The Fearless Princess (Forgotten Royals)

Chapter Eighteen

The moments of summer died, leaving only the endless purgatory of autumn. Tragedy was once again visiting my family, and it made everything else less important.

I stood in my sister's bedchamber, aghast at the sight. Only sixteen, and she sunk into her bed as though she were already a corpse. Her pale complexion looked almost deathly in the stark daylight. It wasn't the first time I lost a sister, but it never happened in front of me.

"Bella?" Mary called out in a weak voice.

I wanted to run. I always considered myself fearless, but this was too much. She was still a girl. She should be parading around the court, proud of her new title as a duchess. Young men should be worshiping her. There should be dancing and tournaments, not coughing and dying.

But she needed me. Mama was in the chapel, praying to every saint. Papa was burdened with matters of state and trying to find a doctor who could explain to him why his daughter was withering away. Her husband was no help. There was only me.

Dear God, give me courage.

I held my shoulders high and walked over to her. "Dearest sister, have you been eating?" I shook my head. "You must keep your strength up. You ought to eat some meat, not fast like it's Lent."

"I can't eat," she said, sounding too faint. "I've tried."

"Well, you must eat." I clapped my hands together in a brisk manner. "Or you'll be all skin and bones when you go to Brittany."

Her blue eyes looked haunted, as if she was seeing the future that would never be hers. "I'm never going to Brittany."

"Don't say that," I said, sharper than I intended. "Of course you'll go there. You'll show the court there that the English have style."

"I wanted to go." She let out a weak, raspy cough. "I wanted to be important and beautiful. But I'm not. I'm going to die in England and everyone is going to forget me."

Terror gripped me, more ruthless than an instrument of torture. "Don't say that!"

She was silent for a moment before turning her foggy blue eyes to me. "But it's true. No one ever speaks of our sister Joan. We pray for her soul, but it's like she never existed. It will be no different for me."

"Only if you keep acting this way." I clenched my hand. "Our sister had the pestilence. She couldn't survive. The doctors say it isn't the same for you. You're growing weaker, but it shouldn't be a fatal disease. Look, you have relics and we're all praying. All you have to do is to fight to live."

Please live.

"I don't know how to fight," she said in a small voice. "I never did."

"Think of something you want and imagine charging a horse toward it," I said. "If you want Brittany, do everything to get your desire. Eat, rest, and pray. Do what the doctors tell you to do. Keep riding until you're free from this bed."

She closed her eyes, and I feared she had fallen asleep. Then she let out a shaky sigh. "I don't want to go to Brittany. I wanted to stay here."

I knelt next to the bed and clutched her bony hand. "Then stay here. Think of Christmastide. You'll be one of the most important ladies at court. All the men will want to dance with you."

"They always want to dance with you," she said with a bit of her old resentment.

"Well, yes, I am beautiful and merry." I forced a grin. "But they'll want you because you're unattainable. You'll be there Guinevere. The high lady they cannot have. You'll be irresistible."

A wistful smile flickered on her face, and for a second I allowed myself to hope. Then she dimmed, and it seemed like whatever strength she had left was gone. "I wanted that... but I do not care now."