Of Pride and Power - 47. Chapter 41: “Work on the hearts and minds of others”

The journey to Aquitaine was eye-opening for my group. While I had intelligence reports from Francis’ informants about the situation in France and had made initial observations in the Artois and Île-de-France provinces, the reality on the ground is often hidden within unobserved details. The vast fields that operated using modified three-field systems and modern mechanized farming tools were one such example. Unlike the Norfolk system, implemented in the British Isles and Ireland, which employed a four-field crop rotation of wheat, turnips, barley, and clover, the French three-field system left a third of the arable land fallow.

Although the French nobles, through Medici Papal agents, were aware that the Norfolk system was superior to the medieval three-field system, they were bound by traditional religious farming practices. The Catholic Church continued to support the three-field system, promoting crop rotation to improve nitrogen and nutrient levels in the soil while collecting tithes from local villages and farms. The wealth that allowed the establishment of New Rome wasn’t solely based on gold and silver; it relied on a quota system, similar to those used in Communist regimes from my timeline. In my timeline, the Catholic Church did establish religious communes and bishoprics in rich farmlands during this era. However, the traditional three-field system produced much smaller yields, as it left a third of the fields fallow rather than contributing them directly to the Church on a rotation. Although agricultural advancements such as phosphate fertilizers, nitrogen-rich crops, and steel tools increased food production, the inefficiency of labor and output due to a quota-based system without corresponding benefits only raised the level of continental farming to mid-18th-century standards of my timeline. Such quota-based arrangements were also one of the reasons the Russian Empire, later the Soviet Union, under a Communist government, failed to achieve the agricultural outputs of competing states. After nearly forty years of such economic developments in France, my encyclopedic knowledge had prepared me for what I would encounter beyond the seemingly modern landscape of France.

As we traversed Beauce, the region between the Loire and Seine rivers, the first city we reached was Orléans. Though we couldn’t enter the city, we stayed at a château owned by a wealthy French merchant and secret Cathar master, Jehan Poquelin. We had planned to rendezvous there as a fallback location in case we encountered trouble in Paris. Jehan and his wife were gracious hosts, dismissing all their servants so they could serve my group in secret. They took on various tasks, including preparing a feast of duck and cleaning our clothes, without a word of protest, despite my attempts to insist it was unnecessary out of respect for my royal rank. In contrast, their son, Jean Poquelin, was in awe of my group, despite most of us being Englishmen, except for Prince François.

That night, while everyone else, including Robert in our shared bed, was asleep, I sat alone by the hearth, unable to rest. My mind was swirling with thoughts about the nature of my abilities and the concepts of existence. Jean Poquelin, only twelve years old, stealthily entered the sitting room and sat cross-legged before me, his eyes filled with curiosity.

“Your Majesty,” he began, “I’ve heard that you were in Paris negotiating a marriage proposal with King Henry III. But my father says things didn’t go as planned. What happened there? Did Henri de Lorraine betray France for the Habsburg Empire?”

Leaning back in the comfortable leather and oak chair, I smiled at the boy, preparing to spin a tale I’d later recount to my sons, Jamie and Will. “Ah, young Jean, I see you’re not one to shy away from difficult questions. Well, let me tell you a tale, one that might be a bit more exciting than the dry words of history. Imagine this—Paris, the grand city, but not as you might know it. The streets were filled with soldiers, and the air was thick with tension. Yes, I had been there, negotiating what could have been a grand union between our nations. But little did I know that an ambush was being prepared—not just by Henri de Lorraine, as the official story goes, but by King Henry III himself and his cunning serpent of a mother, Catherine de Medici.”

Jean leaned forward, captivated by my story. “An ambush? How did you escape?”

I chuckled. “Oh, it was an epic struggle. Thousands of troops were scattered throughout the city, in every corner and every shadow. But we were clever. We hid within the catacombs, right among the dead, where they wished to send us. Have you ever been in the Paris Catacombs, Jean? It’s a place where the past surrounds you, where the whispers of the dead seem to fill the air, and bones line the walls. Before we entered the catacombs, I uncovered a second treachery at hand. Henri de Lorraine, the Duke of Guise, had been conspiring with the Habsburgs. But his betrayal wasn’t just against England and me—it was against France itself. This revelation shook the Valois dynasty to its core when I captured his co-conspirator, Commander Strozzi of the Swiss Guard, and brought him before King Henry III. By the time I escaped Paris, the city was already on the brink of civil war, and Henri de Lorraine’s rebellion would soon begin in earnest.”

Jean was engrossed in the story, but he posed a question I didn’t expect. “That’s incredible! But… what about the other rumors, Your Majesty? The ones about King Henry III? They say he was… (hesitates, lowering his voice) a degenerate… a catamite who kidnaps boys for his pleasure?”

I paused, wondering if a twelve-year-old should hear such sordid details. “Ah, I see you’ve heard those whispers too. Paris, and indeed many parts of France, is a place where rumor and scandal thrive like weeds in a garden. But yes, there is some truth to what you’ve heard. King Henry III was known for his, shall we say, peculiar tastes. He surrounded himself with boys who catered to his every whim, and his court was a place of excess, indulging in things better left unsaid. His inclinations were not what one might call… respectable. But remember, Jean, a ruler’s private life often becomes the target of rumor and innuendo. Still, there was a certain… depravity in how he lived, a darkness that overshadowed his reign.”

Jean considered my words. “So, his… ways might have weakened his rule, and that’s why people like Henri de Lorraine turned against him?”

I paused, careful with my response, not wanting to instill any ingrained perceptions given my delicate situation. After a moment of thought, I continued, “Perhaps, young Jean. It’s not just about King Henry’s peculiarities, but also his lack of empathy for those he treated as mere tools. The Duke of Guise saw an opportunity, one made clearer by the King’s failings as an honorable man. When a ruler seeks personal pleasure beyond what others willingly grant him, those around him lose trust in his reign. They see his weakened state as a chance to seize power for themselves. It was only a matter of time before someone like Henri de Lorraine would make his move. But let this be a lesson to you, Jean: the greatest battles are not always fought with swords or armies. Sometimes, they are fought in the shadows, in the hearts and minds of men. And those battles, those betrayals, can be the most dangerous of all.”

Jean’s eyes gleamed with this newfound knowledge. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I’ll remember that,” he pauses, a mischievous grin forming, “Though, I must admit, the tale of your escape, the treachery in Paris, and the scandalous intrigues of the French court are far more thrilling than anything in my father’s stories.”

I laughed at the boy. “I’m glad you think so, young Jean. Perhaps one day, you’ll tell your own stories—ones that will captivate audiences far and wide. But for now, keep asking your questions and never lose that curiosity. It will take you far.”

Jean stood up and gave me a bow. “I will, Your Majesty, I will!” Then, he left the hearth.

While I usually wouldn’t be so upfront with a child, I remembered who his future son would be in my timeline: Jean Baptiste Poquelin, better known by his pen name Molière, the father of modern French literature in my timeline. In my history, Molière’s satires against the nobility, clergy, and numerous other taboo subjects gave France a framework for critiquing society, marking the early stages of the European Enlightenment. This movement would lead to social reforms and a push for equality for all human beings. The ability to criticize and ask questions is a gift I wanted to offer everyone. Though I sometimes halt criticism during times of turmoil, I know that a society needs outlets for various views to coexist. Human beings are imperfect, so one must balance the need for freedom with the need for order. Perhaps it’s part of my contradictory nature, but I wanted to offer Jean some words for the future. Little did I expect that this would spark an earlier awakening of satire.

As I write this secret autobiography, Will and Jean are likely collaborating on a motion picture about my escape from Paris and journey to Aquitaine—a plot that reminds me of the film Inglourious Basterds from my timeline. Suffice it to say, their future film is historically inaccurate and too sardonic for this old Omega to view. No, we did not torture Philippe Strozzi to force a confession by flaying him in mid-air; his actions to kill me and the French royal family were proof enough. Nor did I offer daggers to child victims to exact bloody revenge against Henry III in several alternate-timeline regressions. I hope Jean’s son will show more restraint in his creations. Still, knowing how the currents of history flow, I should apologize in advance to future generations of France for unleashing more radical forms of art upon your society with that conversation. Hopefully, the guillotine will be too old-fashioned to see common use.

Though the journey to Aquitaine should have taken no more than three days with our invisible truck traveling the 370 miles (600 km) at an average speed of 12 miles (20 km) per hour for ten hours each night to avoid detection, it ended up taking us nine days due to what we discovered the day after we prepared to leave Orléans. Several Cathar rebel leaders from Orléans and surrounding townships gathered at Jehan’s chateau to pay homage before our departure. One of them, a woman named Louisa, was noticeably ill and coughing during her turn. Seeing purple bumps around her neck and below her ears, I immediately used my analytical abilities, as my encyclopedic knowledge made me suspicious of what this could be.

In my timeline, many history books were written about the Bubonic plague, better known as the Black Death, in the 14th century. Few people noted, however, how endemic the disease remained throughout Europe beyond its peak years between 1346 and 1353. If you were a medical or history student, you would have learned the truth about how the disease’s massive death toll persisted from the 14th to the 17th century, culminating in nearly 100 million deaths. In addition to all the deaths, four times as many people were displaced due to the disease, losing siblings, spouses, and parents. This displacement and social upheaval led to further conflicts as those seeking power took advantage. As these conflicts led to reduced sanitary conditions, the disease would add to the body count in a vicious cycle. In the words of a famous epidemiologist from my timeline, “The history of disease is the history of migration and power.” Behind all the struggles and death, the trigger was a small bacterium named Yersinia pestis.

Knowing I could not abandon my allies to such a fate, I urged my group to stay near Orléans far longer than we should have. Eddie, Puck, and the Triplets tried to dissuade me, arguing that the Black Death was not our concern, especially in a foreign country on the brink of civil war. Robert was the only one who understood why we couldn’t abandon our allies and leave this disease unchecked. A lesson from my timeline: we never abandon our allies for political convenience, even if it means added danger. As such, we asked Jehan to move our entire group to one of his warehouses closer to the main roads leading to Orléans so we could more easily distribute materials and inspect patients. I shared my knowledge of the chemical structure of the antibiotic Levofloxacin with Robert, allowing him to fabricate several doses of the pharmaceutical-grade drug for our group and the most seriously affected Cathar rebels.

The next day, we were inundated with several very ill patients, whom Robert and I treated with our abilities. Although our supernatural abilities could only handle the diagnosis and treatment of about two dozen people per day, Puck, an experienced pharmacologist without special abilities, was busy creating Chlortetracycline by fermenting materials with weakened Streptomyces strains. By the end of the third day, Puck had produced enough doses for 10,000 people. He also demonstrated the technique to the Cathar rebels so they could produce the rudimentary antibiotic themselves. Although it was less effective than the third-generation Levofloxacin that Robert and I fabricated, it was still a good drug against the plague, with around 80% effectiveness.

News of the Black Death’s appearance in Orléans spread rapidly by word of mouth after the second day when the first deaths occurred, which was expected as Louisa had reported symptoms for at least a week. Unlike my realm in the British Isles and Ireland, where medical practice and pharmaceutical technology had advanced, in most of France, these were still cottage industries of pseudo-science and home remedies for commoners. Only nobles with connections to the Catholic Church or more industrialized nations like the Habsburg Empire could obtain rudimentary drug treatments and vaccines. With a general fear of the educated populace, few doctors or pharmacists existed outside a narrow group of select noble families, making it rare to get a qualified diagnosis.

On the third day, I asked the Cathar rebels to distribute doses of Chlortetracycline throughout Orléans to treat the disease. Though the Catholic Church had also distributed their meager supply of antibiotics to the nobles and requested additional drugs from Italy, the civil war between the House of Valois and the Papal Medici versus the House of Guise prevented any new supplies from arriving. As the drugs were being distributed throughout Orléans, we were met with a violent response on the morning of the fifth day.

An army of five thousand troops, bearing banners of loyalty to the Valois and Medici families, led by a stern Marquis and Archbishop, gathered around the warehouse where we were treating the Black Death. Unlike in Paris, I did not have the near-godlike strength to confront this army, and after days of treating the disease, both Robert and I were exhausted. Of course, we could likely have defeated the army with our combined abilities, but it would have rendered us unconscious.

Thus, I sought to parley with the Marquis and Archbishop. The Triplets, Robert, and I sallied out to meet the commanders of this army.

The Marquis pointed a sword at me, rather than the pistol at his waist, and spoke in a haughty tone, without honorifics, “Elias Tudor, monarch of England, I am Marquis Emmanuel of Orléans. By order of the Crown, you stand accused of trespassing on French soil and concocting unholy potions in the shadow of our sovereign's great city of Orléans. You know well the consequences of intruding on the lands of my sovereign King Henry of the House of Valois. My army stands ready to seize your vile concoctions.”

Though he acted tough, I knew this was more pageantry than malice—a mere opening for negotiations—so I used my glib tongue in response, “Marquis, your reputation precedes you—a man of honor, of deep love for his city and people. But hear me: these ‘vile concoctions,’ as you call them, are nothing more than remedies against the Black Death. Without them, your people will suffer needlessly, and Orléans will become a graveyard. Allow me to distribute my remedies to lessen the suffering of your people.”

The Archbishop, clearly unhappy, began to argue, “Do not be swayed by this heretic’s words, Marquis. The plague is a punishment from God, a divine retribution for the sins of men—men like him and his... partner, who enjoy the fruits of Sodom. We must destroy these abominations, not allow them to spread their corruption further. The Lord has spoken through the suffering of our people!”

I was about to explode at this idiotic priest, maybe even displace his head and abandon the idea of talking. If there was one thing I couldn’t stand, it was homophobic zealots—I’d had enough of that in my previous life.

Luckily for me, Robert quickly offered a counterpoint before I could act on my anger, “Your Grace, the plague does not discriminate between sinner and saint. It devours all in its path. To destroy these antibiotics is to condemn countless innocents to death. Is that what your God commands? Is the practice of preserving life worth so little in His eyes?”

Marquis Emmanuel frowned at the Archbishop and lowered his sword, then tried to steer the conversation, “The Archbishop speaks of divine will, but my duty is to my city. Orléans cannot withstand the horrors of the plague without aid. Yet I am sworn to the Crown, to Catherine de’ Medici and King Henry. It is not a simple choice. We require the remedies you call antibiotics to fight the Black Death.”

Shocked, the Archbishop attempted to double down on his convictions, “How dare you discuss this heresy, Marquis Emmanuel! There is no choice to be made! The victory of King Henry over the Duke of Guise in Paris proves the righteousness of our cause. Henri de Lorraine retreats to Brussels, scheming with the Duke of Parma to strike back at our sovereign and the true faith. The very walls of France are under siege, and now this English heretic brings his poison to our land! Our people do not need his false aid; God’s salvation shall be enough for His faithful, as the Pope and New Rome shall provide us with all we need.”

Marquis Emmanuel retorted scornfully, “Henri de Lorraine’s forces have blocked the railways to Italy, cutting off vital routes. Even if we wanted to, we cannot make such remedies on our own due to the monopolies guaranteed by the Crown. The kingdom is on the brink of collapse, with disease breaking out in Paris and now the plague in Orléans. The Queen, who was appointed Duchess of Orleans by her deceased elder son, King Charles IX, has ordered us to eliminate all who threaten France and our absent Italian allies. If we do nothing, Orléans will fall prey to the same chaos consuming the rest of France. My ancestors served the Duchy of Orléans—we have been loyal vassals of the House of Valois since King Louis XII. I do not wish to see my beautiful city fall into anarchy.”

I could tell Marquis Emmanuel was a man of principles, so I spoke with conviction to persuade him. “And what then, Marquis? Will Orléans be saved by obeying the orders of a queen who would rather see her people perish than allow dissent by permitting necessary remedies? Will the noble families, hoarding these medicines, spare even a thought for the common folk as they barricade themselves in their manors?”

Robert followed up with a devastating truth. “The Valois and the Guise are tearing this country apart, leaving nothing but ashes. But you, Marquis, you can choose a different path—one that serves your people as your ancestors did, not the ambitions of tyrants with thrones in Rome and Aachen.”

Marquis Emmanuel’s voice began to tremble. “My city... my people... They are all that matter to me. But if I defy the crown, if I allow this rebellion to take root... it will be war... I will be pushing them to fight against two titanic foes they have no means to defend against.”

I stepped closer to the Marquis and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “War is already upon you. The question is not whether you fight, but what you fight for. Do you stand with kings who do not protect their own, or with a cause that could bring true salvation to Orléans, here and now? You can be the man who saves this city, who leads it to a brighter future—or you can be the man who watches it perish.”

The Archbishop shoved me to the ground and furiously addressed the Marquis. “This is treason! Marquis, do not let these serpents poison your mind!”

Instead of answering the Archbishop, Marquis Emmanuel sheathed his sword and offered me a hand to help me stand. Then he turned to the Archbishop. “No, Archbishop. The only poison here is the one that festers in the hearts of those who would let Orléans die for the sake of power. I will not be a pawn in their game any longer.” He drew his sword and turned to his guards nearby. “Men, seize the Archbishop. His words are nothing but death and damnation for our city!”

As the guards surrounded the Archbishop, he screamed violently, “You dare?! You will burn for this, Marquis! You will burn in hell!”

Marquis Emmanuel calmly replied, “Perhaps. But I will burn knowing I did what was right.” He looked over at me. “I will lead Orléans in open rebellion. Together, we will find a ruler worthy of France.”

Unbeknownst to Marquis Emmanuel, I already had a candidate in mind: Henry Bourbon, King of Navarre, whom I had been mentoring and training for a decade. Compared to Henry Valois and Henri de Lorraine, Henry Bourbon would be a far better ruler, dedicated to improving the quality of life for his people. Despite the guerrilla warfare occurring in Navarre, Henry had limited civilian casualties by evacuating women and children from occupied villages and towns to mountain safehouses and safer farmland in southwestern France.

I smirked at Marquis Emmanuel. “You have made the right choice, Marquis. History will remember you as a man of honor and courage.”

Having a loyal retainer with an established reputation in control of Orléans was a major coup. As Catherine de’ Medici was too preoccupied with the imminent invasion of her realm by Henri de Lorraine, Duke of Guise, and the formidable Habsburg Field Marshal Alexander Farnese, Duke of Parma, there were no spare troops to end this rebellion, even if they wanted to. In addition, the distribution of treatment for the Black Death would elevate public opinion throughout the Beauce region of France, adding to the already formidable fifth column that the Cathars had established.

We left on the sixth day with our truck filled with supplies and additional doses of antibiotics to distribute along our route. We instructed the Cathar groups we encountered to contact Jehan Poquelin and Marquis Emmanuel for additional antibiotics if needed. Thanks to Puck’s efforts, Orléans could sustain limited antibiotic production with a handful of Cathar operators, so a serious outbreak of the Black Death could be prevented, at least on our side, during this civil war. By the ninth day, we reached Bordeaux, the capital of Aquitaine, and boarded a waiting English merchant ship to ferry us back to England.