Prelude: Burgundian’s Good

1467

15th June – Early Summer

Duchy of Burgundy

It was an Early Summer Day, on the rightful day of June 15th.

The church was quiet, far too quiet. I had never sensed the world so silent before. It felt as if even the air itself was holding its breath, perhaps in reverence—or in dread. The grandeur of the Burgundian court, was shrouded as if the tapestries themselves mourned the passing of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy.

I had seen death before. Power had introduced me to death in every form—swift and silent claw chops of executions,
brutal and loud torture of norms and the historical bulls.
But here, in the heart of Burgundy, death wore the garb of somber finality, as if it were more than an end.

like the calm before an inevitable storm.

I never knew what this one funeral would bring, death, storm & Blessings of Waeoths

Lady Marie of Burgundy, Philip’s only granddaughter, stood at a distance from the central altar where her grandfather’s casket lay. Her eyes held no outward sign of grief; She was a noble woman, someone who would be all heartly be served to another noble man at moment’s notice. Yet there was a tightness around her mouth. She looked upon her father with an expression. Her gaze was piercing as it looking for reply.

Beside her, her father, Charles the Bold, stood stiffly, His eyes flicked over the mourners, the banners, and the nobles who gathered, all with a look of disdain. It was clear that Charles had no patience for the solemnities of grief. Even as his father’s casket lay before him, Charles’s eyes burned with thoughts of power, expansion, and conquest. He wouldn’t even respond to his daughter’s pleading responses, or his sickly wife’s cries ‘This kingdom, this duchy, this throne is mine now.’ I could hear his mind beeping.

I have seen men like Charles before— mad men driven with aspects of greed and wrath. Over the years of service, I had come to understand the flow of human strength and its potential for destruction.

Marie’s presence, was quieter. She had her father’s mind, sharp and tactical, unlike Charles, she carried a natural caution. I sensed that, to her, her grandfather’s death was not only the end of a family legacy but also a warning— from the neighboring country of France and the Papal States.

The priests chanting their hymns, while incense thickened the air. As the service ended, the nobles began to file out. Some bowed low to Charles, acknowledging him as the new ruler, while others casted lustful glances at Marie, the one that could carry the family’s blood. Charles accepted their bows with a mixture of arrogance and greed. He was already looking beyond the ceremony, his mind likely racing with plans to get back the pride that he lost.

Marie, lingered. I watched her approach her THE Good’s casket, —a sadness, laced with almost silvery tears, she placed a hand on the cold wood of the casket. When she turned, her eyes met mine, and in that moment. There was understanding in her gaze, compassion and freeing fright that contrasted that of her Father’s.

To my utter shock, Marie walked slowly out to me, causing my knees to bend forward with a respectful Bowe.

“You mustn’t. Grandfather won’t allow that.” She spoke to my utter shock. There was no way God’s heaven that an heir to a Duchy would look back to a Local lord, asking him to not pay her respect.

“Aren’t you a Historian, who has been blessed with the power of the Waeoth” Maire spoke with respect, which made me doubt around 10 times who her true father was.

“Yes, My Lady… A Historian, but not someone with the blessing of Waeoth” I said, momentarily speaking up to her. Standing up to her, wavy almost radiant kindness.

“Grandfather, always respected; Historian like you.”

“I shouldn’t say this to you. But it would be peace to his minds if you said few words to his wooden body, at least before he is torn out of his dignity and locked in a tray of ash.”

(Note, serious writing is a bit hard for me so please bear with me.)