#philippe I

[yourdailyqueer]

Philippe I, Duke of Orléans (deceased)

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Gay

DOB: 21 September 1640 

RIP: 9 June 1701

Ethnicity: White - French

Occupation: Nobility, veteran

[borgialucrezia]

and if i said that alex vlahos' philippe i, duke of orléans, has similarities with david oakes' juan borgia? hedonistic second sons and younger brothers who are overshadowed by their more famous older brothers whom they wanted to be loved and respected by....a flavorsome pattern

[theinsanitycarnival]

And yes before anyone asks (not that anyone would) I do use references

Like come on they are perfect.

Please tell me people know this, (where are my fellow history buffs at?)

Chevalier and Dyo do be giving 💅

[newsfromthehouseofbourbon]

January 7, 2024: Welcome to 2024!

Okay, I have been writing (and there is a LOT). However, I've had to deal with bedbugs for the past six months (and going). I have no time to go into the logistics (and the blame sits squarely on the shoulders of my stepsister), but I'm here to have some fun and tell you about what is going on with the HOB.

Without too much detail of the private conflicts that plagued this project since its creation upon the heels of the success of @tkwrtrilogy2, @tkwrtrilogy, and @tkwrtrilogy3, there has been an overhaul. Also, the latest addition to the trilogy will make its debut on Wattpad (but will come here eventually).

First, the OVERHAUL: Welcome to the HOB Universe.

You're asking yourself: WTF is this? Well, the best explanation of it can be seen here. All that applies is that this takes place in 17th-century France rather than Middle Earth.

I will be overhauling the Tumblr for @lesecretdelamaisondubourbon. There is a reason, but to find that out, you'll have to read the memoir about all of this (TBA). Either way, it comes on the heels of family drama and the death of a friendship that was supposed to last forever (according to her). But, the book (known by the title XIV) is going up on Wattpad, so while it is being overhauled over here, you can read it in its proper order over there.

XIV: The life and times of Louis XIV as told by Louis XIV--if you haven't figured that out yet. It is part of Book III; his father's story (@thesecretofthehouseofbourbonbook) is Book II.

Now, about that other book: The original title of the book (that was going to be written by my former co-author) was Monsieur. If you guess that the book was going to be about Philippe I, Duc d'Orléans (younger brother of Louis XIV), you were right.

If you think this is a retelling of centuries of rumor and innuendo, you would be wrong. This will be his story--told by Philippe. Under the title of Son of France (Fils de France in French), this is the story you were never told. After 383 years, it is time.

His story officially began in January of 2024, and he will be following his brother Louis here once he debuts on Wattpad. Stay tuned for more. He's part of the universe now.

[lesecretdelamaisondubourbon]

Book III/Part IX: ⚜️XIV⚜️

My father had not been dead long before events were set into motion that would change my life forever. I was too young to understand the chaos my father’s death created in court. Maman would say things to Mazarin I did not understand; whenever they spoke of me, I was present. I learned that as I grew up, I was there to remind everyone that I was the King, even as I was still in my minority. To some in the court, I was an obstacle that needed to be removed. It would be a few more years before I discovered what that meant—especially to my uncle Gaston.

The first time I remember leaving the palace as king was to sit on the lit de justice in the Grand Chamber of the Parliament. I did not want to go because we had to leave Philippe behind. I always wanted to have him by my side. As we grew up, I needed to have Philippe close to me—even when he did not wish to be.

That morning, I rose, had a bite to eat, and then was dressed by my valets in the finest clothing. I was led out of my bed chamber and into the hall where Maman was waiting. She took my hand and we made our way through the palace and into the light of day where a carriage awaited us. I did not notice much except the horses. There were so many of them on that day. As I was helped into the carriage by the footman, I noticed Maman speaking to Mazarin. When she was done, she was helped into the carriage, and sat beside me.

“Today is an important day, Louis,” she said to me. “You will preside over Parliament for the first time.”

“What is that, Maman,” I asked.

“Do not worry about that right now,” she said. “You are still young. I shall speak for you.”

As our carriage pulled away, I looked out the window. We were on our way to Paris. This would be the first time I would ride into the city as the King of France. I would not realize until I was older that it had only been 4 days since my father’s death.

On the way to Paris I fell asleep. When I felt the carriage stop, I woke up and looked out of the window to see the stone court of the Palais de la Cité. There were so many people there I was afraid to get out of the carriage. Once Maman had been helped out, she turned around.

“Your Majesty,” she said. “You must not keep the Parliament waiting.”

I knew she said those words loud enough so the crowd could hear. I hesitated but stood in the frame of the open door. The multitude fell silent. The footman helped me down. Maman took my hand, and we walked to the grand staircase. With each step, the people would bow to us. As we ascended the stairs, we were met by several men. The only one I recognized was my uncle Gaston. He bowed.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “It is good to see you.”

I nodded at him.

“You know why we are here, Gaston,” Maman said. “Louis is king now, and I will become regent on this day. It is only fitting, of course.”

“I was not aware this was something Louis would have allowed,” he whispered. “I can only imagine what you did to convince Mazarin of such a spectacle. My brother has not yet been laid to rest.”

Before mother could answer, we were greeted by several dressed in long red robes and peculiar hats. As they bowed, mother led me into the ancient halls of the old chateau. There were men and a few ladies lining the halls as Maman led me toward the Grand Chamber. Once inside, we met with shouts from the gallery.

“Vive le Roi! Vive le Roi!”

I was led to a special chair by two bailiffs on their knees bearing maces of gold. It was the lit de justice—a chair that was raised above the main floor. Draped in the royal colors covered with the fleur-de-lis, I was placed there beneath the baldachin. Mother sat beside me, yet she had to remain lower than the king. Soon, the room was filled with elaborately dressed nobles. When everyone was assembled, everyone looked at me. I was terrified. I wanted to go home. Thankfully, once the meeting was called to order, everyone’s eyes were on Maman.

I was too young to understand what was said among the counselors. On that day, my name was His Majesty. I had only been king for four days, yet they spoke of me as if I had ruled for generations. They must have known I was a child. I had not yet been breeched. Every now and then, one of the men would look at me and nod in obeisance as if to seek my approval. I was too afraid to move. I could only look at them with my eyes as wide as saucers.

After what seemed hours, Maman looked at me. She smiled and nodded to me. I knew then it was time to leave. I rose from my seat and everyone in the room bowed to me. On their knees, the two bailiffs from before helped me down and led Maman and I out of the chamber. In the hall, there was chaos that turned to whispers as we made our way back to the carriage. All I wanted to do was to return home and play in the gardens with Philippe.

“The power behind the throne can never belong to a woman,” someone said from within the crowd.

“Silence, fool,” a voice shouted. It was my uncle Gaston “You have forgotten that my mother, Queen Marie, did the same for the late king?”

We began walking faster as several men began shouting from behind. Our guards led all three of us quickly down the hall and into the light of day. When I was seen by the crowd, they bowed. Gaston escorted us to our carriage. Not since that day had I ever been so glad to be inside a carriage.

“I am moved by your kindness, Gaston,” Maman said from the window. “I will remember it.”

“I hope that you will, Madam,” he said, as he looked at me. “Your Majesty.”

I waved at him. I felt our carriage pull away and begin its journey home—which I learned was to the nearby Palais-Royal. When we were safe behind its gates, I stepped out. The servants were there to greet us. I saw Mazarin walking toward us. Before he reached us, I heard the familiar sound little feet running in my direction.

“Louis,” Philippe shouted as he ran toward me nearly knocking Mazarin over. He embraced me excitedly.

“Philippe,” Maman said, as she stepped out. “Behave.”

“You’re Majesties,” Mazarin said calmly. “It is good to see you.”

“Go inside,” Mother said to me.

Without a word, I took Philippe’s hand and led him toward the palace doors.

“Where did you go,” Philippe asked.

“I tell you later,” I whispered. I wanted nothing more than to forget. For the first time, I realized my father was dead and his death ended my childhood.

**** **** **** ****

After supper, I was bathed then dressed for bed. I noticed more valets in my chambers than usual. They occupied themselves with my clothing. I knew that new clothing had been made for me before my father died, but few pieces were befitting a king. As they busied themselves, went to the window. Darkness had fallen and all I could see were the shadows of people flitting around the gardens. I did not know what they were doing or if they were real. I imagined them as dark angels that had lost their way to heaven.

“Your Majesty,” a voice called to me. I looked to see Mazarin bowing into me.

“I do not like that word,” I said. “I am tired of hearing it.”

“You are king, Your Majesty,” he began. “From now until your death, everyone must address you as such.”

“Even Philippe,” I asked.

“When in court,” he answered. “And whenever you are performing your duties as king in the presence of your subjects.”

I stared at him as if he had spoken gibberish. How could I be a king when I could barely read or write? What little I had learned came from my governess. My wet-nurse had only left me less than two years prior. I was not ready to rule a kingdom.

“I want Papa,” I said.

“I know, Your Majesty,” he said walking over to me. He kneeled down and looked at me. “Your father was a king, and so must you be. He is in Heaven now but he will always be with you.”

“I am only a child,” I said, trying not to cry. “How can I be a king like Papa was?”

Mazarin smiled tenderly. I could tell he was trying to comfort me as a father would a son.

“Kings are not born, Your Majesty,” he said. “They are made over time. No king that ever ruled knew everything upon ascension. Child or Man, you will learn. I will make sure of it. But, it is late, and you must get some sleep. You must rise early.”

“I know,” I answered softly. “We are going to lay Papa to rest.”

He nodded. As he rose, he did something unexpected. He picked me up and carried me to bed. He pulled the covers over me.

“Good night, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Good night,” I answered.

He smiled then saw his way out. Not long after, I fell asleep. An hour later, I felt the familiar warmth of Philippe lying next to me. He was beginning to become a comfort to me. I drifted back to sleep.

“Louis,” I heard a voice say. I thought I was dreaming. It was the voice of a man, but there were no men that called me by that name since my father died. Philippe’s voice was juvenile; he had only recently learned how to pronounce my name properly.

“Louis,” the voice said again. I sat straight up. I looked across the dark room to see a shadow slip out into the antechamber. Philippe was sound asleep. I decided to follow. I quietly climbed out of bed and into the next room. I followed it into the hall. There were no guards at my door.

“Louis,” the voice whispered in my ear. I jumped as I turned to see my father.

“Papa,” I squealed, throwing my arms around him. I was too happy to notice he was cold to the touch. “I thought you were gone forever.”

“I came to see you before I go,” he said as he knelt before me.

“Where are you going,” I asked.

“You will find out one day,” he said. “But for now, you need not worry. You have your whole life ahead of you, Louis.”

“Papa,” I started. “I do not want to be king. I do not like it. No one calls me Louis anymore.”

He laughed.

“No one called you Louis except for me and your mother. And Philippe, of course.”

“Philippe! He would want to see you.”

“No,” Papa answered. “He needs his rest. Tomorrow will be hard for him.”

“I do not understand, Papa.”

“Remember what I said to you at Versailles,” he asked.

“You told me to watch over Philippe for you,” I answered.

“He will need you more than ever, Louis,” he began. “There will be times when all you will have is each other. Let nothing come between you and Philippe. Promise me.”

“I promise, Papa,” I whispered.

He smiled and stood up. I realized that I could see the hall through him.

“I was a king first, but a father forever,” he said. His voice began to fade. “The last of which brought me the greatest joy I had ever known. Be well, my son. Until we meet again.”

With those words, he was gone. I turned to see the guards holding one of my chamber doors open as Philippe slipped out.

“Louis,” he said. “Why are you awake?”

“Do not worry, Philippe,” I said as I took his hand. “Let us go back to bed now.”

“I had a dream, Louis,” he began as we headed into my chambers. “I saw Papa. He is not coming back.”

As the guards closed the doors, I stopped and looked my brother.

“No, Philippe,” I said. “He is not coming back. He is in Heaven.”

“I want to go there,” he said.

“One day, you will,” I said. “But not yet. I need you here.”

“Why?”

“Who will play with me in the garden if you go away,” I asked.

“You can play with Joujou,” he said.

“I would rather play with you than a puppy,” I said. “Besides, I would miss you.”

“I would miss you, too, Louis,” he said. “But Papa might be lonely.”

“He is there with the angels,” I said. “He is not lonely, I promise.”

Philippe yawned and rubbed his eyes.

“I will stay,” he said. “Papa said I had to.”

I smiled at him. I did not know whether to believe him or not. We went back to bed and slept peacefully until dawn.--The Secret of the House of Bourbon–XIV by Jaynaé Marie Miller. 10-2-2023

[histoireettralala]

Loyal brothers

The Capetian kings found their brothers no more difficult than their sons. The exceptions were the brothers of Henri I, Robert and Eudes, but thereafter the younger Capetians developed a tradition of loyalty to their elders. Robert of Dreux, the brother of Louis VII, who was the focus of a feudal revolt in 1149, was only a partial exception, for at that date the king was still in the East, and the real object of the hostility was the regent Suger. By contrast, Hugh of Vermandois was described by contemporaries as the coadjutor of his brother, Philip I. St Louis's brothers, Robert of Artois, Alphonse of Poitiers, and Charles of Anjou, never caused him any difficulties, and the same can be said of Peter of Alençon and Robert of Clermont in the reign of their brother Philip III. Even the disturbing Charles of Valois, with his designs on the crowns of Aragon and Constantinople, was always a faithful servant to his brother Philip the Fair, and to the latter's sons. The declaration which he made when on the point of invading Italy in the service of the Pope is revealing:

"As we propose to go to the aid of the Church of Rome and of our dear lord, the mighty prince Charles, by the grace of God King of Sicily, be it known to all men that, as soon as the necessities of the same Church and King shall be, with God's help, in such state that we may with safety leave them, we shall then return to our most dear lord and brother Philip, by the grace of God King of France, should he have need of us. And we promise loyally and in all good faith that we shall not undertake any expedition to Constantinople, unless it be at the desire and with the advice of our dear lord and brother. And should it happen that our dear lord and brother should go to war, or that he should have need of us for the service of his kingdom, we promise that we shall came to him, at his command, as speedily as may be possible, and in all fitting state, to do his will. In witness of which we have given these letters under our seal. Written at Saint-Ouen lès Saint-Denis, in the year of Grace one thousand and three hundred, on the Wednesday after Candlemas."

This absence of such sombre family tragedies as Shakespeare immortalised had a real importance. In a society always prone to anarchy the monarchy stood for a principle of order, even whilst its material and moral resources were still only slowly developing. Respectability and order in the royal family were prerequisites, if the dynasty was to establish itself securely.

Robert Fawtier - The Capetian Kings of France

[zoe-oneesama]

Evillustrator doesn't count!

Episode 47 Part 3 First < Previous > Next Season 1, Season 2, Season 3, Season 4, Season 5 Ep 41, Ep 42, Ep 43, Ep 44, Ep 45, Ep 47, Ep 48

Ko-fi | Patreon

[bussyplease]

Y'ALL I WATCHED THE WHOLE OLYMPIC OPENING CEREMONY AND OMFG IT WAS LIIIIT

There was every boat in existence. The best of french classical music with Ravel, Debussy, Saint-Saëns, Satie, and more. Céline Dion who hadn't sung in public in 4 whole years. Drag queens. All sorts of dancers. A video of a throuple. The contrast between Aya Nakamura and the military choir. They mixed up the names of Turkey and Tunisia on the screen announcements. The olympic flame on a hot air balloon. Statues emerging on the Seine. People doing biking tricks, skateboard and breakdance dressed as mimes, while floating on the water. The president almost didn't talk. Diversity and inclusion were central values of the show. The weather sucked, everything was SO WET. There was not one, not two, but three wet pianos involved.

But the real shit? The real PEAK of the whole show?? The image of the century??

PHILIPPE KATERINE COSPLAYING AS A NAKED SMURF IN A PLATE OF FRUIT, SINGING ABOUT HIS NAKED ASS, SAYING FUCK GUNS AND FUCK THE RICH, MOTHERFUCKERS

THAT'S MY FRANCE

[suburbanbonfire]

t-shirt that reads "I released the Kraken at Climate Pledge Arena and all I got was massive structural damage" (Prints here!)

[silv-paru]

🥰

[navree]

"that you could be so cruel" ok correct me if i'm wrong but does penelope featherington not run a gossip rag that exist solely to publish unsubstantiated rumors about women she doesn't like for various reasons that have profoundly negative repercussions on those women (didn't the publication of marina's pregnancy lead to marina almost dying in her quest to terminate said pregnancy??????) and has in fact used that same rag to put not just colin's entire family but also specifically colin's sister, her best friend, through a significant amount of grief and strife that came as a direct result of that rag?

but colin's the cruel one? because she happened to eavesdrop on a conversation where he said he doesn't wanna date her? that's cruelty but all the other stuff isn't?

[rosemaze-reveries]

Hello! I found your blog and love the writing

Here’s sit with me while I tell you my favorite idea 💡

✨So the hunters (all if possible) come back to the manor after a long match of smelling sweat and blood upon walking towards their shred room with reader they catch a scent of their lovers perfume- mind going a mile a minute with the idea of their lover being in they arms and just melting from the stress of the day ✨

Thoughts 💭

ANON. anon...... this is the kind of scenario that makes me CRAZY uegh.. when their judgment's clouded by bloodlust but inhaling your scent brings them back to their senses >>> 🤒 let me be your lighthouse home etc etc. sign me UP.

for some blurbs, this turned into a broader "hunter comes straight to you after a rough match" without the perfume bit. kind of misunderstood the assignment but either way, here's this!

🌪️✂️👘🏳️🏴🦌🐍🪞🎻🔩🐟🕯️

🌪️ Ithaqua brings an air of gloom with him into your bedroom. Driven by nothing but a searing want for you, he skips over any pleasantries to tear off his mask and shove you onto the ground. A bed of wind tries to break your fall, but his impatience gets the better of him; he pins you to the floor with such force that he disrupts his own gale from cushioning your way down. Not that you care in the moment. You’ve been waiting to have him in your arms all day. He leaves a scattering of love bites and wet kisses up your neck.

✂️ Jack has one particular tune that he hums after his worst matches. Months of living together have left you all too familiar with it. His song begins from the foot of the staircase and steadily crisps itself to your ears as he draws nearer. Afraid of the state you might find him in, you rush outside to meet him at the top of the banister. He pauses with one foot on the next step. “Curious,” he says, greeting you with a cordial smile. “It’s not often a little mouse stands in my path—not on purpose.” His blouse is soaked a shade of reddish brown, and no amount of easy banter can hide the weariness in his eye. “Well, you’ve saved me the trouble. I was on my way to ravage you next.”

👘 Michiko drags her nails along the walls of the corridor, leaving a dull streak of blood behind. She doesn’t make a sound when she slips inside your room, practised in her delicate step; you don’t even feel the dip in the mattress before she has her shoulders arched over you. Eyeing you tenderly, she rolls a warm thumb over your cheekbone. “I’m home,” she murmurs. “Your sweet scent led the way again.” She realizes she left a smear of red on your skin, and her hand jerks away, startled by the reminder of what she had been doing just minutes ago.

🏳️ Bi’an’s arms wind around the small of your back, drawing you into his chest for a slow, tender embrace. It’s the first thing he does after returning to the manor: falling straight into your arms. As his lips trail down your forehead, peppering soft kisses in their path, you wrap your arms around his neck to bring him closer. A whisper escapes you about how out of the blue this is, and in response he brings a kiss to the corner of your eye, prompting them to flutter shut. “Let me have you, just for a little while…” Those sweet kisses he’s so good at descend your neck, growing rougher the lower he goes.

🏴 Wujiu’s arms wind around your stomach, pressing his chest flush against your back. He hasn’t uttered a word since returning from his match, aside from a tepid “Nothing worth mentioning” when asked about his day. This sudden affection takes you by surprise. You try to turn your head to face him but he catches your chin, steering your gaze back to the wall. “Don’t look at me.” Whatever is clouding his mind today is better left alone, you realize. You lay your hands on top of his, squeezing them, encouraging him to let your presence blot out everything on his mind. Warm breath fans your collarbone as he nuzzles into your neck, drinking in your scent.

🦌 Bane doesn’t like to discuss his matches. It makes no difference whether they are quick or slow, a win or a lose, they always weigh on him the same way. He sits on the edge of the bed lost in thought. You decide to break the tension first by greeting him with a hug from behind, your chin hooking over his shoulder. Bane isn’t big on physical affection. But after a while he cups a tender hand to your temple, palm taking up the entirety of your face, and presses you gently into him.

🐍 Yidhra might be the hunter most detached from the nightmares of the manor games. They provide nothing but leisure for her, and she’s never felt particularly passionate about them, win or lose. Her followers are the ones who give her the most trouble. When they resist her will, her consciousness splinters apart, some days leaving her too weak to herd them back again. These are typically the days she comes for you. You aren’t sure when she enters your room, but sometimes you catch glimpses of her tail in your peripheral, never to be seen when you’re looking on purpose. Her voice floats in the back of your mind: Mine, mine, mine, mine… There is nothing that binds you to her, yet you’re the only one who never resists her.

🪞 Mary barges into the room clumsily for someone of her poise. She struggles to prop herself against the door, muddy skirt stiff in awkward folds. “My mind is a mess,” she exclaims, voice clear but breathless at the same time. “Where are you? Come settle me.” The second she spots you, she sulks over to toss her arms around your neck, finding a seat in your lap. Clearly she isn’t concerned about observing her usual decorum today. Her dress is heavy and splotched with muck you don’t care to identify, but you don’t mind holding her as the burdens of the day ease off her shoulders.

🎻 Antonio’s fingers instinctively travel to the liquor cart by the window. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights, but feeling around to find nothing but an empty platter gives him pause. One resigned cluck of his tongue later, you feel tendrils of hair coil around your waist and wrists. They pluck you up from your side of the bed and present you in front of him as if you’re nothing more than a doll. “Not a drop to console me?” he complains, knowing you’ve hidden his bottles again. Then his head tilts slightly, taking in your scent. You can practically see detention’s fiery glow return to his eyes. “No, perhaps you are right—there is something more intoxicating for me here.”

🔩 Percy - “Hm...” He’s scrutinizing you with such intensity that you wonder if something’s on your face. He leans over to take an exaggerated whiff of you, and your heart sinks in offense. You have half a mind to tell him you showered just that morning, so it’s probably not you — besides, he’s the one who’s been tangoing with carcasses all day — but Percy keeps a thoughtful look about him. “You smell full of life,” he muses. “That fragrance you wear, it was popular back in the day. Transports me to the city again.” He would know better than you; you just found this perfume in the trunk of a dusty old room. When he comes closer, clasping either hand around your face, you let him lose himself in the nostalgia. Moments like these are all you have to keep yourselves sane in the manor.

🐟 Grace’s mouth is pulled into a taut frown when she flings open the door. You can see a slight quiver in her lip if you squint. Her harpoon clatters on the ground and she drops onto your bed, braid falling out, face buried in a pillow. There’s little you can do except rub a soothing hand in circles on her back. When she peeks over her arm with a gentle plea in her eyes, you wonder if she’s asking for a deeper massage—but you don’t get the chance to ask before her hand latches onto your forearm, tugging you down to lie with her.

🕯️ Philippe settles for a glass of brandy and his bundle of sketches. He’s resting on the chaise by the foot of the bed, not his work desk where he’d usually be. Rather than drafting new ideas he’s simply thumbing through the old ones, mechanically, breaking from his cycle only for a sip of his glass. It’s like your lover’s been replaced by a puppet. You feel unnerved enough to intervene: stripping him first of his glass, his sketches, then his monocle, you tip him back onto the cushion. You expect him to complain about having to get back to work, but he doesn’t protest. Tonight is for him, you decide. As his dark hair sprawls out beneath him, you straddle his thighs, and his hand reaches up to cup your cheek. “I’m terribly jealous of this magic of yours,” he murmurs, faint lilt in his voice. “It’s always you who brings me back from the stars.”

[borgialucrezia]

ALEXANDER VLAHOS as Philippe I, Duke of Orléans in VERSAILLES (1.01) "I genuinely believe that Philippe is such an out-there and confusing character. I gave him my all and kept pushing what I could do with him, and no-one ever told me stop. That’s either very brave of them or very silly. I am very extrovert; I’m an only child and that’s the reason why I’m an actor. Philippe likes attention and for people to talk about him, so that’s why he and I are a match made in Heaven."

[diioonysus]

bows in art

[histoireettralala]

Red like the Oriflamme

At various times in their histories, the kings of the Iberian Peninsula, of Scotland, of Poland, and especially of England also had coronation mantles in the color red, a symbol of their power and prestigious inheritance of antique purple. Only the kings of France, who were always asserting their difference from other monarchs, never wore such a mantle. We do not know in exactly what attire the first Capetian kings were coronated, but beginning with Philip Augustus crowned in 1179 while his father, Louis VII, was still alive, and until Charles X, lavishly crowned in 1825 according to the ritual of the Ancien Régime, that mantle was always d'azur semé de lis d'or. The azure, moreover, which was a relatively light blue in the seventh and eigth centuries, tended to become darker over the course of time and sometimes to take on purplish or crimson shades.

If French kings never wore red copes or mantles like the emperor and most other sovereigns, they did, on the other hand, make use of a red ensign for more than three centuries: the oriflamme. The legend of its origin makes it Charlemagne's standard, "of a vermilion color as sparkling as gold", The Song of Roland tells us. According to a more modest version, it was a matter of a simple feudal banner, cut from plain red cloth and belonging to the abbey of Saint-Denis. As the abbey could not wage war, it was represented in battle by an "avowed", the Count of Vexin, who, in rallying his troops, came to the abbey itself where the banner was kept to collect it. Philip I inherited the Vexin countship in 1077, and henceforth it was the kings of France who had the honor of bearing the oriflamme of Saint-Denis into battle. It seems that Louis VI, son of Philip I, was the first to actually do so, in 1124, and Louis XI did it for the last time during the Battle of Montlhéry in July 1465. A simple monochrome gonfalon of the feudal period, the oriflamme seems to have been given long flying tails during the Hundred Years War and sometimes to have been decorated with flowers, rings, flames, or small crosses. All these materials, objects, and practices underscore how the color red maintained direct ties with power in the medieval West, with sovereign power but also feudal power, and representative power.

Michel Pastoureau - Red, the History of a Color

[potatosonnet]

No context FRev and 93