WHEN WE RETURNED to France, nothing was the same.
We had left my friend on the portico of King Edward's castle. She had not ceased weeping since the night after her nuptials, though I was not sure whether it was because she knew we would be leaving or detested the thought of being alone with her groom.
Despite Blanche's melancholy, King Edward's spirits had not been dampened. Instead of waging war or threatening the execution of Charles, he had not been offended by our King's request for funds. He had agreed to provide us with the money we needed to finance the French court and the rest of the country in return for our army's military support if needed.
King Edward had happily sent us back to Paris with our wagons overflowing with silver vases of sweetmeats and sugar plumbs, pearls, gauntlets, sapphires, jewellery and elaborate tapestries in addition to the money meant to replenish our royal coffers.
A fortnight after our arrival home, King Philip declared a day of celebration, though we had not been away for very long. The servants sprinkled roses over the floors in our chambers, filling the air with the perfume of springtime.
As I sat in the great hall across from Jeanne and Martine, I felt very alone without the company of my dear friend Blanche. She had made the impossibly long feasts enjoyable with her amusing anecdotes about her family and court life.
Days without Blanche were bleak and cold. I spent much of my time walking the gardens with my ladies, imagining the sun against my back and the grass beneath my bare toes in the sprawling fields of Toulouse.
I begged Martine to teach me how to read and write, desperate to understand the mysterious black curves and points neatly arranged across parchments and books.
I had failed in my foremost duty as the dauphine of France, making me desperate to distract myself with learning. As my attendant reluctantly succumbed to my pleas, slowly, the letters became compelling possibilities instead of incoherent shapes.
Still, the loss of my child and the departure of Blanche haunted me. I found it difficult to sleep, feeling like an imposter as I lay beneath the shadowy glow of candlelight and flickering moonbeams.
On the nights when Charles lay beside me—which were increasingly rare—I felt even more alone. He spent days hunting and the nights gambling, stumbling into my bed chamber long after nightfall had darkened the sky above the castle. Our couplings were swift and did not ignite the type of passion or love some of my ladies whispered about.
"You appear downtrodden, my lady," Jeanne, pulled me back to the bustle of the great hall. She was a kind woman and I trusted her very much. Her advanced age and previous marriage to a difficult man made her especially compassionate. "Would sharing your burden with us make it any lighter?"
"Yes," I replied, grateful for the opportunity to share my innermost feelings with another soul. "I have been thinking about Blanche and wondering how she is faring. I remember feeling very alone when I left Toulouse and I know she must feel the same. And..."
Martine stiffened in her chair, and I remembered one of her lessons. I was not supposed to share my burdens with anyone. The court was ravenous for gossip—especially when it included news about the sufferings of others. Misery for one man was another's entertainment.
Unfortunately, my sadness caught the attention of Pierre d'Évreux.
He had been lurking in the shadows at my husband's side all evening, trying his best to disguise his anger at being excluded from such an important expedition to England.
"What did you say is troubling you, my lady?" He feigned a concerned look, his question gaining the attention of the courtiers who clustered around him like a flock of hens.
I gripped the wine glass with one hand, wishing I could splash his white tunic with its contents.
"I am not unwell," I said simply, knowing the shortest answer possible would frustrate him the most. Though I did not know the Bishop very well, I knew him enough to know that he craved the ineptitude of loose lips.
"Perhaps you are with child. Would that not be a happy day for us all?" The Bishop sneered, his eyes flying to my stomach. Did he know about the child I had lost?
My hands fell to my bodice. A tear welled in my eye, but I gazed ahead, unwavering in my resolve to appear strong despite my internal weakness. No one knew of the child I had lost except for my ladies and Martine. I had not told Charles, though when in the throes of wine and sleep, he often wondered aloud why a child had not yet been conceived.
"Do not pester the dauphine with such questions. Only God knows when He will open a woman's womb," Martine snapped. She was adverse to Pierre d'Évreux, calling him a wolf amongst sheep under her breath when she thought no one could hear.
"The dauphine's fertility is a matter of grave importance and the future of our great kingdom. If she cannot produce an heir, she will have failed in her duty," The devilish Bishop of Laon smirked, leaning forward on his elbows. He was enjoying the power he wielded.
At that moment, I promised God that if I ever had a child, I would not allow my husband's advisor anywhere near him. There was no doubt that Pierre d'Évreux wanted to exact the same kind of control over my future children that he enjoyed with Charles Augustus.
Charles stared at me blankly but seemed unconcerned with my silence. The musicians began to play a melancholy tune as my husband rose to follow Pierre d'Évreux and his entourage out of the great hall for billiards and wine.
My heart sank as I watched a group of female courtiers—all new arrivals from noble households across the country—saunter after them. Though there had never been any confirmation that the men forged forbidden dalliances with these young women, the rumours were abundant.
As they rounded the corner, Constance—a young woman with fair hair and the cousin of Cecile of Burgundy—slid her arm through Charles's and glanced back at me, a smirk plastered across her face.
She wore a large feather through her hair and countless jewels adorned her bodice, which tightly encompassed her décolletage. Though she was not uncommonly pretty, she was highly fashionable, despite her obvious disregard for the costume laws the Pope had established to curb the immodesty of dresses.
I expected my husband to extract his arm from her or retreat, but he remained in her grasp, his free hand tightening over her waist. He pressed his mouth to the side of her face and she giggled.
I was sick.
Leaping up from my chair, I gathered my skirts and sped across the carpeted and tiled floors of the great hall, eliciting a chorus of gasps from the balcony.
As I rounded a corner, I barrelled past a flock of bewildered servants. I ran until I reached the outer courtyard, feeling the night air sting my face.
Through the metal rods of the drawbridge, I could see the outline of Paris and its crude, lopsided houses. The powerful clamour of criers announcing the King's decrees and merchants selling their goods had subsided for the night, replaced by the moan of animals.
I noticed a throng of beggars and other peasantry at the bridge connecting the castle to the rest of the city, their figures small and black against the scenery. I remembered I would be among their ranks if not for the twist of fate that brought and kept me here.
A hand gripped my shoulder. Before I could run, I collided with a hulking figure. Candlelight illuminated a pair of blue eyes and a recognizable face.
"I should not have to run after my wife in front of the entire court of France." Charles glared at me, his face reddening. "Whatever you were used to in Toulouse... it is not the same here. You cannot conduct yourself as though you are a carefree peasant child, running away whenever it pleases you."
"I ran away because of you," I turned away from him, my voice gaining volume with every word. "You conducted yourself improperly with another woman in front of the entire French court. You did not defend me when your dear friend, the Bishop, blamed me for the absence of an heir. And just when I lost my child!"
The last words erupted into silence. I had forgotten Charles did not know about the loss of my child—our child. I had never wanted to tell him.
I turned back to him, straining my eyes to see his expression through the almost impenetrable darkness. His eyes were wide with shock.
"I did not know... You were carrying a child?"
I nodded.
"We will have another soon enough. Then, our place at court will be secure and we will not need to worry about gossip or those who say my brother will replace us." He said, attempting to console me. "Come, let us return to my bed chamber so that we may try again."
If only he knew that I did not care about our position or power. I only mourned the child I would never be able to meet.
My face burned with indignation and shame. How could I lie with my husband when he had disgraced me in front of the entire French court? He had hardly apologized for his indiscretion and I had reason to believe he would commit the same sin again.
Charles tried to grab my hand, but I forced him away. "I cannot join you in your chambers. Not now. I do not feel well."
When I felt the heavy scent of wine and sweat collide with my senses, I whirled around to gaze upon the Bishop.
His face was lined with feigned concern, but his eyes shone with mischief. "I could not help but follow Your Majesty into the courtyard, for I feared for your safety. There are far too many vagrants beyond the castle walls who wish harm upon our beautiful dauphine."
"I overheard that you would not accompany your husband to his chambers. And yet, the Church commands that a wife must give herself to her husband in submission. Especially the wife of the next King of France." The Bishop's voice lowered, assuming the authority his office afforded him.
I remembered the reading Martine had given me the night before, where Saint Paul wrote to the Ephesians on the importance of husbands loving their wives as Christ loves the Church. The Bishop's words neglected to account for this sentiment.
"What of Christ's commandment to love? According to the scriptures, a husband ought to love his wife as his own flesh." I watched the Bishop's face narrow.
"My lady, you must not question the Church's authority!" The Bishop glared at me. "You will accompany your husband to his chambers and produce an heir for the Kingdom. Refusal to do so is treason."
"Even when the Bishop who claims to represent Christ is an adulterer who breaks His commandments?" I demanded.
Pierre d'Évreux stared at me in shock. He had not expected me to rebuke him so openly. Nor had he realized that I could be courageous enough to announce his indiscretions.
As I followed the dauphin from the courtyard and into his chambers—our coupling more urgent than it had ever been before—I pictured the triumphant look that had stamped Pierre d'Évreux's face.