Chapter 7: Filial Service to the Two Palaces

Due to the late emperor’s passing, today’s affairs were numerous; by the time the court deliberation ended, it was nearly noon.

After all, he was still a boy; even though Zhu Yijun forced himself to stay alert, he could not help but feel weary.

Fortunately, since today’s audience was held, there would be no daily lecture.

“Your Highness, I shall deliver the drafted responses to the Two Palaces.”

Feng Bao gestured with his eyes toward the two eunuchs behind him, who carried the memorials.

According to the founding regulations, officials’ memorials were typically delivered to the emperor via eunuchs at the Huiji Gate or the Tongzheng Office, with some forwarded to the Grand Secretariat for deliberation.

Once a decision was reached, copies were sent to each ministry and bureau.

But throughout Chinese history, the pattern has always been: personnel erode institutions, turning them into new ones, which are then eroded by new personnel, in a cyclical loop.

Chancellors were like this, the Three Departments were like this, Provincial Governors, Viceroys, even county clerks—all could not escape this pattern.

The Grand Secretariat was no exception.

After two centuries of evolution, the Grand Secretariat’s actual power had swollen several-fold.

Especially after the Jiajing Emperor of the Ming Dynasty avoided court for over twenty years, and the late emperor indulged in the inner palace, entrusting all authority.

Whether submitting memorials, holding court deliberations, or approving edicts, new precedents had long been established.

For instance, the practice of first delivering memorials to the emperor before copying them to the Grand Secretariat had reversed: now, memorials were first sent to the Grand Secretariat for drafting, then presented to the emperor for review.

Worse still, even the emperor’s direct edicts were now procedurally illegitimate if they bypassed the Grand Secretariat’s drafting.

These were known as “imperial edicts from the palace,” or chaotic orders.

Today, as during court deliberations, the Grand Secretariat would draft preliminary opinions on memorials—called “draft responses” or “piaoni”—then forward them to the Directorate of Ceremonial for approval from the Two Palaces.

If the Two Palaces approved, the Directorate of Ceremonial would red-pen the decision and execute it; if they disapproved, they would return it to the Grand Secretariat for reconsideration.

Of course, exceptions existed: if the Two Palaces wished to avoid discussing a matter, they would retain it in the palace—known as “withholding it from issuance”—and the matter would be shelved.

The authority to dispose of memorials belonged to the emperor; now, with the Two Palaces acting as regents, they temporarily assumed this duty.

“You may go yourself,” Zhu Yijun nodded.

Feng Bao bowed and withdrew.

Zhu Yijun watched the old eunuch’s retreating back, his gaze growing cold.

He knew the Two Palaces understood none of the intricacies within memorials, nor did they possess the political prestige to overturn the Grand Secretariat’s draft responses.

Regarding all opinions, the Two Palaces could only “follow good advice” or remain noncommittal, leaving the final authority to red-pen decisions to the Directorate of Ceremonial.

In the end, the Grand Secretariat held the power to propose, while the Directorate of Ceremonial held the power to veto.

And this Grand Eunuch, Feng Bao, naturally ascended to the pinnacle of power, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Grand Secretary.

Such a situation must not be allowed to continue.

Thinking this, he turned his head and gave a quiet order: “Let’s return to Ciqing Palace.”

…

Back at Ciqing Palace.

It was time for lunch.

Since the late emperor was still in mourning, today’s lunch was plain.

Fortunately, the dishes were varied and delicious; Zhu Yijun ate with great care.

He was still growing; he must replenish his nutrition well, or else, like the late emperor, he might die in his thirties—that would be disastrous.

As he tasted a dish, Zhu Yijun frowned and pointed to it with a gesture.

“Tell the Imperial Kitchen Bureau this dish is too sweet—don’t serve it again.”

It wasn’t that he disliked sweets; rather, after the Ming Wanli Emperor’s tomb was excavated, examination of his remains revealed he had severe tooth decay.

He could only relieve his pain with opium, and his later years must have been unbearable.

Since he now bore this identity, he must be careful and protect his teeth.

After finishing his meal, Zhu Yijun carefully cleaned his teeth, then lay back on his bed under the servants’ care for a brief rest.

Returning to the Eastern Palace did not mean today’s duties were finished.

After his nap, he still needed to pay respects to Empress Chen and Consort Li.

Since ancient times, filial sons of the imperial house never failed; these were indispensable rituals.

Beyond paying respects, he must also use Consort Li to influence state affairs.

The position of Director of the Directorate of Ceremonial, taken from Feng Bao, must be filled with someone he could trust.

Otherwise, he had no one usable at all.

Even today, disposing of a lowly eunuch required Feng Bao’s approval—it choked him.

In this state, he could not possibly rule independently; if someone panicked and turned desperate, he wouldn’t even know how he died.

Lying on the bed, Zhu Yijun slowly closed his eyes.

Yet his thoughts did not cease—he recalled the events of the court session.

The Great Ming was truly riddled with holes.

Xuan and Da showed signs of separatism; the central army had clearly lost its deterrent power.

In Huguang, officials dared to humiliate imperial envoys; the land consolidation and collusion among local gentry and clans must have reached shocking levels.

Not to mention the court deliberations, the Japanese pirates raids in the southeast, and the delayed spring tax collections—all a tangled mess.

Now, with the late emperor’s passing, everything must prioritize stability; the central government could only endure and retreat repeatedly.

But anyone with eyes could see: reform had become unavoidable.

No wonder the Grand Secretariat officials distrusted this new emperor—they were desperately seizing power, likely to suppress all factions and steer reform.

As he thought, Zhu Yijun drifted into deep sleep.

…

After his afternoon nap, his mental fatigue vanished; he felt refreshed and clear-headed.

Zhu Yijun stretched out widely.

He ordered the maidservants: “Prepare me to pay respects at the Two Palaces.”

He now had two mothers: his birth mother, Consort Li, and his legal mother, Empress Chen.

In truth, his predecessor rarely visited Empress Chen voluntarily—she was not his birth mother, and their bond was limited.

Moreover, Empress Chen had borne no children, was never favored by the late emperor, and had long resided in a separate palace.

With neither power nor affection, the predecessor visited her rarely.

But now, to establish the image of a filial son, he must honor both Palaces—none may be omitted.

So he went first to Empress Chen’s palace.

But when Zhu Yijun arrived outside the hall, he was stopped by a palace official.

“Your Highness, the Empress Dowager is overcome with grief; she has not slept for two or three days. The imperial physician administered medicine, and she has just fallen asleep,” the official said respectfully.

Zhu Yijun sighed helplessly.

He could not force her to wake up just to pay respects.

In the end, he could only bow respectfully from outside the palace and then turn away.

He then proceeded directly to Consort Li’s quarters.

Here, he visited often; the maids and eunuchs knew he would come now and immediately led him in.

When Zhu Yijun arrived, Consort Li was reading memorials.

Dressed in casual robes in her chambers, she still radiated grace.

Having been chosen by the late emperor from among palace maids, her selection was due to her beauty alone; now in her late twenties, she remained at the height of her beauty.

Zhu Yijun softly spoke: “Your son pays his respects to Mother.”

Seeing her son, Consort Li closed the memorial.

She stretched her neck and shoulders, smiling: “If you were as sensible as today, I might live to be a hundred.”

Consort Li now effectively controlled the inner palace; all hearts turned to her, and every event in Wenhua Palace was reported to her immediately by eunuchs and maids.

Her once restless and mischievous son had, today, behaved with unexpected propriety.

She had heard that several ministers had publicly praised her son’s imperial bearing at the end of court—she had savored the words for hours.

Zhu Yijun knew exactly what to say to please a woman: “Thanks to Mother’s constant guidance, I did not bring shame upon you today.”

Consort Li gently helped him rise, her smile deepening.

After ordering maids to bring snacks, she turned back to her son: “I heard you caused a bit of trouble before the court?”

—

Note 1: After the Grand Secretariat’s establishment, it could only wait for the emperor to select and forward certain memorials before drafting responses. Later, to improve administrative efficiency, a custom arose: officials would submit a copy of their memorials to the Grand Secretariat in the form of “jietie” for advance awareness, but this did not grant the Secretariat direct authority to act. However, the Secretariat’s power later strengthened; during the Longqing Emperor’s reign, when affairs were entrusted to Gao Gong, records show memorials were already first sent to the Grand Secretariat for drafting before being presented to the emperor. In Zhang Juzheng’s later period, the Grand Secretariat became absolute; showing memorials to the Wanli Emperor served more as “instructional material for governance.”

(End of Chapter)