SEVERAL WEEKS AFTER Charles and I had wed, Cecile of Burgundy invited me to visit her chambers. 

Though I would rather remain hidden away in my own chambers, Martine insisted my presence was a political necessity. 

I had successfully avoided meeting the King or any of his family in the days following our wedding, desperate to avoid questions about the wedding night or my new marriage. Instead, I sat upon pillows surrounded by my ladies, listening to music and stories from visiting troubadours, allowing my thoughts to be transported faraway. 

Charles had spent the days away from the castle, hunting with his companions and drinking wine, only to return far past twilight. His father had coaxed him to apologize for his behaviour yet again, but he had not done so willingly. When he had finished his short apology, he had awkwardly taken me into his arms and consummated our marriage.

A wave of nausea coursed through me as I remembered the night and those that followed. We did not love each other. I suspected Charles only visited my chambers because his father commanded him to and he knew an heir was required from our union. My husband was not violent or cruel, but the resigned duty in his eyes was equally unsettling. 

In those lonely days, I often wondered whether my life would have been different with Gerard and whether I could have grown to love him. I remembered the soft look of affection in his eyes when he spoke to me, and ached with sadness. 

When the sun poured through the spired windows, dispelling the mists of the previous night, and fishing boats cast their reflections upon the Seine, I readied myself for an event that seemed as precarious as an ill-fated war. 

Extracting myself from the comfortable warmth of my feathered bed, I threw a robe about my shoulders.

My ladies drew a warm bath sprinkled with rose petals and honey: a concoction they said was used to maintain the softest complexion and delay the onset of wrinkles brought by old age, though my complexion was still youthful. 

After washing thoroughly and applying ointments to my exposed skin, they apparelled me in a simple gown of taffeta, embroidered only with small emeralds across the sweeping sleeves and the bodice. The neckline was high and modest, revealing far less than the gowns of my ladies. 

Jeanne, a fashionable, widowed noblewoman in her thirties with the most experience out of my gaggle of female attendants, appraised me with disapproving wood-brown eyes when I emerged from behind a curtain. Her darkened lips separated as she contemplated chastising my choice in gowns but closed again when she noticed Martine's look of fond admiration.

It wasn't until I wavered at the mouth of Cecile's extensive chambers that I regretted my modest attire. 

Swathes of intricate carpets and tapestries cradled the Queen's canopied bed—each illustrating epic scenes. Atop the large cedar table and chairs in the middle of the adjoining chamber lived silver vases loaded with sweetmeats and sugar plums. Vermilion pillows of different bright colours covered the foot of Cecile's silk-canopied bed.

Cecile rose to receive me, her long dress carving a path of scarlet and sapphires behind her as she sashayed across the room. She seemed to relish in the attention awarded to her as she exhibited her towering figure and impeccable posture. The scents of perfume and incense flooded my senses as she greeted me with a ceremonial kiss.

Without speaking, she beckoned me to one of the window seats overlooking the Seine while she languished upon an elevated armchair, her emerald-gold eyes thick with judgement as she scrutinized my gown and features. One of her ladies offered me a sizeable goblet of wine.

"How I have waited for this day when my husband's new daughter visits me at last," Cecile said. Her voice was far higher than I had expected, similar to morning birdsong. I could understand why King Philip was so enchanted by her. 

To me, the words were laughable. Blanche had already disclosed Cecile's displeasure with my arrival at court. Nor was I eager to dwell in the Queen's presence—especially after I had witnessed her act of adultery with the Bishop.

"I thank you for your kindness, my lady."

Regardless of my secret dishonesty, Cecile seemed pleased with my response; her features gleaming with satisfied pride. She ordered her personal musicians to play in the foreground, allowing music to submerge the increasingly tense silence.

"I was surprised by the dauphin's sudden affection for you. For usually he prefers the company of fair-haired maidens," Cecile gestured sharply to my hair—which was then concealed by a linen wimple.

I stopped myself from rolling my eyes at the false flattery. The dauphin did not seem infatuated with me in the slightest. He did not speak to me whenever he had the choice. 

"Thank you, my lady." 

Cecile leaned forward to study me. "You do not speak like a noble. There is something... foreign in your tongue." 

Panic coursed through me. I felt Martine's hand stiffen around the arm of her chair, bracing for an accusation. How could we deny my false identity if the truth was so apparent? 

Thoughts spun through my mind as I tried to devise an excuse for my clumsy speech. I had studied the conversations of nobles enough that I thought I had mastered the royal accent, but apparently I was still a novice. 

"Then again, I am enough of an outsider that I cannot pretend to know the intricacies of the royal tongue." Cecile laughed bitterly. "Tell me, how has my husband's son treated you?" 

I released a sigh, relieved by the change in conversation. "The dauphin is kind, but he does not seem as charmed by me as you think. Or perhaps he is reserved. He does not speak to me often."

Martine pinched the back of my arm.  

I had revealed too much. Cecile smiled triumphantly, for the distance between the two of us assured her more power.

"Fear not, he will seek amusement elsewhere once he has sired an heir. That is the nature of men."

I was humiliated by the suggestion. My marriage was not a happy one, but I could not imagine Charles sharing his bed with another woman. Such sinful betrayals led to chaos and heartache. 

The Count's cursed dalliance with my mother flashed through my mind. I cleared the tears from my throat.

"My lady, why did you call me here?" I asked, searching her frigid expression for even a strand of kindness. The musicians had begun what sounded like a battering war song, echoing the escalating intensity of our discussion.

Surprise at my bluntness coloured her features. 

After drawing a sip of her wine, she recovered, though a glimmer of fear threatened to dismantle her polished exterior. "You must know of my precious son, Louis of Burgundy, the Duc d'Orléans. With your marriage to the dauphin, I should not want any harm to befall him."

I recalled the rambunctious boy with a crooked smile. 

He was only a child; far too young to understand the silent battles raging between his older relatives. Shock barrelled through me when I realized Cecile was implying my presence at court might somehow threaten her son's life. As much as I distrusted my new mother-in-law, I did not want her to imagine me capable of such evil.

"My lady, I would do nothing to harm your son. He is the dauphin's brother, so he is my kin as well," I vowed, raising my voice against the thudding of music pulsating through the chamber.

"You promise that now, but when you produce a child, you will have different aspirations," Cecile said between sips of her wine. "Every mother wants her son to succeed. Though you are young, you will be the same. You will destroy anyone who dares to threaten your son's esteemed position."

I laughed, taken aback by her suggestion. "I do not have a son, my lady."

Cecile cocked a brow but did not waver in her resolve. "I only ask you will look kindly upon Louis." 

"As I said, I would never harm the child. He is my husband's brother, so I am certain he would never imagine doing so either."

My promise satisfied Cecile. 

We spent the rest of the morning exchanging few words and nibbling on the exotic fruits and candies she had ordered for the occasion and attending an obligatory mass in the chapel alongside other members of the royal family.

When we swept through the gardens in royal procession to return to our chambers—the tender scents of jasmine and honeydew wafting through the crisp air—Charles appeared from the shadows, waving away my attendants. 

He wordlessly guided me into a thicket of pine trees and began pacing like a madman. 

"What were you thinking?" He whispered loudly, waving away a pair of obedient courtiers who had wandered after us. "Conspiring with that woman when she has nearly destroyed this family?"

His anger made my blood run cold.

"I did not conspire with her!" I protested, braiding my fingers together as if in prayer. "I only vowed to safeguard her son's safety and position at court. He is your kin—"

"He is her son." Charles's face was flushed and twisted into an expression of sheer rage.

When he perceived my astonishment, he softened only slightly before marching towards a small grove of trees—none of them yet yielding fruit because of the approaching winter.

His fingers bunched around one of the gnarled branches, his knuckles transforming from their usual shade to a disarming white. "You promised her a position for her son—at court, no less—enabling him to eventually stage a coup if he wishes to secure the throne for himself. Now the entire court believes my wife would support my father's bastard over me, his rightful heir."

"My lord, I never promised any position!" I raised my voice, bunching my fists. "I do not swear allegiance to your brother. I only told the Queen I would never harm a child. Perhaps if you visited my chambers during the days instead of only when you are required to do so, you would understand me better." 

The torrent of words tumbled from me like a rushing stream. All of the anger and resentment I felt towards my husband finally emerged, but I did not regret my speech. 

We stood still for a few moments, listening to the hushed conversations of nobles returning from mass. 

Charles glared at the branch between his fingers as he grappled with my outburst. Rather than scold me for my failure to affirm his rank, he divulged a political matter. "I leave for England on the morrow. We must bring Blanche to the English King since he has grown impatient for his bride. Perhaps you should accompany me until your discussion with the Queen has been forgotten." 

Though I wanted to remind him Cecile of Burgundy did not seem the kind of woman to forget a promise—especially one regarding the future of her beloved son—I agreed.