I STARED DOWN at the ancient Roman road as it protested beneath the battering of horses' hooves and wagon wheels.

I knew that the roads in France had been constructed by the Romans, for Martine had spent the entire morning lecturing me on the ingenuity of Italian innovation and the great empire that had once ruled over the kingdom. She had explained that the King's ancestor, the great Frankish ruler Charlemagne, was besotted with Roman traditions—minting coins with his image in the Roman style and expanding the use of the Latin language throughout his realm. In fact, I had heard of the great Charlemagne before, his name being entangled in the poems and songs of the troubadours.

While I found this topic fascinating, Martine had a habit of making interesting subjects seem uncommonly dull.

She spoke slowly, with no inflection in her speech, as if reciting customary prayers at low mass. Her face always remained completely unmarked by emotion, and she would not offer any sign of success when quizzing me in matters of the court.

When I had attempted to gain her favour by asking her about her pastimes—I assumed that a lady of her standing had time to pursue more leisurely interests—I had been met with a disapproving silence. When I had further inquired if she was fond of embroidery or poetry, as I knew Lady Adeliza had been, she contended it was not proper to speak of the deceased in such a careless fashion.

As I gazed at the stony profile of my new companion, Fleurine's absence became even more painful. Though I had wished for our parting to be less abrupt, the previous day's events had been incomparably swift.

After attending low mass with the Countess in the chapel, Martine had escorted me into the great hall to feast with the Count and the King's attendants.

The revelation of my father's identity drastically changed the way I regarded my former master. No longer was he the gracious benefactor who had selflessly given me a choice in my marriage. Nor was he the wise nobleman who treated his servants with uncommon kindness. He was simply the man whose character had been but a facade to mask his sins.

I had curtseyed to the King's attendants and the Count without looking at the latter, choosing instead to regard Francis of Aragon, a minor Franco-Spanish nobleman and advisor to the King.

His tall frame resembled a river reed as he bowed ceaselessly to the Count and Countess, his black over tunic swaying. The pallor of his face contrasted with a shock of black hair sprouting over his ears.

When Francis beheld me, his brown gaze had deepened with skepticism. No doubt he knew of the future dauphine's famed beauty and grace. "And this must be the lovely Lady Adeliza."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance," as the answer sprung forth from my lips, I wished I had not spoken it. The Countess had instructed me to be quiet unless directly addressed or I would be considered improperly flirtatious.

The nobleman's eyes had widened to the size of tree nuts. After clearing his throat, he had swiftly recovered from my mishap, directing his gaze to the Count and his wife. "Your daughter is even lovelier than has been described. And where is your son?"

The mention of Bernard made my stomach coil with fear. I did not know if the Count had informed his sole heir of the twisted scheme he was concocting, though I doubted his reaction to such news would be favourable. He had not received the Count's decision to give me the choice of whom to marry well, after all.

"Regrettably, my son has gone hunting this morning. He was informed of some particularly tempting deer and could not resist the chance to find them," Count Frederic chuckled, though his laugh sounded hollow and contrived. "His bride is resting in her chamber. She has been unwell."

The rest of the morning had passed swiftly. 

As Count Frederic and Francis of Aragon discussed political matters, wedding preparations and more trivial subjects such as hunting, I occupied the role of a removed observer, as if the events were unfolding as the stationary panels of a tapestry. I had desperately wanted to escape to the forest, but under the watchful eye of Martine and the Countess, such a thing was impossible.

In an instant, I was leaving the manor. The Count had ordered his manservants and the King's knights to load countless chests of Lady Adeliza's gowns onto the carriages bound for Paris.

A pair of knights assisted Martine and me into the grandest carriage of all: an ornate structure made of oak and gilded with delicate artwork. I had searched for Fleurine beyond the gathered swell of servants and knights awaiting our departure, but she was absent from the overwhelming crowd.

Since I was supposed to be her cherished daughter, the Countess kissed the crown of my head before parting with me. "Remember, you are to represent Toulouse in the way you conduct yourself at court. You must conduct yourself as any honourable daughter would."

The Count had stood at his wife's side with a vague glint of shame in his eyes. Rather than offering some encouragement or wise instruction, he had simply bowed his head—the jagged red scar on his cheek glistening in the sun as it penetrated the tree branches above us.

And then, everything I had ever known disappeared.

"You should not weep at court." The cool voice of Martine pulled me from my reminiscence. Drawing a hand to my face, I realized I had been crying. "Queen consorts do not sully themselves by partaking in excessive displays of emotion."

"And can I not cry in front of my husband?" I questioned brashly. Though I was not privy to relations between man and wife, I expected a husband ought to console his bride if her spirit was troubled.

"You should not believe all you hear in the chansons and poems. Though a husband can be his wife's most treasured ally, he can also be her greatest enemy." Martine warned, sending a chill through my spine.