"Come, Felicite," Anjolique says, taking her by the hand. "You must walk, now. You must not lie in bed, not until the last possible moment. This will help your pain, and it will help our dear prince make his entrance into the world."
Felicite labors through the night, sweat soaking her clothing and the bedsheets, the pain threatening to tear her apart. But she will not scream or cry out. Her son will not be born to the sound of his mother in agony. She steels her resolve, and her mother squeezes her hand, as though she has heard Felicite's silent vow to herself and approves.
At dawn, the urge to push takes control of her body.
"Mother, I think...I think the child...the child is coming."
"Now, you must be very brave," Anjolique says, her cool hands stroking Felicite's fevered brow. "Breathe deeply. I think he is coming, too."
The midwife nods in agreement, and someone sends for Saoirse, who enters the room then, coming to stand beside Felicite, while Anjolique stands on the other side.
"You must help him, now, dear girl," Saoirse says kindly. "He is ready, and he will come now. Do not fight against it. Bringing children into the world, it is not a battle to be fought. You are helping the future king of the Three Kingdoms to enter the world."
Anjolique nods and squeezes Felicite's hand. "She speaks the truth. Do not struggle against it. Embrace the pain."
Felicite forces herself to take a deep breath and to concentrate on opening her body. The pain grows and grows, and then there is a horrible feeling of stretching, a rush of movement, and then...
The wailing, high-pitched screams of a child.
Anjolique and Saoirse share a look between them, both of their eyes filling with joyful tears, both for different reasons, and then they each bend to kiss Felicite's forehead.
"You've a son, Felicite, a beautiful son. Your father would be so proud of you," her mother says.
"Well done, sweet girl," Saoirse says. "You labored with such quiet strength and courage, and now, you have given us the most beautiful little prince. Oh, you have saved the Three Kingdoms, Felicite."
Felicite feels utterly and completely exhausted, and she leans back against the pillows, watching the midwives bathe and swaddle the baby. Her strength begins to return, though, and her arms are unacceptably empty.
"Give me my baby," she demands impatiently; rudely, even, but she does not care. She only wants to have her boy in her arms.
Her boy. Her own, dear boy.
Once he is secure, she spends a few moments gazing in wonder at this perfect, tiny being who has come from her own body. A patch of golden peach fuzz atop his head, a tiny pair of rosy lips and a flushed face - the midwives assure her his color will settle to normal after a while - her little prince is everything she has hoped. She begins to pull back the linen wrapping that covers his tiny, wriggling body, inspecting him, counting his fingers and his toes, but he is perfect. Completely perfect. And there is no mistaking that her child is a boy.
As she gazes down at him, his tiny eyelids open, revealing a pair of perfect blue eyes, the color of jagged ice, the eyes of his father staring up at her. They are beautiful, and she feels sad for Julien that he is unable to experience this moment with her. Her son returns her gaze, as if he is as surprised to meet her as she is to meet him, and for a moment, Felicite feels fear fill her heart. It is as if this little baby boy knows his destiny.
"You have done it, Felicite," Anjolique says. "You have given the Flemings their boy."
"He does not belong to the Flemings," Felicite says firmly without meeting the eyes of her mother. "He belongs to me. We shall call him Fionn."
"You honor the heritage of the Isles," Saoirse says, tears filling her bright eyes. "You honor me, dear girl."
"It is a good name, a noble name," Anjolique agrees. "Prince Fionn."
"Fionn, Prince of the Three Kingdoms," Felicite says, nuzzling against his cheek. "My own heart. You shall be king one day."
Gabriel is her first visitor when Felicite has rested and has eaten a meal. Although she is only allowed broth, Gabriel smuggles into her chamber a loaf of crusty bread, a beautiful block of cheese, an apple, a peach, and a handful of sugared almonds.
Ancestors bless him. Gabriel is a true hero.
She is beginning to feel much better, but the sight of her oldest and dearest friend as he enters her chamber makes her heart leap with comfort and relief.
She has been anxiously awaiting his arrival. There are few in the castle of Ravaenna she can count as allies, true allies, anyway, who are not actively pursuing their own interests. Gabriel's calm and steady presence always reassures her, quiets her fears, and gives her perspective. Gabriel is not a man guided by emotion, only rational thought, and she treasures his ability to calm her and help her to sort out what must be done.
He is impossibly tall, and yet he has an air of calm about him regardless of the events unfolding around him; even in the midst of battle, he retains his calmness. Gabriel emanates a quiet authority that has served him well as her guardian, allowing him to often protect her without even raising a weapon.
And he is handsome, with his chiseled features, his golden hair flowing in waves around his ears and his piercing green eyes. He is lean, but well-muscled, and a force to be reckoned with, whether on the battlefield, or on the jousting green, or the archery targets, or on a hunt.
But unlike the other males of Julien's court (to be fair, Julien never considers Gabriel a true member of his court, and were it not required of him as Felicite's guardian, Gabriel would prefer a monastery on the other side of the world to Julien's court), he is never inclined to draw attention to himself. He never struts about as some of Julien's friends do, flaunting their accomplishments or their wealth. Gabriel is quiet and reserved, preferring to sit back and observe those around him, his ever-watchful eyes scanning for potential dangers to his charge.
Felicite feels much the same as Gabriel about the court of the king. There is danger lurking here; every laughing face, every turncoat traitor who was once loyal to Jolis, or her own father, King Remy. These nobles smile to her face, but when her back is turned to them, their eyes watch her with malice. And now their malice will be centered upon her son.
Her face darkens at the thought, and Gabriel's brow furrows as he shifts Fionn in his arms.
"Are you unwell? Should I send for your Lady Mother? Or the physician?"
She shakes her head. "No, no, I am sorry for worrying you. It is nothing. Only that I was thinking of those who would wish him harm." She nods toward Prince Fionn.
Gabriel bounces the baby in his arms gently, as though he has done this hundreds of times, when in truth, this is the first infant he has ever held.
"He is the son of Princess Felicite Beaujolais of Agincourt and King Julien Fleming, the grandson of King Remy the Fourth and Queen Anjolique Agincourt, and a direct descendant of the First Wolves themselves," Gabriel says. "He will be revered. He will be king one day, and a good king. We will make certain of it."
"You will see to his training?" Felicite asks Gabriel hopefully. "You will teach him yourself?"
Gabriel frowns. "Do you think the king will permit me?"
"I've only to ask him. He may disapprove of our closeness, Gabriel, but he respects you as a warrior and a knight. He would be honored, I am certain."
"Your son is perfect," Gabriel says, smiling down at the boy. "He has Julien's eyes, but your fair hair and your features. He is beautiful."
"He is so innocent," Felicite says with a heavy sigh as she adjusts the pillows around her. "How quickly that innocence will fade, with the life we have born him into."
"You've a visitor, Your Grace," Lady Saoirse says with a bright, wide smile as she opens the door to the Felicite's chamber, stepping aside for the guest who sprints inside.
"Felicite!" his voice calls, breaking a bit, and his eyes are wide and filled with something akin to panic.
"Julien," she says, turning a warm face to the king. "You are home."
"You are well?" he asks as he drags a chair to her bedside, studying her face for signs of distress.
She cannot help but smile at his sweet concern. What a mystery her husband is turning out to be. "Your son, Your Grace," she says, shifting the baby in her arms so Julien can see him. "Isn't he perfect?"
Julien takes the swaddled infant from her gently, as though he is afraid of him, and stares at him with wide-eyed wonder.
"He is so handsome," Julien says admirably. "And so strong! Thank you, Felicite, thank you for giving him to me."
She says nothing, her throat tightening with emotion. She does not correct him - he may believe that she gives her Fionn to Julien, but the child belongs to her, and always will. Her boy. Her little prince, whom she will one day put upon his father's throne and guide him as he rules the Three Kingdoms with the skill and learning of his grandfather and the commanding presence of his father.
"And you, Felicite? Are you recovered? Do you feel well?"
Felicite tries to remain dignified - she is to be the queen, after all - but his genuine expression of concern for her prompts an honest response.
"It was quite painful, and it dredged on for hours," she admits.
"You will forgive him, won't you?" Julien asks, concerned.
"Forgive him?" Felicite asks with confusion.
"For causing you such pain?"
"Oh," she says with a small smile. "I could never bear him ill will, Julien. He is my beloved. I hold him in my arms all day, every day, I cannot bear to be apart from him, until your mother or mine takes him for fear I will spoil him."
"He is perfect," Julien says, echoing her earlier words. "And you, my love...you are absolutely radiant."
Their eyes meet over their newborn son, and together, their hearts are filled with joy. For this one small moment in time, it is only the three of them, husband, wife, and son; not king, queen, and prince. They are a family, a real family, not the king and queen of anything, no uprisings or rebellions to consider, no wars or rivals, no betrayal or treason. Just this small new family. Pure.
They welcome autumn with a day of revels, expertly planned and executed by Prince Killian and his friends, who live for play.
There is a delightful re-enactment of a naval battle on the river, much to the enjoyment of those gathered. There are barges for Felicite and her ladies, and they lounge about eating sugared plums and almonds and cheeses and sipping autumn ale while they enjoy the theatrical performances.
Julien participates in the mock battle, and as he sails by, he tosses a rose to his queen; she catches it and smiles brilliantly at him, and she holds Prince Fionn up to cheer for his father, although he is much too small to care for the festivities. The court goes wild with applause for the prince, who merely blinks before nuzzling into the adoring arms of his mother and promptly falling asleep.
When the battle re-enactment is over, they return to shore, where great tables laden with food and musicians spread throughout the gardens await them. There is a tremendous harvest feast, featuring delicacies like stuffed peacock, and haunches of roast venison that Killian and his friends hunted yesterday; there is chicken and roasted goose and carp fresh from the river. There are tables filled with desserts and pastries, all in the shapes of autumn leaves and the harvest moon, and every available surface is covered with brilliant bouquets, swags and garlands of leaves and richly colored autumn flowers.
"You have outdone yourself, my dear brother," Felicite says, while Killian sweeps his elegant bow before taking her hand and raising her fingers to his lips.
"Autumn is my favorite, and I wanted a celebration worthy of your beauty," he replies with his signature charming grin. "You are pleased?"
"Indeed," Felicite says brightly. "I've never seen such a splendid autumn feast."
"I see you have entrusted my nephew to the best possible care," he says with a sweet smile for Dulce, who is carrying Fionn in her arms. "Are you enjoying the festivities, Princess?"
Dulce smiles. "Oh, yes. Everything has been wonderful, Your Grace."
"And you, Nephew?" Killian asks, offering the infant his finger to grasp as Dulce bounces Fionn in her arms. "Are you enjoying the day?"
"He has, but I believe it is time for his nap," Princess Dulce says.
"I shall make it up to you next year, with ponies and ale and perhaps a bow," Killian promises Fionn with a wink. "Princess Dulce, you will take good care of our nephew, I am certain."
Dulce blushes. "I will, Your Grace," she says with a curtsy.
"There is more for you to enjoy, Sister," Killian tells Felicite, his eyes sparkling merrily. "And for you, as well, Princess Dulce. You will save a dance for me this evening?"
Dulce's blush deepens as she bows her head and lowers her eyes. "I will," she says, her own eyes twinkling.
"Perhaps two dances," Killi says.
"What is this?" Felicite asks with a grin as Killian is swept away into a crowd of his friends.
"What do you mean?" Dulce asks, clearing her throat and looking away quickly.
Felicite touches Dulce's arm, bringing them both to a halt and studying the face of the younger girl. "Is Killi your mate?"
Dulce bites her lip. "Oh, Felicite, you mustn't speak of it to anyone. Mother will hate me, and Claude will tease."
"You need not worry, Sister. I will not speak of it to anyone."
"You won't tell the king?"
Felicite shakes her head. "He has no interest in matters of his brother's heart."
"How do I...how should I...I mean...oh, nevermind," Dulce says miserably, turning her focus to Fionn.
"If you are asking my advice, sweet sister, I would bide my time. You are not yet old enough to wed. I am certain that you will catch his eye. I would wager you already have."
"Truly, Felicite? Do you truly believe I could have his heart one day? I am so plain-"
"You are not plain, Dulce. You are beautiful, a princess of the House of Agincourt, and it is he who should be grateful to have caught your eye."
"Do you mean it? Truly?"
Felicite smiles as she spots Killian, taking a long drink from a tankard, but his eyes drift to Dulce and soften a moment. As soon as he catches Felicite's eye, he looks away quickly, and she is certain she sees his cheeks redden.
"Patience, Sister," Felicite says. "In a few months, you will be fourteen. I'm certain that is all that separates you."
When twilight settles over the land, Julien and Felicite lead a procession back to the castle of Ravaenna and take their seats in their throne room to watch the traditional children's masque, and then the musicians strike up a tune for dancing. Julien calls for more wine and the autumn celebration lasts long into the night.
Felicite now shares Julien's chambers, and there is a beautifully carved royal cradle, decorated with the symbols of both the houses, Fleming and Agincourt, laid with the finest of linens a baby could have, installed for Prince Fionn at Julien's command. No one argues, because Julien is the king.
Each morning, Julien rides out to hunt with his friends, and he and his companions return each evening with venison and game. Every night, he visits the nursery to see his son, to sit beside his crib and watch him sleep.
Julien and Felicite are happy in these moments, all thoughts of rebellion and war gone with the celebrations of the new prince and the successful autumn harvest. The grain stores are full. There will be food to see them through the harsh winter ahead and a prince to secure the line of succession. Soon, they will invest Fionn as the Prince of Briony. And there is peace in the Three Kingdoms.
For now.