The Public Chronicle of Portucalense
The Square at Guimarães
Here the people gather at the ringing of the bell. Laborers, sailors, clergy, and children alike hear the words read aloud. Few can read the Chronicle themselves, but all remember what is spoken. In this way, history becomes shared breath rather than ink.
Read aloud in the Square of Guimarães
Year of the Silver Tides
An account drawn from the private journals of John of Aviz, Duque da Ilha, written during the early years of construction and exile, and preserved for the remembrance of the people.
Journal Entry — John of Aviz, Duque da Ilha
Date: 14th of Solnis, Year of the Silver Tides
The stones of Guimarães now rise higher than a man. From the sea, their pale forms emerge through the morning mist, unfinished yet resolute. Each course laid is a refusal to vanish, a declaration that exile does not mean erasure. I walk the construction each day, boots heavy with dust, listening to the rhythm of hammer and chisel. It is a sound I have come to respect more than any courtly music I once knew.
We build slowly, for the land resists us. The soil shifts, the rock fractures unevenly, and the rains test every wall before it has fully settled. Many curse this place, and I do not blame them. I too have cursed it in the quiet of my thoughts. There are moments when I would give anything to feel the cobbled streets of Atidy beneath my feet again, to smell the familiar harbors of Flolis, to hear the old bells that once marked my days.
We were torn from that world. Not gently, not honorably, but discarded. The Kingdom of Flolis did not merely abandon us. It cast us aside once our labor and loyalty were no longer convenient. I carry that bitterness like a second heart. It beats when I sleep, and it wakes me before dawn.
Yet here we are.
The quarter now forming along the ridge has taken the name Alto da Senhora. Some say they saw a light there at dusk when the first foundation stones were laid. Others say it was nothing but the reflection of the sea. I do not argue. Faith does not require certainty, only direction. I believe Our Lady of Portucalense guided us to that height so the city would always look outward, toward the horizon, and not inward toward fear.
Today we raised the primary beams of the first chapel. The wood groaned under its own weight, as if aware of the burden it was meant to carry. Beneath the altar, I placed a small chest of soil taken from Atidy. No one else knows this. I did not do it for ceremony, but for memory. One day, when my bones are long dust, someone may open it and remember that this city was founded not only by hope, but by loss.
The people labor without rest. Some are free, some are bound by circumstance, and all are bound by necessity. I see resentment in their eyes at times, and I accept it as my due. But I also see something forming between them that did not exist before. They pray together now. They eat together. At dusk, when the tools are set aside, they gather at the chapel frame and sing. The melodies are not from Flolis, nor from the islands of their birth, but something new.
Perhaps that is Our Lady’s work. Not erasing the past, but weaving it into something that can endure.
Still, I know this is not the end of my longing. I do not believe I will ever return to Flolis in this life. That door is closed to me. But I write this so that my descendants will know that exile was not acceptance. One day, when Portucalense stands strong and unafraid, one of my blood may look eastward and remember where we came from. If the Lady wills it, perhaps they will not return as supplicants, but as claimants.
For now, the walls must rise. The rains will come again soon, and the foundations must be ready.
Thus are preserved the words of John of Aviz, Duque da Ilha, spoken and written in the years of foundation.
An Entry from The Public Chronicle of Portucalense
Year of the Golden Winds
Let it be known and set to record that His Grace, Prince Afonso of Portucalense, in the maturity of years and judgment, has chosen to draw his household more closely into the affairs of governance. In councils of law, matters of coin, and the hearing of petitions, the Prince is now frequently attended by his eldest son, João of Aviz, Prince of Portucalense, who is instructed not only in statutes and tallies, but in the temperaments of men and the weight of silence. This inclusion is made with care and deliberation, that the realm may know continuity rather than surprise.
It is further observed that His Grace governs best in the company of trusted companions of long standing, men proven by loyalty and shared labor rather than ceremony. Those closest to the court remark that the Prince has ever preferred such fellowship, finding ease in counsel and quiet understanding, while his lady wife, the Princess, long a companion in friendship and mutual regard, is content in the dignities, comforts, and freedoms proper to her rank, enjoying the life of a woman well provided for and secure in station.
Prince João, following an inclination distinct from the inner court, is often found beyond the warmed halls, favoring the mews and the open fields. His fondness for the keeping of birds and the discipline such pursuits demand is widely noted, and His Grace is said to look upon this with approval, holding that patience and restraint are virtues befitting one who may one day command others.
The household of the Prince is thus ordered and healthy: two sons and one daughter. Prince Lourenço, aged eighteen, now stands foremost in public affairs. Prince Martim de Aviz, aged fourteen, is set diligently to letters, numbers, and the measured use of arms. Lady Beatriz de Aviz, aged twelve, is raised within the court, instructed in piety, grace, and the customs of noble blood.
So the Chronicle records that the House of Aviz is sustained by balance and understanding, each member tending to their nature and duty, and that Portucalense is strengthened not by spectacle, but by discretion, loyalty, and the quiet bonds that endure beyond words.
