The yard lay in absolute silence beneath the cold paleness of very early dawn, the sun yet to pierce the horizon. A thin veil of mist crept over the land, shrouding the scene in a nigh ghostly white - faint glimmers of light, however, flickered sporadically, hinting at the busy morning to come.
The hush was gradually broken by the sound of scattered footsteps, the grind of wooden wheels, the still calm clop of horse hooves, and finally, the clank of armor and weaponry. The cacophony grew with each passing second, eventually merging into a singular, oppressive din that seemed to slowly disperse the fog - an army was being mustered. To some, such activity was the very embodiment of death itself, inching ever closer to claim more lives, yet for Baldwin, it was a familiar play, one that he saw at least a couple of times every year, each act and character’s role etched into his memory. He could step into any part, for he knew them all by heart already.
His own role, however, was always the same: the young, unassuming third son, standing quietly alongside his mother and younger sister, his presence barely noted. His parents promised him a future as a prebend in Reims - after all, the clergy was the stage many third sons found their calling before - but for now, he was a mere background figure, with scarcely a line to utter or a gesture to make.
Eustace was the name of his elder brother, thirteen years his senior, who frequently shared the stage with their father, the count, also named Eustace, and his army; he was being groomed in the ways of governance directly from the source, and in the process, gaining firsthand knowledge of leading men into battle. Since their father’s return from England, it was evident that Eustace was his steadfast heir, a fact that filled the count of Boulogne with pride and relief –his son was a merely competent commander, and that was true, but he was also a brilliant governor. Currently, father and son were not present in the yard, as it was usual; instead, they were in Paris, arbitrating disputes among the most prominent ensemble in all of Francia.
The count’s second son, Godefroy, was a celebrated figure on a meteoric rise. Merely three years older than Baldwin and still not of age to be knighted, Godefroy was poised to lead the host assembling in the yard. As skilled in combat as his father and as pious and virtuous as his mother, Godefroy’s transition into adulthood had arrived sooner than expected: He had inherited lands in Wallonia, which he was now marching to claim. His unwavering confidence belied his youth as he moved about the yard, aiding with horses, organizing supplies, and motivating weary soldiers. The young lad was clearly crafting his own legend, preparing for a future where he would command standing ovations.
His father could boast all he wanted about how excellently Baldwin was being prepared, but the reality was that, if it depended solely on him, the young lad would never have his true debut: With no lands to inherit, his time as a page differed little from that of any other lower noble; Excluded from the campaigns his father and brothers waged, he was never trained in the ways of the sword; Though his future as a priest was all but assured, his knowledge of the church and the liberal arts came solely from his mother, rather than from a formal tutor. In many ways, his life mirrored that of his younger sister, and not of his older brothers.
Yet, this existence was not as abhorrent to him as it might sound. Baldwin did not crave applause or recognition; a life surrounded by books, parchments, and ancient documents was the role he was born to play. In truth, Baldwin was but a minor figure at court, his presence barely acknowledged by the other courtiers - no one would miss him in the yard that morning, for example. But his love for his brother was genuine, and his brother’s affection for him was equally sincere. Thus, he felt compelled to be present at Godefroy’s departure.
As swiftly, efficiently, and graciously as everything Godefroy had ever done, the host began to move away from the castle and toward the horizon, the sun not even at its zenith: Their mother, Ida, shed tears of affliction, fearing the resistance her young son might encounter in claiming his inheritance, even though the lands in Wallonia came from her side of the family; The younger sister, also called Ida, was simply too young to understand the situation; Baldwin, however, remained calm and resolute, confident in his brother’s success.
With the departure now complete, Baldwin longed to return to his own pursuits: The prospect of retiring to his chambers to uninterruptedly delve into the contents of a new document was far more appealing than lingering in the yard. As soon as Godefroy’s army disappeared from view, Baldwin quietly withdrew, eager to immerse himself in the world of parchment and ink.
…
The County of Boulogne, during the brief intermezzo between its liege’s journey to Paris and Godefroy’s departure, would be ruled by the pious countess as per the count’s instructions: A woman beyond anyone’s suspicions, she was renowned for her unwavering piety and generosity, virtues many believed belonged only to a saint. Over the years, she had commissioned numerous religious works with her husband’s approval, earning her a sterling reputation among both the clergy and the commoners - a reputation that was not only very well deserved, but also undoubtedly genuine.
However, as ruler, it soon became evident that her lavish expenditures on donations and extravagant church projects would lead the county to ruin in no time; While this would not have been a problem had her husband returned soon to curb her fervor, his stay in Paris extended much longer than expected. As the months dragged on, it became clear that keeping her in charge posed a significant liability.
Openly defying the countess and the count’s will would undoubtedly incur his wrath, so the concerned councilmen, after much deliberation, devised a safer alternative: they would bring forth the current eldest male present of the House of Flanders, the inconspicuous Baldwin, to serve as their mouthpiece against his mother’s undoubtedly holy but financially draining impulses.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Worries, of course, circulated about entrusting the demesne's decisions to a frail, bookish thirteen-year-old boy who seldom even held a sword. Yet, that might be exactly what they needed - a weak leader is, after all, far easier to manipulate. The main issue, however, was Baldwin’s close connection to his mother; furthermore, as a future clergyman, he might not only allow her to continue with her devout expenditures but actively endorse them. Nonetheless, the courtiers saw it as a gamble worth taking.
Practically dragging Baldwin from his secluded chambers, they placed him at the decision table. The small council subjected him to a long and tiresome lecture about duty and responsible management before the official meeting, a discussion in which Baldwin seemed only half-interested.
When his mother joined the group later in the day, she appeared more pleased than shocked by her son’s presence, gladly assuming a supporting role without raising any objections: For her, it was only natural that the son of the count would be present at council meetings, and showing interest toward ruling was just expected.
To everyone’s surprise, however, Baldwin proved himself to be impressively quick-witted, demonstrating a near-perfect set of skills that the councilmen had taken years to hone: A brief explanation of the region’s financial affairs transformed him into a competent treasurer; A small rehearsal on the political liaisons of the region seemed to turn the young man into a seasoned diplomat; Even a short lesson on strategy or a quick session of swordplay was enough to mold him into a brilliant strategist and warrior. The boy not only provided everyone with the answers they sought, but often with solutions that surpassed their expectations.
His prowess quickly became the talk of the court. The boy, once seen as a mere scholar destined for the clergy, was now displaying a mastery that defied his age and experience. His calm demeanor and sharp intellect were somehow unsettling to some, but undeniably impressive to all.
“Maybe years of reading have made him knowledgeable in all matters,” one courtier remarked, his tone tinged with astonishment. “But that doesn’t explain his excellent sword skills,” another countered, shaking his head in disbelief.
Whenever asked about his talents, Baldwin’s answer certainly remained enigmatic: according to him when faced with a question, he imagined what an experienced and more capable person would answer, and as he heard their ‘whispers,’ he would simply soliloquize it. His method was difficult for others to comprehend, yet its effectiveness silenced any criticism.
…
After another day of brilliant decisions and wise conclusions, Baldwin decided to retire to his chamber, but a chambermaid advised him to see his mother instead, who had summoned him for a quick exchange. He walked the familiar corridors, noting that the door to her chamber was open, as if expecting his arrival without need for formality; steeling himself, he stepped inside.
His mother stood there before him, clad in her ever-modest gown, her expression both somber and serene at the same time. “Please, sit down, my dear,” she said, gesturing to a pair of comfortable chairs beside her.
The young man complied immediately, his unease certainly apparent; his mother mirrored his actions, taking a seat opposite him. “The chambermaid mentioned you wished to speak with me,” Baldwin began, discomfort threading through his voice - perhaps fearing some sort of retribution for the role he had assumed so abruptly, though her smile remained enigmatic.
“Tell me about those whispers you hear,” her voice and smile was warm as always, yet her tone was dead serious.
At first, Baldwin struggled to respond, his eyes locked with hers as he sought to decipher the hidden intent behind her words. “What do you mean?” He finally managed to ask.
She chuckled softly. “Rumors say you hear whispers in your head that mysteriously guide your actions,” she commented, leaning slightly towards him. “Tell me more about them.”
Once again, Baldwin paused to fully process his mother’s words, striving to come up with a more acceptable explanation. “I called them ‘whispers’ because it’s easier for everyone to understand,” he finally replied. “But they’re more like impulses, instincts even, that I believe everyone has — I just translate them more easily.”
She closed her eyes briefly, a deep but calm breath escaping her nostrils. “Don’t hide anything from me, my son; you know very well that I can see through your attempts at deception with ease.”
Caught off guard by her directness, Baldwin allowed a small, tentative smile to cross his lips, hoping to gauge her reaction: Was she jesting, or was this a veiled accusation of some darker influence? But her expression remained steadfast, her smile unwavering yet almost paradoxically serious.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you want from me, Mother,” he stammered, his composure faltering.
She slowly opened her eyes again. “I used to hear them too, son,” she said calmly, “I used to hear those whispers, telling me what to do, and what to say, and how to act,” leaning back in her chair, her smile grew wider, “it feels so nice to know that I am not the only one.”
Baldwin’s eyes widened in confusion, struggling to comprehend the revelation. A brief silence settled between them as he once again took his time to process her words.
“The whispers used to constantly guide me, and their directives always felt so right,” she continued, a glimmer of excitement lighting her eyes, “what do they sound like? Tell me more, dear.”
Feeling slightly more at ease with each passing moment, Baldwin decided to entertain her question: “It is something between an animalistic screech and a very human cry, neither masculine nor feminine in essence; I am sure it would be extremely disturbing if I couldn’t understand it perfectly,” he explained, “but still, it is naught but a diminutive noise, a distant yell, resounding deep inside my mind.”
His mother nodded thoughtfully, her smile unwavering. “Yes, yes, that’s it,” she murmured, as if confirming something to herself, “the sound was unsettling, yet the clarity of the message was undeniable. It was like a guiding light amidst the chaos…”
She paused, tears rolling down her rosy cheeks. “Oh Heaven… I have ignored those voices for so long… They barely speak to me now, and still, I oddly yearn for them,” she sobbed, her face downcast, hands pressed intensely against her thighs, “I wonder if I turned my back on a gift from God.”
Baldwin gently placed his hand over his mother’s, trying his best to bring some peace to her heart. “But Mother, if you were so sure the whispers spoke truths, why didn’t you just listen to them? Why ignore them?” he asked softly.
She wiped her tears away and looked straight into her son’s eyes, now holding his hand in return: “You are fortunate to be praised for listening to those whispers, my son,” she said with a shy smile. “If I or your younger sister did the same, we would face ostracism at best, or a lynching by a raging mob, maybe even the noose at worst.”
“Mother…” Baldwin was left speechless once again, the gravity of her words slowly sinking in.
Her smile widened again, and the traces of sadness started to leave her visage. “You should, since you can, keep listening to these whispers, my son, and see where they lead you. If they are truly never wrong as we understand, they can only be the fruits of the Holy Spirit.” She stood up and gave her son a warm hug, speaking in a comforting, soft, barely audible voice: “Your brother might have inherited my titles, but you inherited my gift… My dear, you will be a priest like no other.”