Rotterdam, March 1536
Charles blinks slightly at Chapuys’ missive, written from Bordeaux, where he has sent him to see if there are any truth in the rumours that are swirling Christendom, that Lord Milan has joined forces with the Duke of Nemours and Henri of Navarre to rise against his brother King François.
Charles hadn’t really intended to lay any credit in them. After all, even at only thirteen, Lord Milan must have learnt enough of politics to know that his Duchy requires his brother’s support if it is to survive as any kind of an independent state. But there is no mistaking these words. There they are in black and white.
Accompanied by Lord Nemours and Lady Valentinois, Lord and Lady Milan have landed in Beziers and travelled to Narbonne, where they have joined forces with the city’s Archbishop and the would be King of Navarre. They are now preparing to march north at the head of 8500 men.
Despite himself, Charles’s heart leaps as his swift mind makes some startling, but delightful, leaps.
Lord Milan won’t have brought his entire garrison. That many men would be too cumbersome to transport, and besides,
Monsieur De La Marck wouldn’t let him leave Milan completely undefended. But even if the bulk of his forces are being supplied by Lord Nemours and His Grace of Narbonne, he must have brought a couple of thousand with him. His honour and his status as a royal Duke will have demanded no less.
Therefore, there are necessarily a couple of thousand seasoned fighters currently
not defending Milan.
And King François will need his men in France this spring. He’ll be too busy dealing with his brother’s uprising to send any replacements. This is a golden opportunity for Charles to regain his family’s lost foothold in Italy, one which may never come again.
Controlling his emotions with a chokehold grip, Charles reads the letter over one more time, just to be sure there is no mistake – that he hasn’t seen what he
wanted to see, rather than what was actually there.
When the words don’t change on a second reading, he jumps to his feet, wrenches open the door of his private chamber and bellows at the nearest page, “Fetch Lord Pescara! Immediately! I have grave military matters to discuss with him!”