On the day of her coronation, Eleanor experienced her first menstrual period.
Lady de Montfort, her mother, pressed her forehead and exclaimed, "Good heavens, Isabella—you are a girl."
Eleanor felt as if struck by lightning, yet instantly relaxed—
So the courtiers who always withdrew with red eyes, those who whispered that "the crown prince is too gentle," and the nobles suddenly eager to drink with young attendants until midnight had not doubted her governance.
They had simply mistaken her gender.
Her fingertips brushed the scarlet velvet cloak from the coronation, and she let out a long breath. At least, she remained the "wise ruler" in their eyes.
The year her mother conceived her, the entire Habsburg court held its breath.
Half the people hoped she would be a boy, and half hoped she would be a girl — the remaining old nobles were not human; they longed for her to die in the womb.
The king was an only son. Three years earlier, he had fallen from his horse during a jousting tournament at Schönbrunn Palace, injuring his vital organs and rendering him unable to father children ever again.
The old lords of the Privy Council pressured him with the Salic Law, demanding he adopt a distant cousin, Karl, a fool who had even fallen down the steps during his knighting ceremony.
Just as the king nearly despaired, the news of her mother's pregnancy rang like Easter bells, shattering all dark clouds.
Everyone stared at her mother's belly.
She had been nothing but a newly appointed lady-in-waiting, suddenly becoming the most precious person in the palace.
The queen herself moved into her chambers, assigning twelve ladies-in-waiting to guard the door. Even the rose syrup brought in was first tasted in a small sip.
Eight months later, Eleanor let out her first cry in the birthing bed.
In the delivery room, the breaths of her mother, the midwife, and the queen suddenly froze.
Staring at the swaddling blanket, the queen's voice was like ice-water, "Remember Margaret the laundress's son? He's just ten days old."
She deliberately emphasized the word "son".
Her mother looked up trembling, eyes red-rimmed. "Your Highness, my daughter's life is also a life."
The queen paused, then suddenly laughed. "You've misunderstood."
She had Margaret's son brought in, wrapped in a golden-threaded swaddling cloth, and paraded before the king. The king kissed the "son's" forehead, weeping tears of joy, while the father of the distant cousin dropped a silver crucifix in the corridor.
Thankfully for those lords.
The difference between a ten-day-old infant and a newborn was obvious to any discerning eye, but men's eyes could be charmingly blind at times — if only a lady-in-waiting had been present…
The secret of her being a girl might not have stayed hidden until today.
Returning the "false prince" to Margaret, the queen bent to lift her, her gaze like the Madonna in a church's stained-glass window. "Lady de Montfort, only I and your most trusted maid shall know of this."
Before her mother could react, she understood their fates were now bound together, so she nodded solemnly.
From then on, she became the king's sole heir — Louis Habsburg, who could recite the Nibelungenlied at three, write six-line verses at five, and wore a small crown at eight.
She was wise, diligent, and courteously humble; even the most fastidious cardinal praised her as "born to sit on the throne."
Days flowed smoothly until the day several noble boys her age arrived at the queen's chambers.
At their head was Leonhard of the Stauffenberg family, the only son of the imperial marshal.
They respectfully performed the hand-kissing ceremony, then retired properly to the side hall.
She circled behind the corridor and heard their hushed laughter.
"There are so many robin nests in the royal garden. Shall we go raid one?"
It's not that I can't climb trees. I've just never robbed a bird's nest — those little sparrows are still being kept warm under their mother's wings. Why tear them apart so cruelly?
When I sit on the king's throne in the future, I should always retain some kindness.
So I spoke gently, "What is your name?"
The teenagers scattered like quails startled by a hunting dog, hastily kneeling on one knee: "Peace be upon you, Crown Prince! I am Leonhard Stauffenberg, your humble servant."
Leonhard looked up at me, his blue eyes shining like morning dew on the Rhine: "Would your Highness like to join us? Robbing bird's nests is great fun."
I curved my lips into a smile: "Very well."
A teenager who had been silent in the crowd suddenly spoke, his voice as clear as meltwater from the Alps: "As the imperial heir, such childish play is beneath the Crown Prince's dignity."
I turned to him, my tone amiable: "And what is your name, sir?"
He bowed slightly, the gold-embroidered collar of his doublet glinting coldly in the sunlight: "Heinrich Eibstädt, at your service."
"Then come along," I laughed. "The eldest grandson of the Eibstädt family can't very well spoil everyone's fun."
His brow furrowed slightly, but he ultimately agreed.
The group made their way in a grand procession to the royal gardens. Leonhard removed his velvet doublet emblazoned with his family crest, scaling a tree like a nimble lynx. Moments later, he jumped down clutching a nest, a pale yellow sparrow chick curled inside: "Your Highness, this chick is for you!"
"What would I do with it?" I asked.
He replied casually, "Roast it for food or keep it as a pet."
I nodded: "Good."
Heinrich stood with arms crossed, his lips pressed into a rigid line.
I turned to my attendants and said, "Since Lord Leonhard suggests it, send him to stay in the stables for a few days — he can choose between feeding the horses, chopping hay, or tending the hens."
Leonhard's eyes widened in shock: "Your Highness, this is—"
I said solemnly, "Does my lord know? By a sparrow's lifespan, this chick is roughly your age. If you can separate it from its family, why shouldn't I let you taste the same pain of separation?"
I sighed, "Your father, Marshal Stauffenberg, commands his troops with strict discipline. When enemy forces breached the city walls, he ensured not a single rose in the commoners' gardens was trampled, for the empire has always upheld benevolence as its core. What wrong has this little sparrow done?"
Leonhard knelt with a thud. Heinrich's expression finally softened, his gaze fixed on me with intense admiration.
"Escort Lord Leonhard to the stables," I waved. After the others withdrew, Heinrich suddenly knelt on one knee, performing the most solemn knightly salute: "I was previously unaware of your Highness's intentions and presumptuously criticized you. Your benevolence and wisdom are far beyond my understanding; I humbly beg forgiveness for my insolence."
I helped him rise with my own hands: "It is only through your honest counsel that I can avoid making mistakes."
Heinrich Eibstädt, the eldest grandson of the Eibstädt family, has had a photographic memory since childhood. Even the most rigid scholastic scholars praise him as "fit to annotate the Bible." He often accompanies his grandfather, a cardinal, to court, making him the obvious heir to the family's leadership.
The Eibstädt family is the voice of the empire's literati. To win their allegiance, I must first secure the next patriarch's unwavering loyalty — today's performance was always intended for Heinrich's eyes.