La Sicile, C'est à Moi
King Charles's Everlasting Realm
Moving House
King Charles of Sicily
The 27th of September, Anno Domini 1270
To Charles; King of Sicily and Naples; Count of Provence, Forcalquier, Anjou, and Maine; my Brother
I have arrived safely and am well ensconced in Paris; we arrived yesterday and are preparing for the funeral of poor Jean Tristan. Ah, but it is a poor feeling, to have to bury one's child; yet, I already had to bury Louis ten years ago now, and how many children do my subjects need to bury in times of famine and pestilence? It does nothing, however, to alleviate my pain. Only love for God can do that.
It seems as though all the family but yourself and Philippe will be attending, though I can blame neither you nor he; you have a freshly conquered kingdom and those fiery Sicilians to keep under your thumb, and Philippe's wife can't be expected to jostle across the Alps or sway over the Tyrrhenian and Ligurian Seas while with child. Nor will Yolande be attending, though it is her late husband we are burying; she has whisked herself off to her lands in Nevers, and my suspicions that she never loved my son are heightened by this disgraceful behavior. Yet technically she does nothing illegal. Ah, what can a father do?
You saw his lifeless corpse in Africa, of course, and the corpses of so many others dead of dysentery. But none so fair and beautiful to behold in life, and I trust that that is not simply a father's bias. Now he is all skin and bone, dry and brown and small as firewood.
Ah well, enough of my sorrows. I shall drown them in prayer to and love of God, and there is nothing more to be said on the matter. How fare you down among the Italians and Sicilians? There is no Pope to drink your blood...yet; while it is a sad day--well, two years, it's really been--when politics and maneuvering get in the way of the election of God's holy representative on Earth, I do guess that it gives you more practical men some relief. I just hope that the next man is as French as we are, and as the last two Popes have been; mighty helpful to have a man who understands your own language better than you do telling your enemies what to do!
Do you still allow that knave Baudouin de Courtenay to sleep in your castle? Do you still intend to uphold that agreement of yours with him and with Guillaume de Villehardouin? I urge you to abandon this folly, brother, for the rape of Constantinople sixty-six years ago was a sin against God, and the Greeks were right to eject that villain Baudouin. He has treated it as not even the worst master treats the laziest dog; he has stolen and sold or melted down every treasure of the Romans and the East to be found in that Eternal City; he has enriched himself and the Venetians and the Genovese at the expense of God; he sold the Crown of Thorns that God wore to his crucifixion! Protect the Greeks from infidels and thieves alike.
As for your own kingdom, the Staufer kings were much too lenient with the Arabs and other occult practices on the island. Move your administration there, govern with a firm but gentle hand, and turn it to the enlightened ways of France. The world is changing, people are seeing the wisdom of God, and with the wealth of Sicily you can be a the forefront.
Louis IX, By the Grace of God, King of France
Charles read the letter over one more time and then tucked it into one of his pockets absentmindedly. The sun retreated behind a cloud and he shivered, closing the front of his cloak over his tunic and buttoning it up. Though he'd been inured to the much colder French winters since childhood, almost a decade spent in the Mediterranean heat of places such as Naples, Sicily, and Africa had left him with an aversion to any kind of chill. He stood on the battlements of the Castel Capuano for a moment longer, looking over the city to the busy port half a mile away, and then turned to go inside.
Charles gritted his teeth as he emerged from the cold, winding stone staircase and into the warm, furnished interior of the castle, but not from any displeasure at the comfort. He hated that his brother Louis was always right, and that what his brother Louis said to do was in this case the best thing to do. Louis had been twelve when Charles was born, Robert ten, and Alphonse six; he'd always been too little and too young to matter to them, but he had showed them. After following Louis's wishes and marrying Beatrice of Provence, Charles hadn't asked for anything, and hadn't received anything. All by himself he'd protected his wife's claim to Provence from her sister and mother, gained the Pope's permission to invade the degenerate Kingdom of Sicily in his own name, and borrowed the coin and men it had taken to acquire the kingdom.
Now eldest brother Louis could boast of being King of France--which was his birthright and which he'd been assured of since conception; brother Robert died fleeing the field while other men fought bravely in Egypt; and brother Alphonse remained Louis's lackey, governing his kingdom while Louis went off on Crusade and managing his taxes and officials. Charles had started off as Count--and by marriage, not by right!--of Provence and Forcalquier, and had worked his way up from there. Now he was heavily in debt, facing constant simmering rebellion, and lord of the richest growing land in Europe. In all the world only the Nile and Mesopotamia were richer, with Africa coming fourth and just a quick invasion away.
But they'd just gone for Africa. Last year Charles, Louis, Alphonse, Louis's sons, and other French nobles and men had embarked on the Eighth Crusade, to retake Tunis and Africa from the Mohammedans; nothing had turned out as planned, and the war had fallen apart when the men started dropping like flies from heat and dysentery. It was then that Charles learned never to fight in Africa during the summer.
Lesson learned, Charles was not likely to forget; but he'd set his eyes on a higher prize. Constantinople. Louis's words were not right there, but they were right where Sicily and the administration came into question. The people of southern Italy had been ruled by Lombards, Popes, Normans, Italians, and Germans without any problems; they would remain quiet. Sicily, the most valuable part of his kingdom, was brewing with trouble; they followed their local nobles closely, and they were very particular about what type of men they would follow. Namely, they wanted to follow a man who put Sicily first; Charles would have to act like such a man.
"Josselin!" Charles shouted, striding forward and pulling off his warm woolen gloves. He moved to the fire and turned his back to it, waiting for the steward.
After a minute the fit old man appeared, white hair peeking out from under the burgundy-colored cap and wearing tunic, trousers, and slippers of blue-dyed wool; even the slightest bit of cold tweaked his bones, and he didn't take any chances. "Yes, Your Highness?"
The mouth worked left and right, the heavy brown brows overshadowed the eyes. "I want to move the court to Palermo," he said after a moment.
"Palermo!" Josselin moved to Charles's side. "Everything is in disarray, Sire; nothing is yet settled, the clerks and running here and there, there are people in Calabria and Lucania who don't even know they have a new king."
"If everything is in disarray then it shouldn't be too much trouble to shake it up a bit more, should it? Instead of moving a few desks a few doors down the hall, we'll just move them across the sea and into Palermo."
"Oh dear," clucked Josselin. "Oh dear, oh dear. I'll get on it at once, Sire." He bustled to the door, knowing that the earliest move would have to take place in the spring due to terrible winter sailing conditions and the condition of Prince Philippe's wife Isabelle, and then stopped and turned. "Your Highness, it's getting dark and dreadfully cold outside. If I were to start tomorr--"
"
Today, Josselin!" growled Charles, who was now staring into the fire, impatiently. "The sooner you get started, the sooner the warm, inviting sun of Palermo will kiss your rotten old hide."
Chuckling at the effect of his barb, Josselin exited the royal apartment and closed the door behind him.
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So this is my first TL. Please DON'T be kind; point out any mistakes and historical errors. The POD is that Louis IX doesn't die of dysentery in Africa as he did OTL; butterflies then prevent the deaths of Prince Alphonse and Prince Philippe's wife Isabelle.
I've written in an amateur capacity before, but never with history or alternate history, so I'm interested to see the comments and thoughts on this.