As St. George's Day drew ever closer, people were awaiting the end of Lent, planning to hold celebrations for the holiday no less grand than those of the New Year.
Previously, though the day had been an important religious feast, it was far less observed than Christmas or Easter.
Only in England, Catalonia, and Georgia in the East — countries that claimed George as their patron saint — did people celebrate in honor of the legend of St. George slaying the dragon.
With the rapid rise of the House of Habsburg, their veneration of St. George had gradually begun to influence the customs of the southern states of the Empire.
The Order of the Dragon, inherited from Emperor Sigismund, counted St. George as its patron saint, and the military Order of St. George founded by the Emperor was even now holding the front lines against the Ottomans.
Since the Emperor's accession, more than half of the major Imperial Diet sessions had been convened on this very day, causing people to regard the holiday with ever-growing importance.
Although the various actions of the House of Habsburg made it appear as though St. George had become the dynasty's patron saint, the most venerated figure in Austria remained St. Stephen, and in recent years Laszlo had been working to increase the number of Austria's patron saints.
Looking further back, Leopold III "the Pious" of the Babenberg dynasty, who had died centuries ago, had a strong chance of being canonized; as an Austrian duke of an ancient lineage, this would undoubtedly add new glory to Austria.
Looking more recently, Albert II "the Magnanimous," who had passed away over a decade ago, had devoted his life to resisting pagans and heretics, and through the Concordat of Mainz had maintained the religious stability of the Empire — he too was qualified for sainthood.
Moreover, his son Emperor Laszlo was keenly enthusiastic about pushing the Papacy to canonize his father; though Paul II had deflected the request by citing curial regulations, it remained to be seen whether the newly enthroned Benedict XIII could hold firm against the pressure.
Whether Austria produced a Babenberg saint or a Habsburg saint, either outcome would be exceedingly beneficial for Austria.
Using the power of religion to uplift spirits and strengthen national cohesion — this was a method Laszlo had long employed.
Yet among the many saints, those he valued most were St. George, widely revered by knights, and St. Stephen, the first apostolic king of Hungary, and so he showed these two a conspicuous favoritism whose influence gradually spread throughout the Empire.
A relatively fixed date for convening the Imperial Diet also spared the princes a great deal of inconvenience, and more and more began following the Emperor's preferences by keeping that period free in anticipation of the Diet's summons.
Several days before the sessions formally opened, most of the princes and representatives of imperial rank arrived in Augsburg one after another.
Thanks to the influx of wealthy travelers, the sales of silk and spice — the main goods of the Augsburg market — surged sharply in the short term, to the great excitement of the merchants.
And with the arrival of the imperial grandees, visitors to the Emperor's palace increased noticeably; at times Laszlo was obliged to set aside half a day to receive princes and representatives who had journeyed from all corners of the Empire.
Even Dithmarschen, which had previously been no more than an obscure presence huddled in the Third Estate, sent the leaders of its Committee of Forty-Eight traveling across half the Empire to personally express their gratitude to the Emperor.
Although the Emperor had taken no concrete action to protect Dithmarschen, his posture of furiously rebuking the Danish king and forcefully defending imperial territory had been enough to earn the gratitude of the local peasantry, and had at the same time enhanced the Emperor's credibility and prestige within the Third Estate.
The Emperor had contacted the Pope to issue a bull, and with minimal effort had driven back the aggressive Danish king — a tale that spread widely across the Empire's northern reaches and was regarded as a fine achievement.
After the Dithmarschen envoy departed, as if by coincidence, the next visitor to seek audience was none other than an ambassador sent by the Danish King Christian.
He brought Laszlo a letter from the Danish king, in which that monarch furiously accused Laszlo of breaking his word — having agreed to sell the Duchy of Holstein, and then turning around to reject his legitimate territorial claims.
This shameless audacity actually made Laszlo laugh with exasperation.
He solemnly reiterated to the Danish ambassador the legal basis for Dithmarschen's status as a fief of the Archbishop of Bremen, accused the Danish king of coveting imperial territory, and then sent the enraged Danes away.
Afterward, Laszlo received several more church figures, including the Bishop of Freising, who had been nominated by him to serve in an external role as a court adviser, as well as a court cleric serving as the Emperor's legate and acting dean of Worms Cathedral, along with other court agents he had dispatched to various parts of the Empire.
Only advisers who had been granted an imperial bishopric or a suffragan position would be posted to dioceses in the field, where they were required to report to the Emperor periodically.
If an adviser was granted only a parish priest's living, he generally would not leave the court; the Emperor would personally select a proxy to handle the clerical affairs on his behalf, while the adviser himself need do nothing yet could regularly receive a stipend drawn from the parish's tithes and properties — effectively a pay raise, or a bonus from the Emperor.
The advisers gained financial and honorary benefits, while the Emperor gained the opportunity to plant informants in every diocese — it was undeniably a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Not long before, Laszlo had even begun experimenting with granting lifetime benefices in lieu of annuities, thereby reducing court expenditures, and the response had been quite favorable.
What had been a win-win had become Laszlo winning twice — and all of it owed thanks to the Pope's generous granting of nomination rights. Indeed, Laszlo felt that even three hundred nominations might not quite be enough, and was already considering asking for more next time.
These informants scattered throughout the Empire brought back a wealth of intelligence: from the uprising in Liège to the upheaval in the Archdiocese of Magdeburg, the affairs of dioceses across half the Empire were reported to him in detail.
In order to raise more taxes for Burgundy, the Bishop of Liège, Louis de Bourbon, had levied additional taxes as was his habit, triggering yet another revolt in Liège.
Burgundian troops garrisoned within Liège quickly suppressed the urban uprising and caused no significant disruption to Charles's schedule.
In Magdeburg, the aging Wittelsbach Archbishop John had, through some arrangement with the Saxon Elector Ernst that no one could quite fathom, apparently intended to nominate the Elector's youngest son, the nine-year-old little Ernst, as the Archbishop's successor.
Though this seemingly fantastical situation had not yet actually come to pass, similar things had genuinely occurred in history before.
In theory, as long as the local cathedral chapter insisted it had followed the proper procedures for ecclesiastical election, and the Emperor and Pope both gave their consent, a child of primary-school age could become one of the Empire's seven archbishops.
How pure and incorruptible — such is our Holy Catholic Church! Have you got a church like that?
Laszlo laughed coldly and filed the matter away in his memory. He could not possibly allow the Saxon Elector to install his own young son as Archbishop of Magdeburg and thereby take control of the neighboring diocese.
Still, Ernst's conduct had given him a rather useful idea — perhaps he might try something similar in the future.
Surrounded on all sides by envoys and dispatches from across the Empire, just as Laszlo was beginning to feel mildly weary, the Duke of Baden, Karl, came bursting excitedly into the imperial palace with an earth-shaking piece of news.
France, near Château d'Amboise.
Inside the tent of Louis XI, this ambitious pretender to the French throne was plotting his strategy for the advance on Paris.
At that moment, his spymaster brought him a stunning piece of news, breaking the king's concentration.
"The Duke of Lorraine, Nicolas, has died of illness as well?"
Louis displayed an expression of surprise — rare for him — and then his face began shifting between conflicting emotions.
He truly did not know whether to weep or to rejoice, so much so that even his usually impeccable control of his expressions was difficult to maintain.
As one of his most important potential allies, the Duke of Lorraine's death was undoubtedly a significant loss for France.
Yet at the same time, it meant that the moment for the House of Anjou's return to the Crown had finally arrived.
Following the early death of Duke René of Anjou's son, his grandson had now also died suddenly of illness, at only twenty-four years of age, leaving no heirs.
One man had outlived two generations of descendants, and with that, the future of the House of Anjou was extinguished.
Without a doubt, the reckless Charles and Emperor Laszlo, both of whom had long had their eyes on Lorraine, would not let slip this once-in-a-generation opportunity to strip Anjou rule from Lorraine.
And he, as King of France, currently penned in by his enemies in southern France, was clearly in no position to take part in this feast of dividing the inheritance.
However, his gaze quickly shifted to a far greater inheritance — the House of Anjou's territories within France itself.
These lands included not only the nearby Duchy of Anjou, but also the County of Provence, which was currently in the Emperor's hands.
As for the Kingdom of Naples, long since lost, and the Duchy of Lorraine, which was clearly out of reach for now, acquiring even a claim to them would not be undesirable.
After Duke René of Anjou had lost all his direct heirs, according to the contract drawn up at the time of enfeoffing that royal cadet branch, the House of Anjou's lands were to revert to the Crown upon René's death without exception.
The moment this thought crystallized, Louis XI could barely suppress his inner excitement.
"Quickly, bring the Duke of Anjou to me!"
Before long, the Duke of Anjou arrived at the royal tent at the king's summons, accompanied by his nephew the Count of Maine, Charles, and his grandson the Count of Vaudémont, young René.
Seeing the two companions at René's side, Louis XI felt a sudden bad premonition.
"My dear uncle, regarding the matter of Nicolas — please accept my condolences," Louis XI said in a performance of sorrow.
But the dazed old duke's wrinkled eyes still bore traces of tears, and he was in no mood to exchange hollow pleasantries with Louis XI just then.
"If Your Majesty has something to say, please say it plainly. I have already followed your instructions and brought all of Anjou's forces here — have you now made up your mind to launch the attack?"
"No, no, there is no rush," Louis XI shook his head. "My brother rules over scorched earth; he cannot possibly sustain a large army indefinitely. We have assembled here, which forces him to expand his army and stand guard — while we need only hold the Loire Valley and apply intermittent pressure upstream and to the north, and his army will be compelled to maintain itself until it finally collapses from inability to pay wages or procure food. So we need only bide our time here, and the initiative will naturally return to us."
Louis XI's calm analysis prompted the others to nod in agreement, despite their continued distaste for the gamble of a frontal battle. This king clearly had a far more sophisticated understanding of the use of armies than before, and this gave them a glimpse of hope for the restoration of France.
However, Louis XI's next words darkened all three of their faces.
"Let us now discuss the matter of the inheritance of the House of Anjou."
"What do you mean by that?" Before René could respond, the Count of Maine beside him could no longer hold his seat.
Not long before, René, having barely recovered from the successive blows of losing his son and grandson, had urgently revised his will, assigning Anjou and Provence to his nephew the Count of Maine, and the title of Duke of Lorraine to his grandson the Count of Vaudémont, young René.
The House of Vaudémont was a cadet branch of the extinct House of Lorraine and had at one time been a contender for the ducal title.
The previous Count of Vaudémont had allied with Philip III "the Good" of Burgundy to attack Lorraine, but was ultimately defeated by René's wife after Burgundy withdrew from the war, and thereafter renounced his claim to Lorraine.
René had consequently married his daughter to that count, giving rise to the present young René, who carried the blood of the Houses of Lorraine, Vaudémont, and Anjou, and was undeniably the most fitting person to inherit the title of Duke of Lorraine.
Nevertheless, René held little real hope for this succession, because across in the Empire there was also a claimant with a purer bloodline and first-order priority — and if the Emperor intervened, he would likely have to abandon Lorraine just as he had been forced to abandon Provence.
Having weathered storm after storm for most of his life, he had in the end lost Naples, Lorraine, and Provence. The single remaining Anjou was now also looking difficult to hold on to.
Merely seeing the wolfish gleam in his nephew Louis XI's eyes made René feel a chill to his core.
"The House of Anjou is a branch of my Valois dynasty, and the feudal contract drawn up at the time of its creation states plainly that once the family dies without heirs, its territories shall revert to the Crown in their entirety. My dear uncle, I should be the first-priority heir to your estate — am I not correct?" Louis XI's words sounded like a request for opinion, yet his tone carried an unquestionable decisiveness.
René hesitated for a moment, glanced sideways at his nephew, and found the man looking toward him with a pleading expression.
Considering that this was a critical period of the military standoff between northern and southern France, and that the strength of the House of Anjou was indispensable to Louis XI, René hardened his resolve and immediately found his footing.
"The contract is as you described — but Charles is equally a member of the House of Anjou, and he holds the right to inherit the title and lands of the Duke of Anjou. If you insist on stripping him of his rightful inheritance, then pray excuse me while I return to Anjou and resist the enemies of Brittany and Paris on my own."
"You dare threaten me?!" Louis XI slammed the table and rose to his feet, his chest heaving with fury.
The Duke of Anjou, who had always deferred to him in everything, had without warning shown a sudden spine that baffled him.
Perhaps it was because he had already lost everything there was to lose. His son was dead, his grandson was dead, his daughter had seized power in England and no longer needed to cater to Louis XI — all of this had rendered René effectively invincible, and he no longer flinched under the pressure Louis XI applied.
He now only wanted to leave his estate to the nephew and grandson who had supported and accompanied him throughout, rather than to that insatiably grasping royal nephew of his.
"That is not a threat, Your Majesty. I am the head of the House of Anjou, and I have the right to distribute my own estate."
René's impenetrable composure left Louis XI growing anxious.
Charles the Count of Maine and young René, shielded behind the old man, both gazed with deep emotion at his slightly stooped back.
The old duke had formally declared his retirement some twenty years ago and had long since withdrawn to Aix-en-Provence, where he had composed many poems and paintings.
He had lived in the picturesque Provençal countryside, spending his days in the company of writers and artists, and his life had been quite comfortable indeed.
Unfortunately, a letter from the Orsini family — the leaders of the Neapolitan rebels — had dragged him out of several years of peace, after which he had been compelled to become entangled in one dispute after another for more than a decade, suffering grief and hardship without end.
By now, he was truly exhausted.
This was different from his announced retirement twenty years ago, when he had still harbored ambitions of biding his time and waiting for the House of Anjou to replace Burgundy as the leading cadet branch of the royal family.
Now, Burgundy had long since declared itself a kingdom, while the House of Anjou had stumbled toward its end through one failure after another.
He no longer wished to suffer these torments.
"Very well. I will accept the will — but certain clauses must be added. I wish to reclaim these lands after the Count of Maine's death, should he fail to leave a legitimate heir."
"So be it."
René gave a nod, and his two heirs raised no objection.
"I intend to surrender the title of Duke of Anjou this very year, retaining only a monastic estate, where I shall spend my remaining days."
"My lord Duke, this…" The Count of Maine, Charles, felt surprise mingled with sadness.
"I am also entrusting Anjou's army to you. Do well, Charles."
Having said this, the old duke patted his nephew on the shoulder, bid farewell to the king, and with young René supporting him, hobbled slowly out of the tent, leaving Louis XI and the Count of Maine staring at each other in silence.
"Shall I offer you congratulations? Duke of Anjou, Charles?" Louis XI said, his tone sour.
Years ago, the elder Count of Maine had undermined him on the battlefield, causing the first War of the League of the Public Weal to end in a French defeat; now the new Count of Maine had snatched the Anjou inheritance right out from under him, and the thought made Louis grind his teeth with fury.
"Your Majesty, please be at ease — I will carry my loyalty to you and win you the final victory."
Whatever he said, this young man about to be elevated to Duke of Anjou was evidently not quite as straightforward as he appeared.
"It had better be so." Louis XI could not be bothered to waste more words. He promptly ordered his secretary to draft an inheritance agreement, after which he and the Count of Maine both signed their names to it.
Augsburg, the Imperial Palace.
"So — your mother is the sister of Elizabeth, the last female ruler of the House of Lorraine, and now that the House of Anjou, which inherited Lorraine through the female line, has died out, your claim to succession has risen to first place?"
Laszlo untangled the complex web of relationships and turned to confirm this with Duke Karl of Baden, who was seated across from him.
Setting aside his connection to the House of Lorraine, this Duke Karl's wife was also Laszlo's first cousin once removed — it could only be said that the marital networks of continental nobility were always this intricately tangled.
And this, in turn, had given rise to a fresh conflict.
"Lorraine was always rightfully part of the Kingdom of Burgundy by law. I had long since wished to expel the House of Anjou, who stood as enemies of the Empire, from the duchy — and now it seems God has visited a curse and punishment upon that wicked family, saving us considerable trouble."
Burgundian King Charles "the Bold," seated to the other side of Laszlo, crossed his arms and fixed Duke Karl with an unyielding stare; his tone of utter intransigence made Karl knit his brows.
Apart from the two men squaring off against each other in front of Laszlo, the Bishop of Metz and the Archbishop of Trier, seated somewhat further away, also appeared quite uncomfortable, as though being roasted over a fire.
Their geographical proximity had obliged them to maintain close ties with Charles, and both their ecclesiastical territories bordered Lorraine, making their stance clearly a pivotal factor in determining Lorraine's fate.
The trouble was that both men were Karl's younger brothers — the second and third sons of the Baden-Baden family of their generation.
With their eldest blood-brother and their patron in his capacity as an imperial ecclesiastical prince now locked in fierce conflict over Lorraine's ownership, the two could only exchange helpless glances, utterly unable to choose sides in any short time.
"What if… we simply divided Lorraine?"
The Archbishop of Mainz, who had been assisting Laszlo from one side, abruptly interjected with this suggestion.
In truth, it was not only Baden and Burgundy who wished to absorb Lorraine — Laszlo himself had his own intentions regarding the territory, yet he was simultaneously forced to serve as arbitrator, which made the situation rather awkward.
Were he to swallow it all himself, he would in one stroke alienate two allies bound to him by marriage and military alliance; to award it to either side would inevitably offend the other.
Seen in this light, the Archbishop's proposal was not without merit.
Yet as Laszlo scanned between the two contenders, he found neither showing any interest in the suggestion.
When there was a chance to inherit a duchy intact, who would be willing to divide an already modest territory in two?
"Your Majesty, for the offense I gave you at Constance — I must apologize to you. Every claim you hold regarding the Empire is entirely legitimate, and I will support every resolution you see fit to endorse at this Imperial Diet."
Duke Karl of Baden turned toward Laszlo and made his pledge with great solemnity.
If he could secure Lorraine, would the business in Swabia still matter?
Lorraine was far wealthier than Baden — if he truly got his hands on it, he would surely become the master of the Rhineland, and the very thought was exhilarating.
Charles watched the shameless Karl turn to ingratiate himself with the Emperor and could not help but let out a cold snort.
Yet he immediately tensed up and watched to see whether Laszlo's attitude had shifted.
Unlike Duke Karl of Baden, who needed the Emperor's backing to have any chance of absorbing Lorraine, he could swallow Lorraine with ease and had long been preparing to do so.
Whether he could annex Lorraine, however, hinged precisely on the Emperor's stance.
Just a month ago, his army had occupied Herle, annexing the last independent imperial principality in the Low Countries, a move that had left Burgundy's reputation within the Empire thoroughly ruined.
Even with the Emperor's permission, the effects of aggressive expansion were not so easily undone.
The methods employed by the Burgundians were widely known throughout the Empire and roundly condemned by the imperial princes.
From Brabant and Holland to Luxembourg, then to Liège, Utrecht, and now Herle — Burgundy's insatiably expanding territorial ambitions had once again made the "Burgundian threat" the dominant discourse within the Empire, especially now that France had been split in two.
Under these circumstances, if he moved immediately to annex Lorraine as well, it would inevitably provoke a backlash from forces within the Empire, and he would encounter enormous resistance.
And in this process, if the Emperor chose to stand against him, he would be left with almost no choice but to abandon his ambitions for Lorraine.
"I think the question of Lorraine merits more in-depth discussion — but it is getting late, and perhaps we might return to it after the Imperial Diet has concluded."
Laszlo was exceedingly shrewd: he understood perfectly that as long as the matter of Lorraine remained unresolved, both Burgundy and Baden would have to weigh his attitude when casting their votes in the Diet, and so he deployed his all-purpose strategy of delay.
As for how the question of Lorraine was ultimately to be resolved — whether by compromise, partition, or otherwise — it was a slab of fat meat sitting on the chopping board, and there was plenty of time for them to deliberate.
He did, in truth, have certain thoughts about Lorraine — he rather fancied assigning it as a new fief to his son Christoph, whose territory in Franche-Comté already directly adjoined Lorraine, making it not particularly difficult to administer.
Yet doing so might appear unseemly, and would also harm his allies' interests — the balance here was worth careful consideration.
"Does that not mean we must wait two weeks, if not longer?" Charles frowned and showed a dissatisfied expression.
In recent years Charles had suffered continuous setbacks in France, while his expansion within the Empire, thanks to the groundwork his father had laid in advance, had proceeded smoothly, expanding the Low Countries territories by more than a third with barely any significant resistance.
Yet he also understood perfectly that this was by no means the result of the Emperor's weakness.
For Liège and Utrecht, and for the Burgundian kingship, he had given his daughter. For Herle, he had paid an enormous sum.
The Emperor had repeatedly converted imperial territories — long since under Burgundy's de facto control — into cash from Burgundy's well-stocked treasury, and through this had sustained the Austrian imperial finances through their most desperate period.
Now the Emperor no longer had any pressing need for money or armies, and so the initiative had returned to the Emperor's hands once more.
Whether to sell, and on what terms — in the end, it was still he who had the final say.
"Rest assured — Lorraine is right where it is. It is not going anywhere. Why be in such a hurry?" Laszlo placidly soothed the emotions of the two men.
He did have ideas regarding Lorraine, but the desire was not particularly intense.
Lorraine had mineral wealth, controlled important trade routes, and served as a crucial bridgehead for campaigning into France — but Laszlo had no shortage of any of these things whatsoever.
Territory of Lorraine's sort, he had as much of as he wanted. His appetite for expansion had by now gradually faded, and all he thought about was how to slowly integrate the lands already in hand, drawing out the full combined strength of Austria and its subject territories.
Carving out a small piece of territory to assemble a province of Alsace-Lorraine and hand it to his beloved son to administer would be about right — anything more he found himself thoroughly indifferent to.
"Your Majesty, the longer this drags on, the more likely complications may arise. The House of Anjou may put forward a new claimant to hold Lorraine." A man of scholarly bearing and cultivated manner standing behind Charles spoke up at this point.
"Who is this?"
"My newly promoted chief minister, Guillaume Hugo. He has intelligence from the court at Tours."
"The House of Anjou has died without heirs — where would they find a claimant?"
"The House of Vaudémont — a cadet branch of the House of Lorraine. Their family's lands lie between Burgundy and Lorraine."
"I have heard the name of the Count of Vaudémont. Is he not the governor of Angers in Anjou — and a commander under Louis XI?"
"That is correct. He is still at the court in Tours."
"Then there is nothing more to say. If he dares return, I will have him arrested and tried before the Imperial Court. As an imperial count, to serve the Empire's enemies during wartime — he is a criminal of the Empire, and has no standing whatsoever to inherit the title and lands of Lorraine."
With a few brief words, Laszlo pronounced his verdict on the faraway Count of Vaudémont, and none present found anything amiss with this.
Duke Karl of Baden breathed a quiet sigh of relief: in terms of legitimacy, his claim and that of the Count of Vaudémont were roughly comparable, and the Emperor's decision had directly removed one competitor from his path.
That count, owing to his birth, had grown up entirely in the court of Provence and subsequently gone to Anjou to learn the arts of governance, having completely forgotten his identity and obligations as an imperial prince — it was entirely natural that the Emperor should regard him with hostility.
"In any case, let us leave it at that for now. Regarding the question of Lorraine's disposition, we shall discuss it further afterward."
Laszlo turned to glance out the window. Dusk had already settled over the city that had bustled so vibrantly in the daylight hours, and the guests within had been wrangling over Lorraine's ownership for most of the day.
"All of you should return early and rest well, so as to be in good spirits. Beginning tomorrow, the Imperial Diet will open, and I have prepared several dozen agenda items for discussion — I hope you will all maintain today's energy throughout. Once the discussions affecting the whole Empire have concluded, we shall then resolve this minor dispute."
With the matter stated thus plainly, though both Charles and Karl remained deeply reluctant, neither dared defy the Emperor's will.
To keep pushing stubbornly would risk being branded as petty and parochial — as men who placed personal interest above the Empire — and though this was precisely the truth, people nowadays were no longer as willing to admit such things openly as they had once been.
This was because the concept of the Empire had slowly penetrated the hearts of all imperial subjects: they knew that there was one man watching over the whole Empire, maintaining order and resolving disputes.
In truth, from a strictly theoretical standpoint, the Imperial Peace Ordinance signed at the Nuremberg Diet had already expired, and both Burgundy and Baden were entirely free to resolve the question of Lorraine's ownership through various forms of contest — a judicial duel between knights, or an outright war.
Yet in the end, they had both, without prior agreement, chosen to accept the Emperor's mediation and arbitration — and even though nothing had ultimately been arbitrated, this alone was more than sufficient to speak volumes.