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.

Though I greeted him with a glare, he smirked without apology. 

When I realized the doors behind him led to Cecile of Burgundy's apartments—one of the few places Blanche had indicated with anger when we returned to our rooms after the feast—disgust gathered in my throat. Perhaps Blanche was right to harbour suspicions about her father's new wife, as well as the conniving clergyman. I could only hope my husband would not be so easily swayed by the man's influence.

"I could ask you the same question," I said, not daring to meet his eyes. Considering all Blanche had told me of him, this bishop was not a man I trusted, nor one I would ever speak freely with.

"You possess a tongue, then?" Pierre d'Évreux leaned down to behold me, contempt colouring his voice. "How different you are from the lady described to me by the King. Your noble father also said you were sweet-tempered, with fair hair and blue eyes. And yet, the woman before me is quite the opposite. Perhaps that is why the dauphin was so disappointed with you."

His words were as sharp as shards of glass. Even as a laundress, I had never been spoken to in such a callous manner, except for Henri—who rarely ventured far beyond crudeness. Worst still, Charles was not happy with me.

"I do not know what you mean. The King and dauphin were gladdened by my arrival." The truth was overpowered by my growing contempt for the Bishop.

"If that is what you think, you are more innocent than I thought." Pierre d'Évreux's rotten smile glowed in the light of my candle.

Before I could turn away to escape any further humiliation, a woman's shrill voice broken by the song of a lute called out from Cecile of Burgundy's chambers. "Mon amour, are you not returning?"

Pierre glanced at me with indignation that I had perceived one of his forbidden dalliances. Then, he imparted me with a threat in his beady eyes before retreating into the Queen's bedchamber.

♕♕♕

On my wedding day, the morning sun bathed the city in amber and gold.

As several ladies told me while they arranged my hair, people wore their finest garments to dance in the streets, serenaded by the court musicians the King commissioned to bring music to every corner of Paris.

The rivers of the Seine glittered like jewels but paled in comparison to the countless chests of jewellery brought to my apartments, adorned with the curved letters of my supposed name alongside Charles's. I cringed when I imagined how unaware my groom was of the gifts.

My attendants adorned my neck with rubies and slipped emeralds around my wrists—which were barely visible beneath the long cuffs of my gown. I wore the gown that had been sewn for Lady Adeliza: one with a flowing skirt and a sapphire-embroidered bodice.

Because my predecessor had been more full-figured than me, Martine worked swiftly to tighten the fabric before daybreak. I thanked her for aiding me, once again hoping a friendship could develop between us. For once she smiled—likely happy her task of marrying me to the dauphin was almost complete.

In what seemed like a moment later, we were weaving through the flower-laden streets of Paris in a royal procession; the musicians stamping their feet as they played with their violins, trumpets, flageolets, and bugles.

Criers announced our arrival before my attendants gathered the train of my gown and accompanied me up the stairs and into the cathedral. People showered us in wildflowers and exuberant cheers—making my anguish subside, if only for a moment.

At the altar, Charles stood in the company of King Philip and his young half-brother, Louis of Burgundy.

Prince Louis was but a small child. He was like his father in appearance, with scarlet-red cheeks and a sturdy frame, but possessed his mother's cunning eyes. When he sent me a timid glance, a crooked grin curving his lips, I realized he had inherited the King's warmth as well.

Cecile of Burgundy, on the other hand, stood at the King's side like a rigid guard. She was unsmiling, with eyes the colour of fading embers, her hand lodged protectively over her son's shoulder. She had taken the occasion to wear a gown far finer than mine—a multitude of gems sparkling across her full sleeves, complimented by a towering, golden crown.

While I stepped down the aisle, my future husband's hands folded at his waist. He did not raise his eyes to gaze at me, not even when I came to stand at his side.

The words of the Cardinal of Bourbon—a man with thin lips and frail hands—and the thunderous noise of the crowds on the cathedral steps as the heralds threw symbolic golden objects from the platform became an indistinguishable cacophony. In an instant, we were married.

We separated again to sail down the streets in our royal carriages, mounting the golden horizon to return to the palace for the wedding festivities. 

The elation of the crowds had only increased with the completion of the ceremony, prompting me to wonder what they would all think if I was hardly of royal heritage but a servant's daughter and a former laundress. When I remembered Pierre d'Évreux's devilish expression, I remembered. 

If my secret was ever revealed—the Kingdom of France would collapse.