Jan/Feb 1516

Prelude

The field of Lodi was bathed in blood. A battle of truly massive proportions waged, with armies that Italy had not seen in ages gathered to contest the lands of the French in Italy. The Imperials and there erstwhile Venetian allies had laid in wait as the French moved in force to meet them. Morale among the French troops were high, and many expected that their élan would sweep the Germans aside. They could count the Duke of Nemours among them, for even he had become confident of victory given his exploits on the peninsula thus far; cries of Gorgonzola had become common amongst his men. Nemours had overextended himself, to be sure, in hiring a vast army of 11,000 mercenaries at great personal expense in anticipation of a decisive battle that would smash the Germans and settle this instance of the Italian Question. Nemours and his men had been matched against the lines of Venetians on the Imperial right, and Nemours could not help but feel a tinge of disappointment as he saw the red and yellow banners bearing the Lion of St Mark. For a man who had fought under that banner so many times, he felt no joy in being placed across from them. With the battle beginning, the duke looked toward the guns that he had brought to bear, raising his baton as the gunners loaded powder and shot. With a nod from the artillery commander, Nemours looked as men advanced across the French lines. No words escaped his lips as he dropped his arm, the baton glinting in the sun. The four guns roared in anger as shot flew above the heads of the mercenaries and into the Venetian lines.

Wave after wave of French infantry crashed against the lines of landsknechts and Venetians, but each time their lines held and the wave failed to crest above them. Each time, fewer men returned than had charged forth and the French leadership began to worry that the tide of battle was beginning to turn against them. Not least among them was Nemours, his expectations of an overwhelming victory had steadily bled away with each charge of the infantry. Now was the time for a decisive action, the likes of which had carried the day at Gorgonzola. He rallied his feudal knights to his side, five hundred of his own vassals and their sons, the pride of French nobility. With a word they were off, charging headlong into the lines of the Venetians. With a Marshal of France at their side, even the infantry gave one last great push into the Imperial flank. For a moment, it held back the French mercenaries and the noble knights. For a moment, from the vantage point behind the lines, it may have seemed that all was lost. Yet, it was not long before the first Venetian dropped his arms to flee. He was soon followed by many more, and the Venetian lines began to falter and break. Cries of Nemours! rang out from the French, as the Venetians began to withdraw. Yet, this would be no clean victory for him. Turning to rally his men through the brake, the duke felt sharp pain in his left leg. Soon after he was unconscious upon the ground. One courageous Venetian had managed to pierce the duke's armor in the joint of he left knee. The thrust had passed through the back of his knee through to the side of his mount. The horse reared in pain, falling upon its side and whipping its rider to the ground. While the Venetian was quickly dispatched, the Duke's left leg had been crushed under the weight of his horse. French men swarmed around the unconscious duke, dragging him in his armor from the field.

Louis had awoken later in a hospital tent, where the surgeons delivered the terrible news. Not much of his left leg had remained undamaged, and their only option to save the duke's life had been to remove the leg above the knee. The Duke took the news as stoically as he could, inquiring about the result of the battle to distract himself from it. "Oui, my lord, victory but at great cost," was all the surgeon could reply before he withdrew, his expression said more than his words could convey.

Jan/Feb 1516

Chateau Nemours

With all sadness, joy. With all joy, sadness.

The bells of the chapel at the chateaux rang, not for a funeral but for a marriage. In a ceremony attended by many of the local nobility the Duke of Nemours married Louise of Bourbon-Vendome. The Duke stood, mostly stable with the prosthetic that had replaced his left leg; not much more than a wooden peg leg, it was the best that his doctors could fashion. A cane grasped firmly in his right hand had become his constant companion, and he had slowly begun to lean this new way of walking. It was a humbling experience, to say the least. Yet he was determined, if only so he could stand on this one day. He hoped that his injury would not upset her too much. She was a young girl, not one accustomed to the horrors of war as he had been. Yet, he took no small satisfaction in the fact that he was still alive. The Spider King could not kill him, nor the Empire, nor La Serenissima. He was a survivor, sharpened like steel on a flint. Yet, his time for war was over. He could not mount a horse, and as much as he would deny it this last experience had shaken him. Perhaps it was a sign from God that he should beat his sword into a ploughshare, lest his luck run out.