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.

"Maman!" The elder Prince Louis rushed to his mother, grasping the thick fabric of her gown.

"You poisoned my husband," Cecile spat, her green eyes shining with rage, "you wanted to take the crown for yourself so you killed him, you brute!"

"By the saints, I did no such thing! I would never harm my father!" Charles protested. Remembering the baffled mass of grandees huddled around the chamber, he turned to face them. "I promise, by all the holy saints and in the presence of God, I had nothing to do with my father's demise."

"Liar! Thief!" Cecile's screams echoed through the passageway as she was carried from the incense-filled chamber.

I remembered my conversation with her when I first arrived in Paris. Even though I knew she wished my husband harm, my heart broke for her, since I believed she acted as a woman with no certainty about her son's future. Perhaps she believed that we would hurt my husband's brother now that the King had perished.

Noticing the boy cowering by the window, I swept down to console him. My young brother-in-law was slightly chubby from an unrestricted indulgence in the rich pastries and meats served at court, and his ruddy face greatly resembled the late King's jovial features. From the innocence in his teary eyes, I knew he was not yet corrupted by court politics or schemes.

"Do not fear, my boy, you are safe." I used the sleeve of my black mourning gown to wipe the tears from his face. "Your maman will return soon enough, I will make certain of it."

Louis nodded weakly. My son gurgled and the young boy extended a hand to touch him, his gaze shining with fascination at the newborn baby as he was momentarily distracted from his agony.

"He is your nephew," I smiled. As I watched the two examine one another inquisitively, I prayed they would not become bitter rivals like Charles and Cecile seemed to believe, but men akin to brothers who cared for the good of the Kingdom and sought God's will.

"My lady, stand up," Martine instructed me sharply and I rose from my knees.

The monks had stopped chanting the psalms. Instead, the courtiers and clergymen were staring at Charles Augustus, the next King of France.

The Bishop d'Évreux—who had clearly forgotten his disgraced lover—was the first to utter the words that ushered in a new era for the Kingdom of France: "Vive le Roi! Noel! Noel! Noel!"

♕♕♕

ON THE SUNDAY after Philip the Brave died, my husband was crowned the next King of France. Though the gilded and spired cathedral resounded with cheers that reached the heavens, Charles was expressionless beneath his royal mantle of silver and gold.

The Archbishop of Reims—a surly man with blackened teeth—anointed Charles Augustus with the miraculous oil from a vial used in the days of Charlemagne and his sons. Sweat glistened on Charles's temple as he solemnly vowed to maintain the Catholic faith and dispense good justice on behalf of his subjects across the Kingdom of France.

We walked out of the cathedral and stood in front of a crowd of peasants who applauded their new ruler. Although I partook in the coronation, I was more or less pushed to the sidelines. As Martine explained, no one wanted the Queen to appear equal to her spouse or long-suffering wives across the Kingdom would begin rebelling against their husbands.

When we waved to our subjects that night at our royal feast, my heart stopped. In the middle of the crowd was Bernard. His golden hair shone in the candlelight and he approached the dais accompanied by his young wife and a group of servants I recognized from Toulouse.

I felt my cheeks burn and Martine stiffen behind me. The entire world watched as my old life collided with the one I had been thrust into.

"Your Majesties!" Bernard's blue eyes crinkled into a false smile. "Vive le roi!"

"Who is this man?" Charles asked, shocked at Bernard's audacity. He was not supposed to approach us at such a pivotal moment, especially not in such a public fashion.

"He is my brother." I swallowed my apprehension, gesturing for Charles's guards to allow the group entry into our party. He was one of the only men on earth who knew the truth. What else could I do but appease him? 

"I apologize for our intrusion. But when the criers announced the happy news, we could not help but want to join in the festivities. My dear little sister Adeliza is now the Queen of France, after all." Bernard assumed an air of pride as he gestured to me. I struggled to understand his motive.

"May I introduce Your Majesty to my wife, Isabelle of Clement?"

Isabelle of Clement offered a weak curtsy, her black hair striking against her pallid skin. She was still a sickly-looking girl and I could tell her marriage had not brought her much joy from the sour expression twisting her thin lips. How wrong I had been to assume marriage to Bernard would make her happy. 

I pulled Louis closer to quell the fear thrumming through me as Charles and Bernard began a conversation about politics and the financial situation in Toulouse, which I learned was bleak despite the royal dowry afforded by my marriage. I knew it would not be long before my past returned to haunt me.