paul, Augustine, even Aquinas. One day you will be a great scholar yourself.”
Phillippe was not sure what to do or say, but prompted by Gisele he mouthed a barely audible “Th-thank you” to his father.
Two months later, Pierre sent word to Louis that Phillippe was showing great application in his studies, and had recently become much more merciful in his dealings with others. Louis was delighted.
Many thanks to everyone for their positive feedback and compliments. You are all most kind. I hope you continue to enjoy the story as much as I enjoy following those of others in the AAR thread.
CHAPTER 13 THE GRIM REAPER
In February 1350, word reached Bruges that Ermenegilde was pregnant once again. Prosperity in Bruges seemed to be recovering, although there was no sign of the plague slackening its grip on the province, or on any others within Louis’s realm. Amazingly, little Phillippe, now aged 5, had survived the plague’s initial onslaught, and although still afflicted, nevertheless he lived yet, albeit in isolation from the rest of his family in Yperen in Gisele’s tender care (he had always been her favourite of Louis’s young sons). Louis gave repeated thanks to God for his son’s survival and that the rest of his family had seemingly been spared from the deadly infection.
But then on 28 March, it was evident that the duke’s youngest son, Hugues, aged just 4, had succumbed to the plague. His small body bore the same tell-tale rashes and buboes that Phillippe’s had – the duke and duchess could but hope that he would show the same resilience in fighting the pestilence that his older brother did. Adele nursed the boy herself, caring little for her personal safety, but spending hours mopping his fevered brow and singing him gentle lullabies to ease his restlessness. Louis felt helpless – he had far rather face Goliath, or St. George’s dragon, or an entire squadron of mounted knights than this invisible, insidious, invincible foe that he could neither see nor touch. Even the news of a war between the Duchy of Mecklenburg and the Holy Roman Emperor that had a small possibility of spreading to those imperial counties that bordered Flanders, failed to arouse Louis’s usual interest in such martial developments.
By the beginning of September it was clear that Hugues was declining fast. Although seemingly more robust than his sickly elder brother, the plague had robbed the boy of all vitality, and the duke and duchess of all hope. On 12 September 1350 Hugues de Dampierre died from the plague. He was just 5 years old.
Louis had the boy buried not within the family vault within Bruges cathedral, but in front of the small stone altar within the castle chapel of St. John, the self-same one in which the duke and duchess had been married. Somehow, it seemed that he would never be far away from them as long as his physical remains were in close proximity to his grieving parents.
Louis and Adele had still not recovered from their son’s death when in November, the by now familiar messenger arrived from Nevers with news of a 3rd child for young Louis and Ermenegilde – another son, this one to be called André. That was more like it, thought the duke, although he could still not see what was wrong with the name Louis.
Christmas 1350 was a sombre time for Louis and his court. Hugues’s death had robbed the duke of one playmate, and with Phillippe still ill in Yperen, Louis spent more and more time with his remaining son, Arnaud, whose potential grew seemingly day by day. Louis hoped and prayed that the plague would spare Arnaud for although the arrival of Castore and André made it unlikely that Arnaud would ever become duke, Louis could see that he would at the very least make a more than capable vassal, one who would one day rule his counties with a firm and efficient hand and with unswerving loyalty.
By now it was nearly 6 years since Louis’s last child, the still-missed Hugues, had been born, and the duke had started to think that Adele was now barren, despite, at 28, still being of child bearing age. Having already disposed of one wife though, and with the succession seemingly secure with five male heirs, Louis this time had no intention of seeking a further consort. Imagine the duke’s surprise an delight therefore when, in early February 1351, Adele informed her husband that she was once again with child.
The next significant news for Louis that year was less good. In April, word reached Bruges that the Irish peasants in Tir Connail were revolting (probably in both senses of the word thought Louis). The revolt was swiftly crushed by Louis’s loyal local troops.
Prosperity throughout the duchy was still suffering and in May Louis decided to reduce tolls charged on his road networks back down to 50% in a attempt to stimulate provincial economies, and yes, maybe the recent revolt in Ireland was also at the back of his mind. The last thing he needed now was disloyalty among the merchant classes.
Hugues’s death had made Louis even more protective over his remaining family. No-one from outside his immediate household was seen without an appointment, and despite Adele’s frequent pleading, he barred all direct contact with Philippe and Gisele in Yperen. However, one bright May morning, one of those days that you were simply glad to be alive to appreciate nature’s bounty, Louis called for the head groom to saddle his favourite mount. This was a chestnut mare called Maeve that Louis had picked up in Ireland. She was pliable and placid and generous of spirit and Louis loved to ride her through the Flemish countryside whenever he could. The duke mounted his steed, and dressed in a suitably magnificent, but not ostentatious, new surcoat and cloak, he galloped out through the gatehouse and turned Maeve’s head in the direction of Yperen.
His arrival took the small garrison in the gloomy old castle by surprise – no-one had forewarned them of their duke’s sudden arrival, just as Louis had intended. Handing Maeve to one of the stable lads for a well-earned rub down, feed and rest, Louis headed purposefully towards the old stone keep, and the private chambers on the top floor of the fortress. He remembered poignantly making the same climb up through the castle’s massive walls all those years ago to see his now-dead son Hugues for the first time. Now his goal was his youngest surviving son, Phillippe, now nearly aged 7. Despite his sickly disposition, the boy had resisted the plague for several years now, and Louis had come to make good his vow, made on the very day of Phillippe’s birth, to dedicate his education to the church.
“Phillippe, my son, may God be with you.” said Louis formally.
“F-f-father” stuttered back the boy “G-God be w-with you t-t-too”
Louis wondered if the boy’s stutter were due to nervousness or anxiety, or whether it was something that he had developed since last he had seen his son. For some reason he was reminded of the Emperor Claudius – hadn’t he read somewhere that he stammered and stuttered. At least Phillippe did not share the Roman’s physical afflictions, although maybe being plague afflicted was worse than some orthopaedic disorder?
The duke sat down on the stone bench that ran along one side of the chamber and motioned his son to sit by his side. The boy did as he was bidden, but looked up into his father’s eyes with uncertainty and not a little fear. After all, he hardly knew the man. Louis returned Phillippe’s gaze, and recognised the angst in the youngster’s eyes, and his heart was softened. He moved closer to the boy and put his arm around his shoulders, caring nothing for the deadly contagion that his son still carried. Phillippe stiffened to the unexpected and unusual touch.
“Phillippe, a long time ago now, on the very day that you were born, I made a solemn vow that, if you lived, I would dedicate your education to the church, in thanks to God for your deliverance. God has tested us both sorely with your plague affliction, but you are still alive, if not entirely well, and now that you are old enough it is time for me to make good my vow. I have made arrangements for my own chaplain, Father Pierre, who educated your older brother Louis, he who will one day rule these lands after my death, to come to Yperen and to take personal charge of your education. He will teach you Greek and Latin, and you will study all the great Christian writers – Paul, Augustine, even Aquinas. One day you will be a great scholar yourself.”
Phillippe was not sure what to do or say, but prompted by Gisele he mouthed a barely audible “Th-thank you” to his father.
Two months later, Pierre sent word to Louis that Phillippe was showing great application in his studies, and had recently become much more merciful in his dealings with others. Louis was delighted.
CHAPTER 14 GREAT EXPECTATIONS
On 9 July 1351, two friars, wearing the distinctive black and white habits of the Dominican order, sought admittance to Duke Louis’s presence. The gate-keeper was wary, for he distrusted all wandering monks and priests, but he admitted both men to his own small chamber inside the gatehouse and sent word of their arrival to the duke. His curiosity aroused, Louis sent for the monks forthwith.
Louis had seated himself in his throne on the dais under the canopy in the Great Hall. Two talbots, hunting dogs, lay asleep at his feet. The friars were conducted into Louis’s presence by one of the stewards; they approached and bowed low in deference to the duke.
“Brothers, greetings in Christ’s name, and welcome to Bruges” opened the duke “What brings you to my humble realm?”
“Your Grace, Beunas Dias! Allow us to introduce ourselves” said the elder and taller of the two monks “I am Father Alphonso and this is Brother Felipe. We are Dominican friars from Spain, sent in the name of the Holy Father himself, to search for and root out all heretics throughout Christendom. We are instructed to set up an Inquisition, here in Flanders.” He spoke good French noted Louis.
“Well, I never expected the Spanish Inquisition!” exclaimed Louis.
“No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition!” responded Aplhonso. “Our chief weapon is surprise. Fear and surprise. Our two chief weapons are fear, surprise and a ruthless efficiency….” and the monk prattled on for some time, adding weaponry to his spiritual armoury as he went.
It was Michaelmas Day, 1351, when the usual messenger from Nevers arrived for the fourth time at Bruges castle.
“My Lord duke, my ladies” announced the herald, for Louis was accompanied by his heavily pregnant wife and his mother, Jeanne, his chancellor “once again I bring happy news from Nevers. Countess Ermenegilde has been delivered of another son, Charles. He was born four days ago. The wise-women and seers say he will be a great man and a great leader of his people.”
Louis paid scant regard to this last comment, for although it was common practice in those days for wise-women and seers to witness the birth of noble children, it was equally common practice for their prognostications to be optimistic. Louis had never heard anyone say “He will be an utter failure in life” or make similar, maybe more realistic, predictions.
Two months later, on 4 November, Adele gave birth to Loius’s first daughter. The happy couple named the child Sophie. With his succession secure, Louis was delighted to have a daughter at last. He was 47 years old.
Sophie was a delight to her parents. She was a happy and strong child, and much to their delight, a strong bond of affection between her and her brother Arnaud seemed to have been formed. Shortly before Arnaud’s 8th birthday, in June 1352, the duchess announced that she was once again pregnant. Arnaud would soon have another sibling to play with.
And so it was that on 27 March 1353, Adele gave birth to her next child, another girl, this time named Anne, in honour of the Virgin’s mother.
Adele fussed over her two small daughters, and Louis spent as much time as he could with Arnaud, showing him the use of arms and taking the boy with him hunting. Arnaud particularly enjoyed spending time in the mews, observing the wonderful birds of prey, the goshawks and the peregrines, and learning how to care for these mean, moody, magnificent creatures. If Phillippe was at the back of his parents’ minds, dramatic news from Yperen in March 1354 changed all that.
The messenger who arrived brought news of a deterioration in Phillippe’s health. Never a well child, he had bravely fought the effects of plague for many years now, but Gisele now had grave concern’s about her charge’s health. It seemed that she had turned to a local hedge doctor in a bid to rid the child of his plague symptoms for once and for all. Regrettably, the reverse seemed to have happened. Leaving Adele at home with the youngsters, Louis had Maeve saddled, and set out once again for Yperen. He found his son, now aged 9, much changed from their previous encounter. The boy was listless and even quieter than usual. Louis called for Gisele who confirmed the messenger’s tale. The duke retained his composure and temper, but firmly informed the old woman that her services were no longer required. Sadly, she gathered her few belongings, and , with Louis’s consent, said a tearful farewell to her precious charge. Phillippe knew that something was amiss and moist tears welled in his large hazel eyes as Gisele hugged him for the last time.
Louis stayed in Yperen with Phillippe and his new nurse, another Flemish matron in her 50s, one Cecile, for a few months. Long enough to learn the welcome news that the bubonic plague had at last been vanquished in Yperen. So long had it ravaged the province that eventually its inhabitants had developed a natural immunity to the pestilence.
Phillippe seemed happy enough with Cecile, and although his father knew that the lad missed Gisele bitterly, he stood by his decision to sack the woman who had imperilled his son’s life, conveniently forgetting the many times she had saved it and the many years of loving care and attention that she had lavished upon the duke’s 3rd son.
Louis returned to Bruges and in November arranged for Arnaud to commence a court education, somewhat belatedly, for the boy was now 11 years old, well beyond the normal age to start a formal education. But the boy was bright, and Louis had every confidence in his abilities, and knew he would soon catch up with his studies.
On 1 January 1355, the Feast of the Circumcision, Louis revived his old tradition of addressing his courtiers at the evening feast held in celebration of the holy day. He recalled his first address, way back in ’37, and looked around his court at the many new faces, but also taking in the few, faithful subjects who had served him so loyally over the years. There was Jeanne, his mother, the chancellor, and Marguerite his steward. And of course, there was his oldest friend and confidant, Father Pierre, he of the weary eyes and quiet demeanour and voices in the head (although when Louis thought about it there had been no mention of these for some years now). How lucky he had been, he reflected, to have had such loyal servants for so long. He gave public thanks to them for their service and prayed that they would remain with him for many years to come. They squirmed embarrassedly in their seats, for Louis was not prone to acts of praise, in private, let alone public.
Later that month, the chancellery was inundated with diplomatic requests for alliances, headed by one from no less a personage than King Edward III of England. Louis considered this one more carefully than most, for he was flattered that the great Plantagenet should seek his friendship, but mindful of his status as one of King Jean’s leading vassals, he declined the offer in the flowery, formal language that such a message dictated.
At the start of what was to be a momentous year, Louis de Dampierre, Duke of Flanders, Count of Bruges, Yperen, Gent, Tir Connail, Tir Eoghain and Man was 50 years old. When he began his revival of the duchy in 1337, he had but one heir and the succession was fragile to say the least. Now he had secured his dynasty surely for he had six living male heirs, headed by young Louis, Count of Nevers. Next in line were his three sons, Castore, André and Charles and then Louis’s surviving sons by Adele, Arnaud and Phillippe. Even Jacob in his pomp could not have been more secure. Louis had been duke for nearly 33 years and his reign had seen the expansion of the duchy demesne from its three Flemish counties and Nevers, to incorporate the Irish lands of Tir Connail and Tir Eoghain and the strange county of Man. His prestige was moderate (but never high enough to enable him to seize Ulster and declare himself Duke of Ulster which had been a long-held ambition) and his piety was adequate. His people were, on the whole happy, and Louis looked forward eagerly to the future and the continued development and expansion of his duchy.
On 9 July 1351, two friars, wearing the distinctive black and white habits of the Dominican order, sought admittance to Duke Louis’s presence. The gate-keeper was wary, for he distrusted all wandering monks and priests, but he admitted both men to his own small chamber inside the gatehouse and sent word of their arrival to the duke. His curiosity aroused, Louis sent for the monks forthwith.
Louis had seated himself in his throne on the dais under the canopy in the Great Hall. Two talbots, hunting dogs, lay asleep at his feet. The friars were conducted into Louis’s presence by one of the stewards; they approached and bowed low in deference to the duke.
“Brothers, greetings in Christ’s name, and welcome to Bruges” opened the duke “What brings you to my humble realm?”
“Your Grace, Beunas Dias! Allow us to introduce ourselves” said the elder and taller of the two monks “I am Father Alphonso and this is Brother Felipe. We are Dominican friars from Spain, sent in the name of the Holy Father himself, to search for and root out all heretics throughout Christendom. We are instructed to set up an Inquisition, here in Flanders.” He spoke good French noted Louis.
“Well, I never expected the Spanish Inquisition!” exclaimed Louis.
“No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition!” responded Aplhonso. “Our chief weapon is surprise. Fear and surprise. Our two chief weapons are fear, surprise and a ruthless efficiency….” and the monk prattled on for some time, adding weaponry to his spiritual armoury as he went.
It was Michaelmas Day, 1351, when the usual messenger from Nevers arrived for the fourth time at Bruges castle.
“My Lord duke, my ladies” announced the herald, for Louis was accompanied by his heavily pregnant wife and his mother, Jeanne, his chancellor “once again I bring happy news from Nevers. Countess Ermenegilde has been delivered of another son, Charles. He was born four days ago. The wise-women and seers say he will be a great man and a great leader of his people.”
Louis paid scant regard to this last comment, for although it was common practice in those days for wise-women and seers to witness the birth of noble children, it was equally common practice for their prognostications to be optimistic. Louis had never heard anyone say “He will be an utter failure in life” or make similar, maybe more realistic, predictions.
Two months later, on 4 November, Adele gave birth to Loius’s first daughter. The happy couple named the child Sophie. With his succession secure, Louis was delighted to have a daughter at last. He was 47 years old.
Sophie was a delight to her parents. She was a happy and strong child, and much to their delight, a strong bond of affection between her and her brother Arnaud seemed to have been formed. Shortly before Arnaud’s 8th birthday, in June 1352, the duchess announced that she was once again pregnant. Arnaud would soon have another sibling to play with.
And so it was that on 27 March 1353, Adele gave birth to her next child, another girl, this time named Anne, in honour of the Virgin’s mother.
Adele fussed over her two small daughters, and Louis spent as much time as he could with Arnaud, showing him the use of arms and taking the boy with him hunting. Arnaud particularly enjoyed spending time in the mews, observing the wonderful birds of prey, the goshawks and the peregrines, and learning how to care for these mean, moody, magnificent creatures. If Phillippe was at the back of his parents’ minds, dramatic news from Yperen in March 1354 changed all that.
The messenger who arrived brought news of a deterioration in Phillippe’s health. Never a well child, he had bravely fought the effects of plague for many years now, but Gisele now had grave concern’s about her charge’s health. It seemed that she had turned to a local hedge doctor in a bid to rid the child of his plague symptoms for once and for all. Regrettably, the reverse seemed to have happened. Leaving Adele at home with the youngsters, Louis had Maeve saddled, and set out once again for Yperen. He found his son, now aged 9, much changed from their previous encounter. The boy was listless and even quieter than usual. Louis called for Gisele who confirmed the messenger’s tale. The duke retained his composure and temper, but firmly informed the old woman that her services were no longer required. Sadly, she gathered her few belongings, and , with Louis’s consent, said a tearful farewell to her precious charge. Phillippe knew that something was amiss and moist tears welled in his large hazel eyes as Gisele hugged him for the last time.
Louis stayed in Yperen with Phillippe and his new nurse, another Flemish matron in her 50s, one Cecile, for a few months. Long enough to learn the welcome news that the bubonic plague had at last been vanquished in Yperen. So long had it ravaged the province that eventually its inhabitants had developed a natural immunity to the pestilence.
Phillippe seemed happy enough with Cecile, and although his father knew that the lad missed Gisele bitterly, he stood by his decision to sack the woman who had imperilled his son’s life, conveniently forgetting the many times she had saved it and the many years of loving care and attention that she had lavished upon the duke’s 3rd son.
Louis returned to Bruges and in November arranged for Arnaud to commence a court education, somewhat belatedly, for the boy was now 11 years old, well beyond the normal age to start a formal education. But the boy was bright, and Louis had every confidence in his abilities, and knew he would soon catch up with his studies.
On 1 January 1355, the Feast of the Circumcision, Louis revived his old tradition of addressing his courtiers at the evening feast held in celebration of the holy day. He recalled his first address, way back in ’37, and looked around his court at the many new faces, but also taking in the few, faithful subjects who had served him so loyally over the years. There was Jeanne, his mother, the chancellor, and Marguerite his steward. And of course, there was his oldest friend and confidant, Father Pierre, he of the weary eyes and quiet demeanour and voices in the head (although when Louis thought about it there had been no mention of these for some years now). How lucky he had been, he reflected, to have had such loyal servants for so long. He gave public thanks to them for their service and prayed that they would remain with him for many years to come. They squirmed embarrassedly in their seats, for Louis was not prone to acts of praise, in private, let alone public.
Later that month, the chancellery was inundated with diplomatic requests for alliances, headed by one from no less a personage than King Edward III of England. Louis considered this one more carefully than most, for he was flattered that the great Plantagenet should seek his friendship, but mindful of his status as one of King Jean’s leading vassals, he declined the offer in the flowery, formal language that such a message dictated.
At the start of what was to be a momentous year, Louis de Dampierre, Duke of Flanders, Count of Bruges, Yperen, Gent, Tir Connail, Tir Eoghain and Man was 50 years old. When he began his revival of the duchy in 1337, he had but one heir and the succession was fragile to say the least. Now he had secured his dynasty surely for he had six living male heirs, headed by young Louis, Count of Nevers. Next in line were his three sons, Castore, André and Charles and then Louis’s surviving sons by Adele, Arnaud and Phillippe. Even Jacob in his pomp could not have been more secure. Louis had been duke for nearly 33 years and his reign had seen the expansion of the duchy demesne from its three Flemish counties and Nevers, to incorporate the Irish lands of Tir Connail and Tir Eoghain and the strange county of Man. His prestige was moderate (but never high enough to enable him to seize Ulster and declare himself Duke of Ulster which had been a long-held ambition) and his piety was adequate. His people were, on the whole happy, and Louis looked forward eagerly to the future and the continued development and expansion of his duchy.
Damn I seemed to have missed an update. Capital updates both however. The plague still hangs heavy I see, and also note that young Louis is still being youthful and upsetting the naming conventions.
A nice little way to bring us an overall picture of where you have gotten to at the end there too.
A nice little way to bring us an overall picture of where you have gotten to at the end there too.
An awesome AAR, Rex, a really fun read. Man, this place is just full of amazing writers....anyhow, I'll be watching for the next update.
So, Louis has found quite a bit of success, but what of the future? Let's hope it, and the AAR telling it, are as good as the past.
CHAPTER 15 OH DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING?
On 31 January 1355 Louis went hunting accompanied by Arnaud, Father Pierre and a small but competent group of retainers. The day was awful. Heavy rain lashed down, and as the horsemen trotted out through the gatehouse, the wind whipped the raindrops into the riders’ faces. Adele had suggested that her husband postpone the chase. How typical of a woman thought Louis as he dismissed the suggestion out of hand. A bit of wind and rain was not going to spoil his enjoyment.
The riders headed deep into the forest in search of stags but especially wild boar. That most ferocious of forest creatures posed the biggest challenge to a skilled hunter, and their strong flesh tasted superb when slowly roasted over an open fire. Although the forest canopy afforded some protection from the elements, by the time they reached its shelter, the party were all soaked to the skin. Slowed to a trot, the hunters cast their eyes all around in search of prey. A small young female adult stag was soon espied, but Louis eschewed this target in favour of a more prestigious one, and his patience was soon rewarded when a splendid mature adult male, his proud and noble head crowned with the most spectacular set of antlers that young Arnaud had ever seen, wandered unsuspectingly across the riders’ path, some 200 yards ahead. Louis spurred his horse and set off in immediate pursuit of the by now alerted beast, with Arnaud and the retainers following in short order behind the duke. Louis’s horse was gathering speed, and the duke experienced the usual exhilaration and thrill of the chase. A fallen tree lay across the path, and Louis’s horse took off effortlessly. Something must have caused it to misjudge the obstacle though, for the next minute, Louis found himself deposited in a large puddle at the side of the forest track, in a most undignified manner. Catching his father up, Arnaud could not suppress a fit of giggles, and soon, the duke was roaring with laughter too as he regained his feet and, more for show than effect, brushed of the excess water from his cloak and boots.
The day turned out to be an unmitigated disaster. The splendid stag made its easy escape in the confusion following the duke’s fall, and all that the hunters caught in the entire day was half a dozen rabbits, and only a couple of them plump. They had seen no sign of any boar. Returned to the castle, the rabbits were duly sent to the kitchen for Madame de Liasmith’s attention and later that evening, Louis enjoyed the same, served in a delicious and lightly spiced gravy, washed down with some fine Leffe dark beer. He was tired though, and he stood up from the table, yawned, and then sneezed. Rubbing his eyes, he bade good night to Adele, sneezed again and headed through the old new wing, towards his comfortable chambers in the new new wing.
His bed was a large wooden framed construction, with the de Dampierre arms carved on its frame at the foot of the bed. The mattress was stuffed with horse hair and duck feathers, and Louis threw himself onto it gratefully. He fell fast asleep. Several hours later, he awoke with a start, shivering and feeling very cold. He reached out and poured himself a glass of the small beer that always stood in a pitcher at the side of the bed for occasions such as this. He turned over towards the slumbering form of his wife and tried to go back to sleep. He could not, and by the time the first signs of the dawn were seen through the paned windows, he was thoroughly weary, miserable, and oh so cold. Adele dismissed his ailment as merely a winter cold, and reminded Louis, sardonically, of her advice not to hunt in the rain (which still fell steadily outside).
Louis remained abed the next day, sleeping slightly better that evening, but by the third day, his condition was no better. He had developed a hacking cough, his nose ran constantly, and he was still cold. Extra logs were thrown on the fire, and extra woollen blankets thrown on the bed, but still Louis shivered. By 4 February, Adele was beginning to get worried. How she wished Gisele were still around to offer help and advice! She did her best, mopping Louis’s by now fevered brow, and encouraging him to sip hot broth, but Louis showed little appetite for either the food or his wife’s ministrations. She left her husband to rest, and headed, through the still falling rain, for the chapel to pray for her husband’s recovery.
When she returned to the bedchamber, she thought at first that her husband had at last fallen asleep, but there was something about the rasping breaths that he was taking that alarmed her and she sent immediately for Father Pierre. The priest soon arrived and knelt by his master’s bedside. He felt for Louis’s pulse, and placed a clammy hand on the duke’s forehead. He crossed himself and looked towards the duchess and, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.
“My lady” said the cleric “I fear for his Grace’s life. He is in the grip of a most severe fever, brought on by a chill. He may survive, but I fear I must advise you that the best and last service I can offer him right now is to shrive him”.
His diagnosis confirmed Adele’s worst suspicions, and weeping silently, silver tears streaming down her soft cheeks, she nodded her assent to the priest’s suggestion. Pierre bent low over the recumbent form of his lord and master and friend and confidant and almost inaudibly started to whisper the words of benediction and absolution over the duke.
Later that night, at about 2am in the morning, Louis breathed his last. It was 5 February 1355. Outside, it had stopped raining.
On 31 January 1355 Louis went hunting accompanied by Arnaud, Father Pierre and a small but competent group of retainers. The day was awful. Heavy rain lashed down, and as the horsemen trotted out through the gatehouse, the wind whipped the raindrops into the riders’ faces. Adele had suggested that her husband postpone the chase. How typical of a woman thought Louis as he dismissed the suggestion out of hand. A bit of wind and rain was not going to spoil his enjoyment.
The riders headed deep into the forest in search of stags but especially wild boar. That most ferocious of forest creatures posed the biggest challenge to a skilled hunter, and their strong flesh tasted superb when slowly roasted over an open fire. Although the forest canopy afforded some protection from the elements, by the time they reached its shelter, the party were all soaked to the skin. Slowed to a trot, the hunters cast their eyes all around in search of prey. A small young female adult stag was soon espied, but Louis eschewed this target in favour of a more prestigious one, and his patience was soon rewarded when a splendid mature adult male, his proud and noble head crowned with the most spectacular set of antlers that young Arnaud had ever seen, wandered unsuspectingly across the riders’ path, some 200 yards ahead. Louis spurred his horse and set off in immediate pursuit of the by now alerted beast, with Arnaud and the retainers following in short order behind the duke. Louis’s horse was gathering speed, and the duke experienced the usual exhilaration and thrill of the chase. A fallen tree lay across the path, and Louis’s horse took off effortlessly. Something must have caused it to misjudge the obstacle though, for the next minute, Louis found himself deposited in a large puddle at the side of the forest track, in a most undignified manner. Catching his father up, Arnaud could not suppress a fit of giggles, and soon, the duke was roaring with laughter too as he regained his feet and, more for show than effect, brushed of the excess water from his cloak and boots.
The day turned out to be an unmitigated disaster. The splendid stag made its easy escape in the confusion following the duke’s fall, and all that the hunters caught in the entire day was half a dozen rabbits, and only a couple of them plump. They had seen no sign of any boar. Returned to the castle, the rabbits were duly sent to the kitchen for Madame de Liasmith’s attention and later that evening, Louis enjoyed the same, served in a delicious and lightly spiced gravy, washed down with some fine Leffe dark beer. He was tired though, and he stood up from the table, yawned, and then sneezed. Rubbing his eyes, he bade good night to Adele, sneezed again and headed through the old new wing, towards his comfortable chambers in the new new wing.
His bed was a large wooden framed construction, with the de Dampierre arms carved on its frame at the foot of the bed. The mattress was stuffed with horse hair and duck feathers, and Louis threw himself onto it gratefully. He fell fast asleep. Several hours later, he awoke with a start, shivering and feeling very cold. He reached out and poured himself a glass of the small beer that always stood in a pitcher at the side of the bed for occasions such as this. He turned over towards the slumbering form of his wife and tried to go back to sleep. He could not, and by the time the first signs of the dawn were seen through the paned windows, he was thoroughly weary, miserable, and oh so cold. Adele dismissed his ailment as merely a winter cold, and reminded Louis, sardonically, of her advice not to hunt in the rain (which still fell steadily outside).
Louis remained abed the next day, sleeping slightly better that evening, but by the third day, his condition was no better. He had developed a hacking cough, his nose ran constantly, and he was still cold. Extra logs were thrown on the fire, and extra woollen blankets thrown on the bed, but still Louis shivered. By 4 February, Adele was beginning to get worried. How she wished Gisele were still around to offer help and advice! She did her best, mopping Louis’s by now fevered brow, and encouraging him to sip hot broth, but Louis showed little appetite for either the food or his wife’s ministrations. She left her husband to rest, and headed, through the still falling rain, for the chapel to pray for her husband’s recovery.
When she returned to the bedchamber, she thought at first that her husband had at last fallen asleep, but there was something about the rasping breaths that he was taking that alarmed her and she sent immediately for Father Pierre. The priest soon arrived and knelt by his master’s bedside. He felt for Louis’s pulse, and placed a clammy hand on the duke’s forehead. He crossed himself and looked towards the duchess and, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.
“My lady” said the cleric “I fear for his Grace’s life. He is in the grip of a most severe fever, brought on by a chill. He may survive, but I fear I must advise you that the best and last service I can offer him right now is to shrive him”.
His diagnosis confirmed Adele’s worst suspicions, and weeping silently, silver tears streaming down her soft cheeks, she nodded her assent to the priest’s suggestion. Pierre bent low over the recumbent form of his lord and master and friend and confidant and almost inaudibly started to whisper the words of benediction and absolution over the duke.
Later that night, at about 2am in the morning, Louis breathed his last. It was 5 February 1355. Outside, it had stopped raining.
sob, the end of a truly great ruler..but at least he died with a Leffe in his stomach, so it can' t have been that bad :rofl:
I like the slow way the process unfolds. It almost has the cadence of a funeral march. Well done.
With apologies to Monty Python........
CHAPTER 16 THE LIFE OF LOUIS
News of Louis’s death spread quickly throughout Bruges and its surrounding area the next day. Opinions about the late duke were sharply divided, and were expressed forcibly, aided no doubt by the excellent Flemish beer, in more than one tavern the next evening.
“Good riddance, that’s what I say” said a surly individual, wiping the froth of his beer from his bearded face with the dirty arm of his tunic. “I mean, what did he ever do for us?”
“Well, education, for one thing” retorted his companion, a small but wiry man of indeterminate age “the school has been a great success”
“Well obviously, education” said the bearded man.
“And the theatre. We’d all miss the theatre now wouldn’t we?”
“Yes, I suppose so”
“And then there’s the road network – remember how bad it used to be? Now you can travel easily throughout all Flanders.”
“I admit that travelling is a lot easier than it used to be, but I still don’t reckon he did that much to change our lives.”
“No? Well what about when he rebuilt the fishery when it burned down. Out of his own pocket too – no additional taxes or levies. In fact taxes were usually fair throughout his reign. And then there’s the dairy. What would we do without our local cheeses now? And the Templar House, and expanding the duchy into Ireland, and new monasteries, tile factories and windmills in the conquered lands….”
“Fine, but apart from the school, the theatre, road network, fishery, dairy, templar houses, low taxes, monasteries and mills, what did Louis ever do for us?
CHAPTER 16 THE LIFE OF LOUIS
News of Louis’s death spread quickly throughout Bruges and its surrounding area the next day. Opinions about the late duke were sharply divided, and were expressed forcibly, aided no doubt by the excellent Flemish beer, in more than one tavern the next evening.
“Good riddance, that’s what I say” said a surly individual, wiping the froth of his beer from his bearded face with the dirty arm of his tunic. “I mean, what did he ever do for us?”
“Well, education, for one thing” retorted his companion, a small but wiry man of indeterminate age “the school has been a great success”
“Well obviously, education” said the bearded man.
“And the theatre. We’d all miss the theatre now wouldn’t we?”
“Yes, I suppose so”
“And then there’s the road network – remember how bad it used to be? Now you can travel easily throughout all Flanders.”
“I admit that travelling is a lot easier than it used to be, but I still don’t reckon he did that much to change our lives.”
“No? Well what about when he rebuilt the fishery when it burned down. Out of his own pocket too – no additional taxes or levies. In fact taxes were usually fair throughout his reign. And then there’s the dairy. What would we do without our local cheeses now? And the Templar House, and expanding the duchy into Ireland, and new monasteries, tile factories and windmills in the conquered lands….”
“Fine, but apart from the school, the theatre, road network, fishery, dairy, templar houses, low taxes, monasteries and mills, what did Louis ever do for us?