Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

February in London was the coldest time of the year. Richard sat in the royal carriage, with Gladstone sitting opposite him.

The carriage traveled slowly along the four-kilometer-long path outside Windsor Castle, the oak trees on both sides of the road bare, their branches appearing and disappearing in the mist.

After several days of designing the coat of arms, Richard finally got to attend the investiture ceremony today.

Richard was wearing a dark black double-breasted tailcoat, a top hat, and white gloves tightly stretched over his fingers.

The carriage lurched, and Richard pressed his finger against his hat.

He was a little nervous at that moment, like a student sitting in an exam hall waiting for their hair to curl.

He wasn't so sure if he had memorized all the procedures the ceremony master had taught him.

Gladstone sensed his unease and asked, "How are you, Richard?"

"It's alright," Richard said. "Hopefully I won't mess things up."

Gladstone chuckled. "I'll wait at the door, if that makes you feel better."

"Thank you," Richard replied.

The investiture ceremony was held in Waterloo Hall at Windsor Castle, and instead of a large number of nobles and officials watching, it was a private audience.

Although nominally private, the status of the investiture was hundreds of times higher than that of a public investiture, and generally only high-ranking ministers or foreign heads of state were allowed to enter the royal family's private castle.

Moreover, unlike knights who need to kneel to receive the personal honor of having their swords tapped on their shoulders, baronial legitimacy comes entirely from the royal charter, so the process is relatively simpler.

The carriage entered the central inner courtyard through the George IV Gate. Richard drew back the curtains, and Windsor Castle stood shrouded in thick fog, with the royal flag flying high atop the massive round tower, indicating that the Queen was present.

The spacious courtyard was not heavily guarded and was eerily quiet, with only occasional sights of servants in dark uniforms hurrying along with their heads down.

Because the Queen closed the castle’s front hall three years ago and converted it into a storage room, carriages cannot stop at the main entrance and must instead go around to the north terrace and enter through the side door.

The carriage stopped quickly.

Richard slowly stepped down from the carriage, his boots landing on the wet, gravelly ground. Gladstone was already waiting for him on the other side.

The two men walked side by side through a side gate guarded by royal guards, their chins held high, their faces expressionless beneath their hat brims, looking like two wind-up toys in a shop.

Upon entering the castle's corridor, the lighting was unusually dim, and the Queen's order during the mourning period to replace all the prominent red carpets on the floor with dark ones made the atmosphere inside particularly somber.

The corridor is lined with neatly arranged armor and snow-white marble statues of past monarchs: Henry VIII, Charles I, William III, each one sculpted with lifelike detail.

Richard even saw Henry VIII's magnificent Greenwich armor, which was said to allow for free movement of every joint, like a second skin.

He slowed his pace and lingered on the armor for a moment longer.

He thought to himself that this was like getting a free tour of the royal residence without paying an entrance fee.

They were then led to the double oak doors of the Waterloo Hall, where they awaited the summons of the master of ceremonies.

Richard stood in front of the door, took several deep breaths, and his shoulders tensed unnaturally.

Gladstone stood beside him with his hands behind his back. He was used to this kind of scene and found Richard's expression somewhat amusing.

"Don't be nervous, Richard," he reassured him. "This is much simpler than your research."

"Of course." Richard's throat was a little tight, but his tone was relaxed. "My nickname is 'Nervous'."

No sooner had the words been spoken than the ceremonial officer's voice came from inside the room.

Richard Bryan.

The door was simultaneously pulled open by the guards in the hall, and Richard quickly took off his hat and handed it to the servant beside him.

He stepped across the threshold.

Waterloo Hall wasn't much brighter than the corridors, all thanks to the overcast skies of London.

The cold sunlight poured down from the high window, shining vertically on Queen Victoria's face at the end of the long table, like a spotlight on a stage, making her face under the black veil appear solemn and dignified.

She was still wearing her usual black dress, with a small, exquisite diamond crown atop the veil on her head.

A master of ceremonies stood upright beside the Queen, holding in his hands a square box wrapped in red velvet. Richard knew that it was his charter.

He bowed deeply to the Queen from inside the threshold.

Bend your upper body downwards from the waist until you reach a 45-degree angle, pause for one second, and then slowly straighten up.

The Queen remained seated, so Richard continued with the second step, moving forward.

He walked toward the Queen along the left side of the long table.

The walls of the hall were covered with huge portraits depicting the monarchs and generals of the anti-French coalition who participated in the Battle of Waterloo and defeated Napoleon.

The Duke of Wellington, holding a marshal's baton, gazed intently; General Blücher, dressed in Prussian uniform, his chest adorned with medals; and Tsar Alexander I of Russia, draped in a dark cloak, with smoke and fallen warhorses behind him.

They looked down at Richard from the picture frame, but he felt no unease; instead, a sense of awe arose within him.

He stopped halfway across the long table. He bowed to the Queen a second time, as was customary.

On the wall to his right was a portrait of the Duke of Wellington.

At this moment, the Queen spoke slowly: "Step forward a little, Richard Bryan."

He continued walking until he was less than five steps from the Queen.

In the shadow of the table, beside the Queen's legs, was a deep red kneeling cushion with gold embroidery along its edges.

Richard bowed to Queen Victoria for the third time.

The Queen placed her hand on the velvet-covered box held by the master of ceremonies beside her.

He stepped forward, his right knee firmly planted on the kneeling mat, his left knee slightly bent, his body upright, and his eyes fixed on the carpet.

"Mr. Bryan," the Queen said solemnly, "the Home Office has registered your hereditary charter. From this day forward, the British Empire has the Bryan family of Barons. May your descendants forever inherit your loyalty and wisdom."

Richard replied, "Your Majesty, I will do my utmost to repay your kindness."

The master of ceremonies presented the treasure box wrapped in red velvet. The Queen took it, placed it on the edge of the table, pushed it forward, and then held her hand out in front of Richard.

Richard quickly removed his right glove, palm up, and gently placed it under the Queen's wrist.

Then he lowered his head, hovering his forehead, and gently touched the Whippet black jade ring on the Queen's finger.

The ceremony is over.