Chapter 180

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 180
Chapter Title: Another Possibility
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To Ippolito’s question of why he was in their house, Raphael’s answer was utterly cold.

“Ippolito de Mare. You have no idea what’s going on in your own household, do you?”

It was a complete one-eighty from the kind and gentle man he’d been in Ariadne’s drawing room.

He jabbed at Ippolito’s sore spot like a needle, his tone frigidly sardonic.

“What, you bastard?”

As Ippolito flared up, Raphael let loose a torrent of words.

“If you’re the head of a commoner family, you should at least pay close attention to your household.”

“You… you…”

Ippolito was dying to beat Raphael to a pulp, but unlike with his sister, his hand wouldn’t readily rise.

His eyes scanned the saber hanging at Raphael’s waist.

Raphael de Valdesal, despite his slender frame, was an insanely skilled swordsman.

From their childhood fencing instructor’s classroom to youth tournaments, Ippolito had never once beaten the second son of House Valdesal.

*He told me not to lay a hand on him…!*

As Ippolito barely managed to control himself, Raphael de Valdesal drove another dagger-like remark home.

“It’s not like a commoner has anything important to do outside, so you should at least manage your own household.”

“You bastard!”

At that, Ippolito’s restraint snapped. He lunged at Raphael in a fit of rage.

As Ippolito charged with all his might, Raphael simply took a single step to the side, his arm still around his sister’s shoulder.

But with that, he had cleanly evaded Ippolito’s assault.

Having rushed forward at full force only to flail at empty air instead of landing a blow, Ippolito, burning with humiliation, placed a hand on the sword at his hip.

“What, are you going to draw it?”

Raphael’s eyes curved into a smile. Those were the eyes of someone genuinely enjoying himself.

Ippolito couldn’t bring himself to draw his sword, his hand resting on the hilt as he seethed.

It was Giulia who brought the situation under control.

“Brother, let’s go now.”

If they were to part without bloodshed, it was best to separate them here, allowing both to save face.

Giulia pulled on her brother’s arm.

“It’s rude to cause a commotion at a friend’s house.”

Hearing this, Raphael blinked his red eyes as if suddenly snapping back to his senses.

As Raphael relaxed his fighting stance and straightened up, Ippolito, finally finding his footing, didn’t miss the chance to sneer.

“You rabbit-eyed bastard.”

Before her brother’s eyes could flip again, Giulia shot Ippolito a slight glare and issued a warning.

“Lord de Mare. We met at the ball a while ago, didn’t we?”

Ippolito flinched and looked at Giulia.

“We should see each other again with smiles on our faces. Brother, let’s go.”

It was a warning not to act rashly, or she would shred his reputation.

At this, Ippolito fell silent, and Raphael obediently followed his sister.

As she stepped out of the entrance hall and, guided by the majordomo, boarded the elegant Valdesal carriage, Giulia let out a sigh of relief and chided her brother.

“I thought you’d gotten over that temper of yours!”

“What did I do?”

“That damned aristocratic pride! Ugh! You got along so well with Ari, so why are you suddenly like this again?”

Raphael was a renowned—or in some ways, notorious—aristocrat.

He was the legitimate son and now sole heir of a prestigious marquisate in the capital, and since childhood, he had found it utterly repulsive to associate with the recently rising commoner or lower-noble-born intellectuals and merchant class.

“Signora Ariadne,”

Raphael said, sweeping back his silver hair.

“has proven herself.”

The incident at the Grand Basilica of San Ercole, where she had confronted the Apostle of Acereto head-on.

Raphael, who had heard of it in his dormitory room at the University of Padua, had been unable to contain his admiration as he read through all the doctrines and evidence she had cited at the time.

The documents he had pored over by candlelight at an old oak desk were unbelievably sophisticated and of a high caliber, hard to believe they had been compiled by a girl his age.

At first, it was an admiration for a budding young scholar.

“Most people cannot overcome the limitations of the soil they were born into… but occasionally, there are people trapped in the wrong class.”

But meeting her in person had been awe-inspiring.

The ‘girl who sees through to the truth’ who appeared before Raphael, who had imagined a socially awkward, bespectacled bookworm, was an incredibly vibrant, witty, and grounded human being, with both feet planted firmly on the earth.

“I believe that those who can recognize such people have a duty to move them to better soil, so they can properly sprout.”

No, the allegory of a sprout and soil didn’t suit this woman.

In San Carlo, beautiful young girls were often compared to flowers.

But Raphael felt that Ariadne was different from any flower.

This woman was too full of vitality to be compared to a plant.

She walked with purpose, was as keen as an animal, and thought like a person.

She was the type to cross over on her own two feet, even if he didn’t transplant her.

But Raphael wanted to be the first to discover her.

If someone who could walk on their own took a helping hand, how much farther could they go?

The only snag was that his dear friend, Prince Alfonso, was completely smitten with Ariadne.

*Even if I saw her first, what good is it if I do nothing?*

The prince, who had gone to the Kingdom of Gallico for marriage negotiations, would probably not be able to make Ariadne his queen.

In the end, that Gallican dough-ball would take the queen’s throne… and Ariadne de Mare was far too precious to live as a mere royal mistress.

*Marchioness Valdesal.*

It was far better than being a cardinal’s bastard.

His sister continued to nag him from the side, but nothing registered in Raphael de Valdesal’s ears.

He was lost in thought, watching the scenery flash by the window.

He had intended to devote himself to the church.

He wanted to become a servant of the Holy See, to leave the secular world behind and live a life of contemplation in a higher, spiritual realm.

Having no intention of rubbing shoulders with ordinary people, he had never considered a future other than that of a seeker of God, a priest.

For the first time today, another possibility filled his heart.

***

“Your Majesty. A report from the commander of the Montpellier Heavy Cavalry.”

Philippe regarded the courtier with a cold gaze.

“Speak.”

“The additional deployment of three infantry regiments and one heavy cavalry regiment to the Gaeta border has been completed.”

A flush spread across Philip IV’s pale, marble-like cheeks. It was unmistakable elation.

“Haha, hahahaha!”

He clapped his hands and laughed.

“The time has come! The time for revenge has come!”

Auguste, who was seated on a luxurious blue velvet stool at the foot of the king’s throne, beamed at her brother’s excitement and turned to him.

“Queen Marguerite is proving to be quite helpful in many ways, isn’t she?”

Despite Auguste’s impertinent tone, Philippe showed no sign of reproach as he took up her words.

“Hahaha! Indeed, our aunt is a dutiful daughter! First, she sold her body to those Etruscan dregs to give Gallico a foundation to defeat the traitorous faction, and now she has sacrificed her own life to lay the groundwork for us to gobble up Etruscan whole!”

They were cut from the same cloth. Philip IV’s serpentine white eyes filled with delight as he laughed.

“Well, she didn’t offer it voluntarily, but the result is the same.”

Princess Auguste laughed beside him as if she found it amusing.

“Now, bring me Prince Alfonso of the Kingdom of Etruscan.”

Philip IV spoke without even trying to hide his mocking tone.

“Let the ‘negotiations’ begin.”

It was time to take care of postponed business.

***

It had been a very long time since Prince Alfonso had been summoned by Philip IV.

It was the first time in a while he had heard from Philip IV, who always seemed to find a way to postpone any real negotiations, and the first time ever that he had been instructed to bring his working-level officials.

His luxurious prisoner’s quarters were so suffocating he felt like he was developing bedsores.

Although the Gallican Kingdom’s notice to attend the meeting was somewhat abrupt, Alfonso decided to comply rather than protest.

He wanted to at least get a seat at the negotiating table that had finally materialized.

Accompanied by Count Marquez, who was in charge of the practical negotiations, and Sir Bernardino, who would handle overall coordination, he entered Philip IV’s conference hall.

Upon passing through the entrance of the hall, Prince Alfonso was first surprised by the number of people on the opposing side.

“Welcome, Prince Alfonso de Carlo.”

In contrast to Prince Alfonso, who had appeared with only two companions, Philip IV was seated in the center, a smile on his pale face, his long fingers intertwined. To his left was Princess Auguste.

And besides her, who was stuck to him like glue, some thirty court officials were seated on either side.

Philip IV did not rise to greet the Etruscan prince, and Philip’s officials also remained seated as they received Prince Alfonso.

Alfonso gritted his teeth from the very start as he took his seat.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Your Majesty Philip IV?”

He tried to suppress it, but a harsh tone slipped out nonetheless.

Seeing Alfonso’s agitation, Philip smiled as if he found it cute.

“Now, now, don’t be so upset. There’s a right time for everything, isn’t there?”

The king received a bundle of parchment from a courtier sitting right next to him.

Philip flipped through a page or two to confirm its contents, then handed it to Alfonso himself.

“We also needed time to discuss internally how to present the details of the negotiation. Here, these are our demands.”

Prince Alfonso flipped through the parchment, reviewing the Gallican Kingdom’s proposals.

His eyes widened, and a vein stood out on his neck, still covered in soft down.

Forcibly swallowing the scream that threatened to erupt, he pushed the parchment to Count Marquez, who was seated beside him.

Count Marquez, who had been anxiously watching Alfonso’s expression, hastily took the parchment and scanned its contents.

“This… what in the…”

The contents of the parchment, which made even the veteran diplomat groan, were…

“We, the Kingdom of Gallico, cannot contain our grief over the death of our beloved legitimate princess, Marguerite de Brienne, whom we raised with such care.”

Philip IV spoke himself.

“This was a preventable death. For the King of Etruscan’s mere mistress to dare poison the rightful queen!”

The king’s mask-like face, devoid of any real sadness, put on an exaggerated expression of mourning.

It was like the piangi masks used by comedic actors.

“Princess Marguerite de Brienne was renowned for her wifely virtues. She was a princess the Kingdom of Gallico raised with tender love and care. For her to die such a wretched death… this is entirely the fault of the Kingdom of Etruscan.”

Philip’s tongue wagged fluently, without a hint of shame, in front of Queen Marguerite’s own son.

“Therefore, we demand this. The Kingdom of Etruscan shall issue a formal apology to the Kingdom of Gallico… and pay reparations of 500,000 ducats.”

500,000 ducats!

The bride price Queen Marguerite had received from the Kingdom of Etruscan upon her marriage was 100,000 ducats.

The funds the Grand Duke of Yuldenburg had raised himself to dispatch 35,000 troops to the Yesak region for two years amounted to 50,000 ducats, and because that was not enough, he had requested an additional 150,000 ducats in support from Philip IV of Gallico.

That wasn’t all.

In 1109, the war reparations that the southwestern Kingdom of Salamanta had demanded from the Kingdom of Gredo after driving it to the brink of collapse were a mere 250,000 ducats.

The reparations the Kingdom of Gallico was now demanding from the Kingdom of Etruscan were more than double what a victorious nation would demand from a defeated one in an all-out war between countries.

-Thud.

The sound of Prince Alfonso slamming the bundle of parchment onto the marble table was particularly loud.

“This proposal is not even worth considering.”

He pressed his full lips into a stubborn, straight line and glared at Philip IV.

“The one who passed away was our Queen Mother, yet the Kingdom of Gallico demands a sum worthy of war reparations. I will take this to mean you have no intention of negotiating.”

Prince Alfonso rose from his seat. Count Marquez and Sir Bernardino followed their lord’s lead.

“Wait.”

Philip’s low,沉沉 voice stopped them.

“It seems our young cousin still doesn’t know a few things. There is something you should know.”

Philip IV’s voice struck Alfonso’s back as he strode away.

“Right now, at the border of your beloved country, 6,000 of our Montpellier heavy cavalry and some 10,000 elite infantry lie in wait.”

Prince Alfonso’s steps halted.

He stood frozen in the middle of Philip IV’s conference hall, his back to the king.

“With a single dispatch from me, my darling elite soldiers will ravage your beautiful land.”

As Philip IV’s voice trailed off, waiting for Alfonso’s reply, Princess Auguste’s clear, laughter-filled voice echoed through the hall instead.

“Well now, dear Prince. Are you feeling a little more inclined to ‘negotiate’?”