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We arrive once more at the gates of Nancy, France and witness the defeat of the army of Charles of Burgundy. The fall of one man set into motion so many entangled events, most of them grandiose in nature, it reminds me of the 2000’s domino craze. The fall of Charles the Bold was almost exactly like one of those televised Guinness world record domino attempts. Only with a bit more blood.

One easily overlooked dot in a sea of connecting points is the city of Arras.

As the Duke of Burgundy falls, the French leave no time at all to start picking at the borders and pushing into Burgundian territory. The French king then was Louis XI, later called ‘le roi le plus terrible qui fut jamais’ — the most terrible king that ever was. Honestly, there have been an extreme amount of terrible kings and who knows, I might one day set up a real contest. But as far as evil monarchs go, Louis XI contended nicely.

The Burgundian cities were proud and loyal. The last standing duke might have fallen but his daughter still lived and would soon be wed to the Habsburg Maximilian, allowing the Duchess to officially resume control. They would not yield to Louis.

Louis had some ideas as to persuading these cities.

In the city known as Beaune, he offered people the choice between crippling taxation or death. The city Dôle he had burned to ashes, inhabitants and all. But Arras, also known as Atrecht when belonging to the Low Countries, was Louis’ pièce de résistance.

When the city chose in favour of their Burgundian dynasty, the French stormed the gates and razed the walls. Louis vowed to have the city entirely erased. He was mayhaps a sorry excuse of a human being generally, but he was indeed a man of his word.

In the year 1479, every single citizen of the city was banished and expelled. The city was endowed with different privileges, given a new coat of arms and city seal and even renamed to Franchise, which back then meant something along the lines of exemption or right to asylum.

Round about 12,000 men, women and children, mostly cloth traders and artisans, were taken from all over France and moved into this new city. Entire families were ripped apart. All of this was done in but three months, a remarkable feat for the 15th century.

The experiment was an absolute disaster. The rebellion had left the city in rags and ruin. Its newfound inhabitants came from all possible corners of France and today, someone from Paris has a hard time understanding a farmer from La Giettaz next to the French Mont Blanc. So imagine fifteenth century people, from a time where there was no such thing as standardised French, having to understand each other, let alone live together in a city.

To make matters worse, most cities had been asked to pay for the moving of their former citizens into Franchise. So instead of sending the promised merchants and artisans, the cities chose to get rid of their beggars, drunks and mentally unstable. If they were having to pay, might as well get something out of the deal, right?

In less than a year of its existence, the fit of body and mind ran for it and abandoned the city. Those that remained, well, you by now get the point, the city would have scored badly on your average travel guide.

As you might know from my Chronicle of Crowns series, Maximilian and the Burgundian Duchess do get married and Maximilian takes control over the Flemish regions and fourteen years after this catastrophic experiment starts, the city is handed to the Habsburgs and all former inhabitants are allowed to return.

The Long Tail

Arras spends another two centuries passing between hands before finally becoming French for good in 1659. The resentment for French royalty by now so ingrained into its history, that the city produces a man that would see an end to the French kings forevermore. Another Max to feature in yet another Chronicle of Crowns at a later date, one about, you might have guessed, the French Revolution.

I guess you will have to tune in to the Kobi One podcast again if you want to find out who Maximilien Robespierre is.

See you then.

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A Pittance for a Beggar

As of late,

I long for thought

Yet I wear naught but

Wear and tear

Throw that frisbee

Into the general direction

Of me

And all that I entail

Slowly

I long for thoughts

Fine fickle frail

Flabbergastingly ferocious

Something to put your teeth in

Something that bites back

The thoughts that long

For me

In comparison, they pale

To the prospect of

Never reaching

The devil In the detail

Lately, I’ve found myself captivated by what, for lack of a better word, I will refer to in Flemish as de omgekeerde wereld.

The Middle Ages were like a double-edged sword, wielded with great care and expertise via tradition, hierarchy and religious lore. Those were the arms wielding the blade. And with the blade itself, a status quo was put in place. To keep it in place, a pressure valve was installed. De omgekeerde wereld, the flip-side of the medieval coin.

The carnival. The feast of fools. A clear and well defined cultural space wherein the rules did not apply, where the lowest could mock the highest and potty humour ruled supreme.

There are, of course, some wonderfully colourful examples of this.

Take the droleriën, or misericords, of Liège. These are small carved ledges on the underside of folding choir seats. When the seat was raised, the ledge allowed a monk or clergyman to lean while appearing to stand during long services. Because they were hidden from view, carvers had great freedom. Which is why they are filled, very much in the spirit of de omgekeerde wereld, with fantastical, humorous and grotesque imagery. Creatures defecating, demons grinning, the sacred and the absurd sharing the same piece of oak. The picture at the top of this piece now makes more sense.

Here in Ghent, our most notable tribute to de omgekeerde wereld is Nestor, one of Belgium’s many Manneken Pis statues. A small boy, cheerfully urinating, installed as a permanent fixture in one of Europe’s most beautiful medieval cities. He has been there for centuries, a remnant of times passed.

Then there is the famous jester, Triboulet. At the moment of this story he served King François I of France. Amidst celebrations, where beer and wine had run rather wildly, Triboulet, courage generously supplemented by drink, smacked the king firmly on the bottom.

I always imagine the scene like a drama. The music stops. People freeze. The breath leaves the room. Suspense so sharp it could cut through steel.

And the king proclaims:

TO THE GALLOWS WITH YOU, unless you produce an apology to outshine this atrocity.

The jester looked at his king and said: “I am so dreadfully sorry, Sire. I thought you were the queen.”

He kept his head. We know not the queen’s opinion on the matter.

But there it is, clear as day. Humour as a pressure valve, because without it, the whole thing collapses.

Which brings me to now.

The hierarchy still exists but it has become much less linear or clear. The powerful once relied on tradition and extravagant displays of wealth to uphold the illusion of power. De omgekeerde wereld upheld the illusion of freedom. These two things harmonised. The worlds intersected and the machine kept running.

Now we have people who wield world-shaping power through global policy, through central banks, through algorithms. This kind of power doesn’t need tradition to sustain itself. And so de omgekeerde wereld quietly disappears. Everything becomes clean. Being tolerant or moral comes to mean only saying things that could not possibly hurt anybody’s feelings. Cancel culture becomes the norm. Add into the mix the brewing uncertainties of our time and what you have is a pressure cooker, full of explosive ingredients, with no valves in place.

The whole thing might collapse. It has happened before and at some point, it will happen again.

Now, many of you might be cheering this on. But students of history will notice a pattern. Hierarchy worms its way back into the mix regardless, a new system born from the ashes of the old. I strongly believe in building new communities from the ground up alongside all that exists. Revolution leads to a power vacuum that quickly fills. Durable communities, built slowly from the ground up, is what we should be striving for.

But that takes time, and the pressure is building.

Bring back the potty humour. Speak truth (and poop) to power. Cultivate tolerance by taking responsibility for your own emotions rather than policing everyone else’s.

It is high time to install that pressure valve.

Bring back the jesters, say I!

You know you want more you kinky history nerd you

One day, humanity will find

that grinding meat,

through peculiar trades,

to make ends meet

destroys our faith

and what we seek

may come too late

FEAR NOT!

there is always more meat for the grinder

but here is a noble reminder

that but a dot, a speck of cloud

we are no more than only one

And I for one am very proud!

That throughout these tears and blood stained times

comes an era of truth

and beauty mind

of hymns and hers

and brightly colored things

of swing and jazz

and everything

that makes the meat

but a fling

a briefly colored amourette

an amour passé that our lives once met

and throughout this ever clinking

ever dwindling past

sinks a truth that will godlike last

Throughout our souls

into our now

So may I remind you,

of your beauty somehow?