An Accidental Queen

Chapter 19

A MONTH AFTER my son took his first breath, King Philip breathed his last. It was almost as if our monarch had waited until an heir had been born to depart from the world and travel to the next knowing his line would not perish with him.

When the news was announced, Charles and I were summoned to his father's royal chambers to pay our respects and pray for his soul. We weaved our way through hallways brimming with servants and courtiers who bowed in reverence, expressing their sympathy with whispered prayers and mournful expressions.

The King's death was the first time I was permitted to carry Louis in my arms.

Selfishly, I treasured the moment, memorizing the way my infant son's wide blue eyes gazed up at me adoringly and feeling the rolls of fat beneath my hand. I wished he could have met his brother—the child who had not survived but still remained firmly planted in my heart like the strong roots of an oak tree.

Since his birth, I had visited the nursery several times but was forcibly accompanied by Martine and the rest of my ladies, as well as a male member of Pierre d'Évreux's entourage. Fortunately, the man hardly seemed interested in babies, so on my visits, I was allowed to hold my son and nurse him to the displeasure of Martine.

We stood ensconced by the sorrowful chants of monks kneeling at the King's bedside and Cecile's incessant weeping.

The widow had taken the opportunity to dress in a flowing gown of white damask complemented by a fine collection of rubies and sapphires. The gown and jewels were highly inappropriate given the occasion and many of my ladies gossiped in hushed tones about her ignorance of the customs. The Queen was not allowed to leave her apartments for a year after her husband's death, so I thought it peculiar that she was present.

Other courtiers hovered above the lifeless King, whose waxen skin shone in the glow of the braziers hanging above his canopied bed. I did not know my father-in-law well, but I felt a wave of deep sadness pass over me for the man who had once been a lively and generous presence at court.

Charles's features were pallid with sadness.

"I cannot believe he is gone," he whispered into my ear. "I will not believe it."

I searched for his hand beneath the wide scarlet sleeve of his tunic, lacing my fingers through his. It was not ordinary for us to show one another affection in a public setting, but I wanted him to know I cared. We both knew that with his father's passing, he was king. It was a role he had expected all his life, but not one he wanted.

In the early hours of the morning when we lay together in the few happy days of our marriage, he had often dreamed aloud of living a pastoral life as a farmer who thought of nothing but livestock and land. I considered telling him that such a life was not as idyllic as he thought but realized this statement might hint at my secret identity.

Before I could open my mouth to reply, a shriek shattered the monks' psalms and the courtiers' polite sobbing.

Cecile was charging across the room—her white gown floating about her and her black hair escaping her embroidered veil to make her look like a ghost—pointing a slender finger at Charles. "You! You killed the King, you cowardly churl!"

Charles balked away, awestruck. Immediately, Francis of Aragon and the young Clement of Anjou flanked my husband, their arms stopping the desperate woman from clawing him to death. 

A soldier charged with the important task of protecting Charles grabbed Cecile and began dragging her from the chamber, her shrieks becoming more hysterical. The courtiers were silent with shock. No one had ever seen Cecile seized by such madness. Even the Bishop d'Évreux appeared stunned, his angular features tightening in fear.