8th of April, 1502

The hushed tones meant only one thing, the prince was dead. The man who had long been a thorn in the side of the kings of France lay at peace in his bed, a better fate than many of the other noblemen who had stood against the centralization of the French crown had fared. His wife, the young Philiberte de Luxembourg, wept beside him as the last rights had been given. The man had held out as long as he could against the illness that had taken him for a single purpose, and that single purpose lay sleeping in another room in the palace. Their first son, Claude, had died a few years before, and the Prince of Orange had held out hope that his wife would give him an heir, despite his old age. As their last child had grown within her, he had felt his own strength wane. He had prayed for a son with all of his strength and held out to see what fate that birth would have given to the House of Orange. Three weeks ago to the day, he received the news, a son. He had thanked God for his son, and prepared himself for what lay beyond.

Not far away, as the old prince drew his last breath, a new prince took his own first actions. Few would consider a child crying in the night to be of much significance, but his nursemaids now knew that this was now a prince they served. As the young boy a mere twenty one days old was rocked to sleep, the mood in the household was at once hopeful and apprehensive. A regency, especially a lengthy one, was about to unfold. Such circumstances were never simple to anticipate, but Philiberte knew she would have to move very delicately if her young son was to build upon his father's legacy.