An Accidental Queen

Chapter 12

I COULD NOT SLEEP the night before my wedding.

The lead tiles of the roof above me rattled with the weight of rainwater, no doubt flooding the fields and the raging river below. The footfalls of servants, knights, and cooks were unceasing—penetrating the darkness as they prepared for the impending festivities.

Like most peasant women, I had always imagined my wedding imbued with gifts and joyous celebrations shared with my friends and kin. As a small child, I danced through the fields while my parents ploughed and weaved baskets, imagining the gown I would one day wear at the chapel steps as I stared into my beloved's eyes.

As time passed, I became disillusioned with the imagined beauty of marriages and weddings. The romantic love of chansons became but a distant and intangible thing as I witnessed the women around me enter marriages with unkind men they did not love but felt compelled to care for.

When I shared my concerns with Fleurine, she had granted me a solemn expression. "Though you may not love at first, you will grow to care for your husband. After sharing life and children with one another, an understanding will grow that far outlasts any youthful passion."

I felt the cool frame of the miniature Francis had given me between my fingers. Lifting the miniature to catch a moonbeam, my eyes traced the likeness of Charles. Would he ever come to love me? He seemed to resent the fact that I had been chosen for him. Would he grow to care for me with the passage of time, as Fleurine once promised? Would I ever love him?

I placed the miniature on the trousseau beside my bed, along with the other trinkets Francis had brought to Toulouse on behalf of Charles. I could not stand to look at them, knowing they were none of his doing. His father had likely commissioned the portrait rather than it being a sentimental item of my groom's affection for me.

Stretching to my feet, I reached for the beeswax candle flickering upon a wooden bench draped in tapestry. The flame of the candle was free from the thick smoke accompanying tallow candles at the manor, though smelled rich and comforting.

I walked in silence through the apartments, passing a sleeping Martine and several other ladies present for wedding preparations—who were also sprawled across the foreign-looking pillows and fabrics donning the benches, their fingers clutching sewing needles.

One plump woman with auburn hair stirred in her sleep—almost startling awake at a seemingly unpleasant dream—but surrendered to slumber once again.

I sunk into the shadows beyond my bed chamber. I hoped the heavy rainfall would conceal the sound of my footsteps against the satin and herb-strewn floors.

I did not consider the sheer size of the castle, or I scarcely knew how to travel from one place to another. But my bedchamber was a gilded prison, and I needed escape—even if only for a few fleeting moments.

"Where is Her Majesty travelling at such an hour? Not leaving before the wedding festivities, one should hope." The guttural male voice pierced the darkness, emanating from one of the empty outfits of armour lining the walls.

I pulled my satin cloak around my shoulders to conceal my linen chemise beneath, my heart thudding as I contemplated a response. I prayed the person who had caught me was not the King himself, though this man's voice seemed far more sinister.

Pierre d'Évreux stumbled clumsily from the shadows, the scent of minced wine and sweat encompassing his wiry frame. Despite how hungrily he had devoured the feast, he was an unusually thin man, with angular features and a pointed jaw jutting out amidst an unkempt beard.

He did not care to disguise the way he leered at me, his gaze meandering into territories hardly suitable for an esteemed clergyman, or any man beholding the future Queen of France. He was looking at me in the same way Henri had.