EMPIRE REWRITTEN

Chapter 45: Mission from the Duke

Bertrandon de la Broquière entered the grand hall of Dijon in the early spring of 1432, finding it illuminated by flickering torchlight and the warm glow of an immense fireplace. Despite the blaze, the ancient stone walls held a persistent chill. Yet what struck Bertrandon most was not the cold, but the opulence. Everything in Duke Philip the Good's orbit spoke of extravagance: tapestries of intricate weaves, courtiers adorned in cloth-of-gold, and the heady perfume of power that came from moving the Burgundian court—arguably the most splendid in all Europe.

Duke Philip, perched upon a high-backed chair with the self-assured poise of a seasoned statesman, was dressed in finery that showcased his taste for sumptuous fabrics. The collar of the Order of the Golden Fleece gleamed at his neck. Bertrandon recalled the whispers: Philip had founded that chivalric order in 1430 as a proud alternative to England's Order of the Garter. Now, the Golden Fleece had taken on a life of its own, recognized as a preeminent knightly order throughout Christendom.

Moving closer, Bertrandon became aware of the hush that had fallen. The court was normally abuzz with conversation—minstrels practicing music from the famed Burgundian chapel, knights from distant corners discussing the next joust or tournament, and scribes examining illuminated manuscripts commissioned by the Duke. But with a simple, subtle gesture, Philip commanded silence. He beckoned Bertrandon forward, his gaze level and cool.

"Bertrandon," the Duke began, "you have served me well on many journeys—observant and discreet. Now I have need of both qualities." He paused, letting his words settle amid the faint crackle of the fire. "This realm of ours, Burgundy... we stand at a crossroads. There is talk of a crusade against the Ottoman Empire. Plans were laid at my Feast of the Pheasant, but as you know, even the grandest feasts cannot guarantee action. Times change; so must our strategies."

Bertrandon bowed his head in deference. "Your Grace, how may I serve?"

Philip's eyes flicked to the tapestries depicting the myth of Jason and the Golden Fleece. "The East," he said finally, almost musing to himself. "Its rulers tremble before the Turk, its holy places remain hotly contested. If we are to contemplate alliances, trade agreements, or even a crusade, I must have reliable intelligence. You shall go there—visit Jerusalem's edges if you must, and Constantinople, too. See whether the rumors of decline are exaggerated or all too real."

Bertrandon nodded, already trying to piece together the route. The Duke then leaned forward, his expression sharpening. "There is another matter. You are aware of my interest in manuscripts. Our scribes toil endlessly, but at court we have been hearing of something new—an invention in the Morea that might render the quill nearly obsolete. The printed book." He let the words linger, as though testing Bertrandon's reaction.

Bertrandon hesitated. He had, in the margins of conversations with traveling merchants, heard whispers of such a marvel. But it sounded too miraculous: rows of perfect letters stamped onto parchment by a mechanical device. "Yes, Your Grace, a rumor among the caravans. But nothing I could confirm."

Philip's voice dropped low. "I have seen evidence that it is more than rumor. Two Bibles were delivered to my library—flawless in text, impeccable in layout. Not even Paris, nor my beloved Flemish illuminators, could match such precision at speed. They say this innovation stems from Constantine, the Byzantine Despot down in the Morea. Even the Pope has placed an order for these books. Imagine, Bertrandon, if we could bring such knowledge—such industry—here. The prosperity of Burgundy would eclipse that of every rival. Our tapestry weavers, our goldsmiths, our shipyards aided by Portuguese expertise... everything would flourish."

Bertrandon's mind raced, picturing a printing device among the looms and goldsmiths in Bruges. He recalled how the Duke had once sent Jan van Eyck to Portugal, forging a marriage alliance with the Infanta Isabella. The memory of that delicate portrait still lingered in courtly conversation. Now, the Duke was turning his gaze again to foreign shores in search of advantage.