French Court Protocol

(As recorded in 1574 under King Henri III: The Royal Ceremonial of France Book III – Of Salutes, Inclinations, and Genuflections according to the Dignities of the Court)

Chapter IX – Of the Acts of Reverence at the Entrance of His Majesty

When His Majesty enters the Hall of State, Chapel Royal, or any place appointed for public ceremony, all present shall exhibit the due mark of reverence proper to their station and dignity, as hereafter declared.

General Ordinance

The Princes of the Blood shall kneel upon the right knee and incline their heads until His Majesty is seated beneath the canopy of estate.
The Dukes and Peers of France shall bow from the waist, their right hand upon the heart, and remain so until the herald of arms commands Levez-vous.
The Cardinals and Prelates of Holy Church shall incline the head and trace upon their breast the sign of the Cross, signifying obedience to God before the King.
The Knights of the Order of the Holy Spirit shall kneel upon the right knee, their left hand upon the sword, and lift the eyes to the royal standard when it passes.
The Ambassadors of Foreign Realms shall bow deeply and keep their gaze lowered until His Majesty’s herald proclaims their recognition.
The Ladies of the Court, whatever their degree, shall make a full curtsy, the right foot drawn behind, and remain so until His Majesty has acknowledged their presence.

Special Exceptions and Privileged Offices

✠ The Grand Constable of France: Shall bow but not kneel, being bearer of the Sword of the Realm and the first in martial dignity.; He remains standing to the King’s left hand as symbol of royal defense, save at coronation, when he presents the sword and receives it back from His Majesty’s own grasp.

✠ The Archbishop of Reims: Shall not kneel in any assembly save during the act of anointing.; Having once placed the crown upon the King’s anointed head, he stands forever after as witness to that sacred covenant between Heaven and the throne.; When the royal name is pronounced, he bows his head thrice, in remembrance of the Trinity and the oath of consecration.

✠ The Dauphin of France: Shall not kneel before the King his father except within the Holy Chapel during divine service or act of confession.; He bows the knee in private audience only upon command, and never in council, that his dignity as heir be maintained without presumption.

✠ The Grand Master of the Order of the Holy Spirit: Shall remove his cap and incline from the waist, but not kneel, for his office signifies the unity of knighthood and crown.; He stands nearest the throne upon the left, as guardian of the royal orders, and offers the cordon bleu to new knights at His Majesty’s bidding.

✠ The Captain of the King’s Guard: Shall remain upright and armed so long as His Majesty is in motion.; He kneels only when the royal sword is sheathed and peace is declared for the ceremony.; His vigilance is a visible pledge that no man draws steel in the King’s presence save himself and the Sword of Charlemagne, whose charge is of equal sanctity.; When the King departs, he commands the guard to formation and yields precedence only after the Sword has withdrawn.

✠ The Marquis of Brumenoir: Bearing the dignities of Sword of Charlemagne and Hand of Michael, the Marquis of Brumenoir shall not kneel before the King.; He stands to the right of the dais, one hand upon his sword hilt, inclining his head once at the utterance of “His Most Christian Majesty.”; This usage, confirmed by all kings since the reign of the Emperor Charles, represents the perpetual guardianship of the throne by divine ordinance.; When His Majesty departs, the Marquis shall remain until every peer and officer has withdrawn, then render a final salute to France itself.; His constancy signifies that the realm is ever under watch; his stillness shall not be construed as pride, but as sacred office.

Regulations for Heralds and Ceremonial Officers

Heralds of arms shall strike their staves once for ordinary nobility, twice for officers of the crown, and thrice for the entrance of His Majesty.
Silence shall be commanded at the naming of the Marquis of Brumenoir and the Archbishop of Reims.
None shall imitate their gestures or posture, on pain of dismissal from courtly rank.
The Grand Master of Ceremonies shall ensure that all reverences are rehearsed before any state function, that the hierarchy of honor remain unmarred.

Part I — The Hall Before the Trumpets

The Salle des Caryatides breathed with quiet anticipation. Candles shimmered along the carved columns, and the smell of polish, perfume, and smoke gave the air a heavy sweetness. The throne dais waited at the far end beneath its canopy of velvet and gilt, the golden lilies of France faintly visible in the flicker.
Pages moved in pairs, polishing, straightening, whispering final orders from the heralds. The nobles already present kept their voices low — this was not the chatter of spectacle but the subdued hum of people who had done this a hundred times.
The lesser lords stood arranged by rank: barons, viscounts, and chevaliers, lining the walls in their assigned order. Beyond them, the Knights of the Holy Spirit formed a neat inner ring, blue capes folded at the elbow. Their eyes stayed forward, their bodies motionless save for the rise and fall of breath.
No one spoke of who might come or what might be said. There would be no surprises today.
The heralds entered next — four of them, crimson tabards heavy with gold thread. They took position at the corners of the aisle, silver staves in hand. At their head, the Grand Maître des Cérémonies, tall and white-haired, raised his staff once. The sound on marble cut through the murmur like a blade.
“By order of His Majesty,” he said, “let the order of entry commence.”
Every head turned toward the western doors.

Part II — The Peers and Their Circle

The first trumpet sounded — a single, clear note that rolled up to the vaulted ceiling.
The peers of France began to enter by seniority, each announced by name and title.
“Monsieur le Duc de Guise!” “Monsieur le Duc de Nevers!” “Monsieur le Comte de Soissons!” “Monsieur le Marquis d’Anjou!”
(etc) Each appeared, bowed deeply, and crossed to his mark in the wide semicircle before the dais. The herald’s staff struck once for each, the rhythm steady and precise. When the line was filled, they stood shoulder to shoulder, the living frame of France’s nobility — the crown’s outward face.
Behind them waited the lesser peers, Counts of Tonnerre, Mayenne, and Vendôme, taking their cues in silence. They bowed, stepped aside, and turned outward toward the hall. The movement was so synchronized that the sound of cloth seemed like one long sigh.
Nothing about it felt ceremonial to them; it was muscle memory, the daily spine of hierarchy.
At the edge of the throng, servants closed the side doors. The audience now existed only in ranks: the outer circle of landed gentry, the inner of peers, and the empty aisle awaiting the officers of the Crown.
The herald’s staff struck twice.

Part III — The Great Offices of the Crown

Two trumpet notes answered, lower and slower than before.
The herald’s voice rang clear across the marble hall.
“Sa Seigneurie Henri de Montmorency, Connétable de France !” (His Lordship Henri de Montmorency, Grand Constable of France!) The Grand Constable entered first, armor gleaming under candlelight, the weight of command resting easily on him. He paused before the dais, bowed, and turned left to his place. The court barely shifted — this was routine, as reliable as sunrise.
“Sa Seigneurie Philippe Hurault de Cheverny, Chancelier de France !” (His Lordship Philippe Hurault de Cheverny, Chancellor of France!) Next came the Chancellor, carrying the casket of the Great Seals. He knelt fully, placed it on its velvet cushion, and stepped back without looking up. His robes trailed neatly behind him.
“Sa Seigneurie Charles de Bourbon, Prince de La Roche-sur-Yon, Amiral de France !” (His Lordship Charles de Bourbon, Prince of La Roche-sur-Yon, Admiral of France!) Then the Admiral of France, his salute crisp and wordless, taking position a step behind the Constable.
“Sa Seigneurie Anne de Joyeuse, Grand Maître de l’Ordre du Saint-Esprit !” (His Lordship Anne de Joyeuse, Grand Master of the Order of the Holy Spirit!) The Grand Master entered, head bared, bowing from the waist before turning left to stand beside the Admiral.
“Sa Seigneurie François de Créquy, Seigneur de Canaples, Capitaine des Gardes du Roi !” (His Lordship François de Créquy, Lord of Canaples, Captain of the King’s Guard!) Last of this group was the Captain of the King’s Guard, boots striking in even rhythm. His halberdiers fanned behind him and took their marks at the dais steps. He alone of the officers remained armed; the haft of his weapon rested against his shoulder, blade high, gleaming.
The Grand Maître’s staff sounded twice again — the cue for the next name in line, one older than any of theirs.
“Sa Seigneurie Lucien, le Marquis de Brumenoir, l’Épée de Charlemagne, la Main de Michel !” (His Lordship Lucien, the Marquis of Brumenoir, the Sword of Charlemagne, the Hand of Michael!) The Sword entered alone, unescorted. He wore ceremonial armor replaced only as his combat armor was, centuries of differing craftsmanship creating a unified whole. He wore no helm, so that all might see the unchanged face beneath — the proof that time itself bent around his duty. He walked the center aisle with the stride of a soldier rather than a courtier. When he reached the dais, he drew his sword in a single smooth motion, not as a threat but as acknowledgment. He turned the weapon, point downward, and set its tip lightly against the marble — a knight’s gesture of oath, not service. His gauntleted fist pressed against his breastplate over his heart, and he bowed his head once toward the throne — not to the man who would sit there, but to the idea it represented: the Crown itself, eternal and indivisible. He sheathed the blade, took his place at the King’s right — opposite the Constable, a half pace forward. The symmetry was perfect: two swords, one temporal, one symbolic. The staff struck twice more.

Part IV — The Clergy and the Anointed

At the sound of the staff, the trumpets fell silent. From the eastern archway came a clear bell tone — one note, pure as glass.
The Archbishop of Reims entered, crozier upright, his vestments a pale shimmer beneath the lamplight. Behind him followed the Bishops of Chartres and Amiens, then the Royal Confessor, each in their appointed order. Their pace was unhurried, their eyes cast downward.
The herald spoke quietly, almost reverently: “The Anointed of Heaven attend the Throne.”
The Archbishop halted before the dais, bowed thrice in sequence — one for the Crown, one for the Church, one for the realm — then turned and took his place near the Sword’s right shoulder.
The two bishops crossed behind him, forming a second line that mirrored the Constable’s side of the dais. The confessor remained a pace back, hands folded over a small book of hours.
When the Archbishop reached his mark, the Grand Maître des Cérémonies lowered his staff, marking the transition from worldly power to sacred sanction.
Up in the right-hand gallery, the Queen Mother, Catherine de’ Medici, appeared with the Queen Consort, Louise de Lorraine, and their ladies-in-waiting.
The courtiers below made the smallest of gestures — a turn of the head, a dip of the shoulder.
Neither queen returned the motion. Their role was to witness, not to engage.
The chamber settled again.
Every eye turned to the doors beneath the royal balcony.

Part V — The King’s Entrance

The kettledrums began — a slow, rolling thunder that filled the room from wall to wall.
Then came the fanfare: three trumpet blasts, spaced like heartbeats.
The herald’s voice, now ringing through the hall, proclaimed: “Sa Majesté Très Chrétienne, Henri Troisième, par la Grâce de Dieu, Roi de France et de Pologne, Fils Aîné de l’Église, Protecteur du Royaume, Défenseur de la Foi Catholique et Souverain Seigneur de tous ses vassaux !”
As one, the court moved.
The peers bowed, the knights dropped to one knee, the clergy inclined their heads. Even the pages along the walls knelt where they stood.
Only two figures remained upright: the Archbishop of Reims, whose office permitted it, and the Sword, whose duty required it.
The King appeared beneath the canopy of estate, flanked by the Sergeant-at-Arms and two royal pages bearing the mantle. The staff of authority gleamed in the sergeant’s hand, the train of blue and white velvet rippled softly as the King advanced.
Henri III’s expression was composed — neither stern nor warm. He passed through the hall without word or gesture, pausing at the dais steps. There he turned, surveying the assembly as a man might glance across his own reflection.
The Constable bowed deeply. The Chancellor inclined his head. The Admiral held his salute. The Sword stood motionless.
The King ascended the dais, mounted the throne, and sat.
The herald struck his staff thrice. “Levez-vous.”
The crowd rose tier by tier, the wave of motion spreading from the dais to the farthest wall.
The kettledrums ceased. The silence that followed was as even as a breath drawn by two hundred chests.

Part VI — The Benediction

The Archbishop lifted his hand, tracing a slow cross in the air. “May Heaven preserve the King and the realm He has anointed.”
The choir hidden near the chapel arch responded softly: “Amen.”
The King inclined his head, once. It was the only movement he made. He did not speak. His silence was the language of continuity.
The Sword remained motionless, gaze fixed forward. The Archbishop lowered his hand. The Constable exhaled.
The courtiers began to breathe again, quietly, as though the ceremony itself had been a held breath.
The herald proclaimed the final line: “His Majesty is seated. The realm is in order.”
That was all it took to return the world to motion.

Part VII — Withdrawal

When the royal women had vanished behind the curtains, His Majesty Henri III rose from the throne. The Captain of the King’s Guard, François de Créquy, stepped forward and gave the signal; the halberdiers snapped to attention, forming the corridor of honor down the center aisle.
The King descended the dais with unhurried grace, pausing once beside the throne to touch the armrest — a gesture of form, not sentiment. He turned to the assembly and inclined his head, no words spoken.
The courtiers bowed as one, the motion rippling outward like a wave through silk and steel.
The Archbishop of Reims did not bow, but only inclined his head — the token courtesy of the Church to the Crown.
The Sword remained still. As the King passed, he turned slightly to face him — not challenging, but guarding — eyes level, sword at rest, the embodiment of the Crown’s vigilance even as the man who wore it took his leave.
When the King had crossed the hall and disappeared through the western doors, the Archbishop of Reims offered the final benediction, voice low and measured, before following in the royal train.
The bishops and confessor went after him, their vestments brushing marble like a soft wind through reeds.
The Grand Officers withdrew in descending order: Chancellor Philippe Hurault de Cheverny first, Admiral Charles de Bourbon next, then Grand Master Anne de Joyeuse, and finally Constable Henri de Montmorency, who paused at the threshold and inclined his head toward the motionless figure across the dais.
The Sword returned the gesture — slight, formal, precise — acknowledgment between the sword that serves and the sword that endures.
Behind them, the dukes, counts, and knights began to file out in measured rhythm. Yet the Sword did not move. He remained before the throne, motionless, as the tide of nobility ebbed past him. The murmur of departure dimmed, but his stillness drew every remaining eye.
When the Grand Maître des Cérémonies reached the end of the procession, the Sword broke the silence.
He drew his blade, turned it point-down, and touched it gently to the marble at his feet. The sound carried clear through the hall — steel upon stone.
He again pressed his gauntlet to his breastplate and inclined his head, not to the empty throne nor to the man who would sit upon it, but to France itself — an ideal that outlasted kings.
He sheathed the blade, turned on his heel, and walked the full length of the hall toward the western doors. The heralds waited until his echo faded, then struck their staves three times — the sound sealing both ceremony and vow — before declaring:
“La cour est levée.” The court is adjourned.

Concerning the Sword

L’Épée de Charlemagne was often absent from court due to duty elsewhere or injury, and this fact had its own ruleset.

1. In Court Protocol (During Absence)

At any royal function, Lucien’s station remained formally acknowledged even when he was not physically present.

His position at the King’s right — the “seat of the Sword” — would be left symbolically empty.

The herald would still call his title during the roll of precedence, e.g.:

“Sa Seigneurie, le Marquis de Brumenoir, l’Épée de Charlemagne — absent en service.”

"Absent upon the Marches.”/ “Engaged in stewardship of the Marches of Brumenoir.”

“Absent in service to the Crown.”

“Absent on holy charge.” / “Absent upon pilgrimage sanctioned by the Crown and the Church.”

“Absent in convalescence by royal leave.”

“Withdrawn for reflection under royal dispensation.”

When his disappearance is politically inconvenient but still has to be explained in ceremony:

“In eternal watch beyond the realm.” or “Absent in the King’s eternal service.

The heralds and master of ceremonies would record it in the proceedings book as something as such:

“La place de l’Épée tenue en esprit, son seigneur en campagne.”

(“The place of the Sword held in spirit, its lord in the field.”)

The Constable and Archbishop might incline their heads fractionally when his name was read — a nod to both tradition and necessity.

Any missives or announcements from the King regarding martial matters could close with the line:

“Par l’Épée de Charlemagne, que Dieu la garde en son absence.”

(“By the Sword of Charlemagne, may God keep it in his absence.”)

It was not personal respect; it was ritual recognition that the idea of the Sword still stood guard even if the man did not. That simple formula maintained the sanctity of the title without implying any mortal replacement.

2. In Military Context

On the battlefield or campaign, the tone changed. Lucien was the King’s champion and field avatar, but the office itself carried procedural authority when he was away.

If absent, his banner would still be raised in the command field.

It indicated that the campaign was undertaken under his aegis, even if led by another. That banner often flew beside the royal standard, marking divine and martial sanction together.

Orders or proclamations might open with:

“By command of His Majesty and under the guard of the Sword of Charlemagne…”

— again, invoking the role, not the man.

The Constable or the Marshal of France would hold temporary authority par le siège de l’Épée, effectively “acting in the stead of the Sword.”

However, none could claim the title or its symbols; even to wear his crest was forbidden without explicit royal writ.

If Lucien was presumed dead or missing (as had happened before), the King could issue an edict stating:

“L’Épée demeure en sommeil.”

(“The Sword remains in slumber.”)

This phrase meant the office itself still existed and awaited its rightful bearer’s return — a formula later used even by kings who knew he was immortal, as a matter of custom.

3. Among the Nobility and Clergy

Nobles speaking of him in absence would phrase it as:

“L’Épée du Roi n’est pas ici, mais son ombre veille.”

(“The King’s Sword is not here, but his shadow keeps watch.”)

This was half-respect, half-practical acknowledgment — saying he’s away without denying his ever-present influence.

The clergy, particularly the Archbishop of Reims, would phrase it more cautiously:

“Que la main qui a frappé pour Charlemagne soit guidée encore.”

(“May the hand that struck for Charlemagne be guided still.”)

Which covered both divine approval and mortal duty.

4. In Documentation or Heraldic Record

Official registers didn’t mark the seat as vacant. They simply recorded:

“Présent en devoir, non en personne.”

(“Present in duty, not in person.”)

This phrase was used exclusively for him. No other office — not even the Constable’s — was afforded such phrasing.

Injured in Service

Excerpt from the Court Ceremony, Recorded at the Louvre, Winter 1579

The Salle des Caryatides stood at half attendance; the winter campaigns had drawn half the realm’s strength to the frontier. The dais was draped in sable and argent to mark the season of mourning for fallen officers.
At the herald’s staff-strike, the line of entry began as always. Dukes, counts, and officers came in order, their titles proclaimed in the clear, echoing voice of the Grand Maître des Cérémonies.
Then came the moment reserved for a name not present. The herald raised his staff and struck twice. The chamber quieted. His voice dropped one degree lower, carrying the gravity of tradition.
“Sa Seigneurie Lucien, le Marquis de Brumenoir, l’Épée de Charlemagne — présent en devoir, absent en personne.” “Blessé au service du Roi, la garde demeure sous son nom.” (“His Lordship Lucien, the Marquis of Brumenoir, the Sword of Charlemagne — present in duty, though absent in person. Wounded in the service of the King, the guard remains under his name.”)
As the words fell, two gestures followed automatically — not commanded, merely ingrained. The Constable of France, standing to the King’s left, drew his sword halfway from the scabbard and returned it, a sign of shared charge. The Archbishop of Reims inclined his head once toward the empty space at the King’s right, murmuring a brief Latin benediction for recovery.
No seat was filled in his stead. No name followed his in the herald’s roll.
The silence that lingered afterward wasn’t mournful — it was matter-of-fact, as though the hall itself had learned to breathe without him from time to time.
The ceremony continued unbroken, but when the King finally entered and took his seat, he turned his head ever so slightly toward that vacant place — not in sentiment, but in acknowledgment of what remained unseen yet unforgotten.

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