Felicite does not sleep, only paces the damp cellar of their sanctuary, filled with worry and a sense of foreboding. She pauses occasionally to check on Fionn, and then on Dulce and on Richard, only to resume her pacing of the floor, pushing a chest over to the window and climbing up to see outside. Her hand rests on her belly; she can feel the child inside of her kicking.
"You must not worry," she tells the child in her womb. "Your father is going to make our kingdom safe for you and your brother. And your Uncle Killian and your godfather Gabriel will help him. All you must do now is to grow strong for them."
But her words of encouragement to her child do little to calm her own fears.
She is tired of sanctuary. The only word she receives comes from Gabriel, or once, when Julien's squire delivered a message to her, but even that was disheartening, for it was an escape plan.
It is not yet daybreak, but the Fleming line is prepared. He feels confident, surrounded by men he loves and trusts with his life. If he dies beside these men today, if the Ancestors will it, then it will be a good death.
If he wishes to remain king of the Three Kingdoms, then he must stand and fight.
"Take the horses to the back," Julien commands his page. "Keep them at the ready."
"Ready for what?" the boy asks fearfully.
"For a charge, if it goes well," Julien replies. "For retreat if it does not."
The page takes Julien's horse and the horses of the other nobles and leads them away from the line, and Julien turns to Killian.
"There is something strange in the air."
"I know," Killian replies. "But if we are to have the advantage, we must move now."
Julien nods, wielding his sword. "My commanders are ready. Killian, I am not yet ready to part from my life. And I should like to see my new prince in the cradle. I want you to take a company of men into the woods there -" he gestures to the far right - "and I want you to watch. Make sure there is no surprise attack, and...Ancestors help us, if we are losing...make a charge."
Killian shakes his head. "I will fight beside you."
"I've given my order. Go, now."
Julien watches as his brother commands one hundred men - such a small number to rely on if things go poorly - and they begin to disappear into the heavily wooded area, hidden from view.
And the king leads the charge up the hill and toward the sleeping enemy.
Julien can smell blood. He can taste it. He struggles against the urge to shift, and he can see the men around him struggling as well.
Lord Standishe's company of archers loose their arrows, resulting in screams of agony and utter chaos as men are dashing frantically about to prepare for a battle that is already upon them. Julien gives the order for the cannon, and with a deafening boom, a cannonball tearing through the enemy camp.
But the enemy regroups, and more quickly than Julien expects; the advantage of surprise has worn off, and now they are charging, down the hill, clashing against Julien's men, swords and great battle-axes swinging wildly.
He is losing, he knows it. He feels a new sensation, one he has never felt before - it is fear. When he fled before, when he mustered this army, he did not feel fear. He felt white-hot rage burning through his veins, setting his blood to boiling, but he did not feel fear.
It is dark, still too dark to see; it is not yet daybreak.
He thinks of Felicite, of Fionn and the child that grows now in his wife's womb, and that strengthens his resolve. He cannot allow his mind to wander, to think of what might become of them if he fails in this mission.
He has already failed them once. He will not fail them again.
But his sword arm is failing and he is fighting against his own exhaustion. They are outnumbered, and the sheer number of men who come at him in steady waves is too much to continue fighting at this pace.
As Julien is about to give in to his exhaustion, to allow himself to admit defeat, he hears a new sound in the air.
A charge.
But not from behind him, and not toward him. It is not his own men. It is coming from behind his enemy.
The dragon standard flutters above the charging soldiers in the eerie morning light and suddenly, the army of Courtade is attacking the enemy from behind. They are surrounded on two fronts, and they quickly lose the ground they had gained against Julien's army.
"Push forward!" Julien hears Killian cry out, and he repeats the words himself.
Their spirits renewed by the unexpected reinforcements, Julien's own men rally, and their war cry is deafening.
The fighting begins anew, but the enemy soldiers begin to drop their weapons and run, abandoning their lords. The air is heavy with the scent of blood and the screams and cries of the wounded and dying men on the battlefield, and it is too much for some men, who are shifting uncontrollably. The cries of wolves mad with bloodlust begins to overtake the shouts of the dying, and soon, there are no men left alive.
Julien glances about the battlefield, but he sees no sign of Mariusz.
"Some king," Killian scoffs. "He lacks even the courage to enter battle with a crown upon his head, as you did."
"I wanted to be certain he could find me, if he wished," Julien shrugs. "Seems he was not looking to find me."
"He is long gone," Killi replies. "But you know he will return."
"I know," Julien says, closing his eyes for a moment. "I must send a company behind to Ravaenna, to protect Felicite. I imagine Mariusz will set his sights upon her and will want to ransom her."
"That is optimistic," Killian says. "Most likely, he will just kill her and your children. Or have your marriage declared illegitimate, remove them from the line of succession."
"He is not going to do any of that," Julien assures Killian. "Because I am going to find him and kill him."
"There is another matter you must attend to first, Your Grace," Asa says, sliding from the saddle of his sweat-lathered horse. "In Ravaenna."
Stay safe, Felicite. And keep my sons safe.
Julien's voice, plain as can be, speaks inside of her head.
It cannot be, she thinks.
I have loved you from the moment I first laid my eyes upon you. I love you now as much as I did that first day. You know that I love you, don't you? Surely you must know that.
Julien, what...what is this? This sounds as if it is you saying farewell. Is my seeing wrong? Are you not victorious?
Remember the name my squire brought to you. If this goes badly, you must put aside your pride and take our children to him. Protect my sons, Felicite, and protect yourself.
I do not understand...please...do not go, Julien, please!
Julien is not speaking to her, she realizes. This is a conversation he is having alone, in his own head, and she is somehow overhearing his words. She can sense the fear in his voice and this inspires fear in her.
Then there is silence.
Julien. Julien, please. Answer me, please answer me!
But his voice is quiet, and Felicite begins to pace again.
"Is it the child? Is the child coming?" Dulce asks, rubbing gentle circles on Felicite's back as the queen doubles over with pain, grasping at her belly. "Shall I send for the midwife?"
"Yes," Felicite manages between clenched teeth. "And Mother. I need my mother!"
"Our Lady Mother cannot come to you now, Sister. I will help you." Dulce calls to Richard, drawing him to her side. "You must go for Julien's mother, Saoirse, in her own sanctuary at Casterley Abbey. Tell her that it is time. She will know. She will come."
Richard hurries off to obey, wide-eyed and frightened.
Saoirse arrives, directing Richard to take Fionn into the tunnels of the abbey so the sounds of his laboring mother will not frighten him.
"I am not ready...I am not ready..."
"That matters not, sweet girl, because you must do this. A new prince of the Three Kingdoms is ready to enter the world, and you must help him. He is worthy of a brave mother, is he not?"
Felicite grits her teeth and steels herself against the pain, although it threatens to split her in two. She does not remember the pain being so terrible when she bore Prince Fionn.
"Where is she?"
She hears Julien's voice through her agony, recognizing it instantly.
"Julien?" she struggles to raise herself up onto her elbows, searching for him frantically.
"Let me through!" Julien's voice is raised, authoritative and commanding. "I should have come to her sooner-"
He forces his way through, emerging by her bedside.
"Your Grace, you must not be here," the midwife argues. "The birthing chamber is no place for a man. Not the King, certainly!"
"Please, Julien, please stay with me! Please do not leave me!" Felicite sobs.
"I will remain," he says with an air of finality that leaves no room for argument as he reaches for Felicite's hand. "I will stay here with you. I will not leave you, I give you my word."
"Here, hold this," Saoirse says, handing Julien a damp cloth; she seems to realize that there is no point in arguing with her son, and more importantly, she seems to approve of his devotion to his wife. "Keep it on her forehead. Hold her hand, and lend her your strength."
Julien nods and obeys, and Felicite's head rolls toward him, dripping with sweat and wrought with pain. She releases another groan of agony and Julien holds her hand a bit more tightly, clutching her head to his chest and stroking her damp hair.
"Should she be in so much pain?" he asks.
"This is natural, Your Grace...there is pain with each child that comes into the world; for a prince, the greater pain the mother endures, the greater the achievements of the king she bears."
"That seems unfair," Julien says, but no one is paying attention to him.
"I...I can't...I c-c-can't, Julien, I cannot do this! I haven't the strength."
"You are the Queen of the Three Kingdoms, the wife of a king returning victorious from battle, the daughter of the great King Remy Beaujolais of Bruges and Bourbon...and you are an Agincourt, and let me remind you of your own words, 'Agincourts do not quake with fear'. So you can do this, my love, you can, and you must."
Julien's words give her strength and courage; her face hardens, the panic gone and now replaced by a look of forged iron.
"You must push," the midwife Saoirse has summoned says. "The child is coming."
But the child does not come.
The agonizing pain continues for hours and the queen is nearly unconscious from her exhaustive efforts. Her chin rests against her chest, her eyes bloodshot and wild with pain; her hair hangs in sweaty knots on her shoulders.
The midwife looks up and shakes her head. "The child...Your Grace, I do not think..."
"Felicite, listen to me, now," Saoirse says sharply. "You must push this child out, or you will die. I know you are tired, but we need you now."
"She will die?" Julien's eyes dart from person to person for explanation, but again he is ignored. Tears spring to his eyes. He wishes this childbirth were any other foe. If it were an army invading his shores, he could lead the charge to drive them back. If it were a great boar attacking his queen in the forest, he could use a bow or a spear or sword. He could negotiate a treaty if she needed lands, he could order her the finest delicacies if she were starving. He could do so much to save her, and yet he can do nothing to protect her from this, the agony of delivering his own child.
"Felicite," he says, leaning as close to her as he can manage. "As your king, I command you to live. You will not die. I forbid it."
"I am so...tired," Felicite murmurs, her eyelids fluttering as she struggles to remain conscious. "I just want to rest a while. Can I just rest for a moment?"
"No, my love, I'm sorry, but you cannot rest just now. You must bring our son into this world and then I will take you away on progress. I will buy you horses and jewels and gowns and every thing that your heart desires, I will do anything you command, but you must do this for me now. Our life together has only just begun, and I will not lose you."
Her eyes begin to close and he shakes her shoulders as her breathing stills.
"Felicite?" he asks, his voice hoarse with fear and panic. "Wake up. You will wake up. I command you. Wake up now!"
"Your Grace...I am sorry...I fear she and the child are both lost..." the midwife says softly.
Julien explodes in a fit of rage, screaming at the midwife and frightening the other ladies from the room.
"If my wife and my son do not survive, it will be your head on the block! And then I shall burn your families at the stake and put their skulls on pikes on the castle wall!"
"Julien," a weak, soft sound comes from Felicite's lips. "You will do no such thing."
"Your Grace," the midwife says, "gather your strength and push, now. He will come. Your little prince will be here if only you push."
"Please, my love," Julien pleads. "I cannot do this if I lose you. Please. Can you...will you do this for me?" Tears stream from his cheeks and drop onto her hair. His panic is at a level of which he has never experienced before. He has only ever felt afraid on the battlefield once, and that was fleeting; even when he stood before the great King Jolis, he felt no fear. He never fears his duties as king, or the darkness, or the wild beasts of the night, or the humans. But to have no control over something so dear to him is infuriating. He has only just found her; their life is about to begin; and now they are both to be taken from him.
"Yes," she says, tears pouring down her face. She gives a terrible, agonizing cry and pushes as hard as she can, bearing down with a scream of pain.
The air feels as though it has been sucked from the room. Felicite's sobbing stops abruptly and her eyes close; and then there is total silence.
Julien panics as his eyes dart back and forth between Felicite, limp against him, and the tiny child that is not crying.
They are supposed to cry, are they not? Why is the child not crying?
"It was a boy, Your Grace," Dulce says softly, her eyes downcast.
"A boy," he replies, blinking dumbly, unable to comprehend what is happening.
This cannot be.
His wife, dying beside him, their son, dead in the arms of his aunt.
No. He is the king of the Three Kingdoms. He will not allow this to happen.
"Lumiel, I beg you now to spare your grandchild and her son," he begs. "You can take my life if you need one. I will give it gladly. Spare them, please, Lumiel, for the love you bear your children, spare them. I've no kingdom without her. I've no life without her. Take me."
"Julien," Saoirse says softly, wrapping her arms around her son, tears streaming down her own face as she watches the scene unfold before her helplessly.
"No!" he shouts, pulling his arm from her grasp with a rough jerk. "Bring her back," he rounds on the midwife. "Bring them both back at once!"
The piercing wail of an infant rings throughout the chamber.
Dulce emits a choked sob as she swaddles the child; the midwife heaves an enormous sigh of relief, her life spared, and Felicite's eyes fly open as she struggles to sit upright.
"My baby...give me my baby..." she says, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Rest, now, Felicite," Saoirse says, displaying the small bundle in her arms to Julien. "Your Grace...your son."
Julien reaches for the baby, eager to hold him, but then he pauses. It would be unfair to take the child first when Felicite has done all of the work. He helps her adjust her position so she is lying against the headboard, and then he presents the baby to his mother. She moves the blanket from the face of the child, her finger weakly stroking his tiny cheek.
"My sweet little prince," she says, a faint smile on her lips.
"Drink this," Saoirse says, offering a mug to Felicite. "The ale will help to dull some of the pain."
Julien is utterly terrified of this small boy now in his arms, after the ordeal he has watched his wife endure. Fionn was born weeks before Julien returned home, and he has never seen a newborn child, let alone held one in his own arms. The exhaustion of battle, the warring emotions, the fear over losing his wife and his child, are too much for the young king to handle, and tears begin to fall again from his eyes as he holds his son.
"Oh, come now, Husband," Felicite says with a weak laugh. "Surely you did not think to be rid of me so easily?"
"You nearly died," he accuses, but there is a smile on his face as he removes the blanket and inspects the baby carefully. There is no mistake, the child is a male. But he is also perfect with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes, a button nose, and fine, fair hair.
"We've another son," he says, "two sons, two perfect sons to secure our line." She is smiling back at him, although her face is still drawn and pale, her eyes heavy and bloodshot, and her lips dry and cracked.
"We have," she replies, her eyelashes fluttering up at him.
"You are radiant," he says, bending to press a kiss to her forehead.
The child's eyes flutter open and he gazes up at his father curiously.
"Thank you," Julien mumbles, raising his eyes to the sky. "For sparing them. Thank you."
"Your throne is assured, Your Grace," Saoirse says. "And we've another heir to celebrate, as well as your victory on the battlefield!"
Julien agrees halfheartedly, for he knows his victory was not decisive, and that Mariusz will return. "Have the bells rung. Raise the banners. And you, my love," he reduces the volume of his commanding voice, filling it with affection and tenderness, "must rest, so you may join me in the celebrations later."
"I should like to sleep, now," she says, accepting the sweet kiss he presses to her lips before her ladies enter to help her bathe. "And we shall go home? Fionn shall return to his nursery, and this child to his own?"
"Yes. You shall come out of sanctuary and return to your home."
The nurse prepares to take the child from her, but Felicite stops the woman.
"He must have a name. What shall we call our little prince?" she looks up at Julien. "We've our precious Fionn. Now what shall his name be?"
Julien considers this for a moment before he declares that the boy shall be known as Prince Oisin.
"Sleep well, my little prince, and you as well, my queen," Julien kisses her one last time, and tears himself from her side. "I will send Gabriel to return you to your rooms in the castle, and I shall be back to visit you when you are feeling well. Lady Mother, you will send for me when she is rested?"
"She may not take visitors -" the midwife begins, obviously feeling very courageous after her near-death experience.
"Am I not the king of the Three Kingdoms? If I wish to visit my wife and my son, I will whenever I so please."
"What is it?"
Felicite turns her head in the direction of her mother-in-law, startled, as she is lost in her own thoughts as she watches her sleeping infant and his elder brother peering at the baby tentatively over the side of the cradle.
"I do not know what you mean."
"What troubles you so?" Saoirse asks, setting aside her embroidery.
"How do you do it?"
"Do what, Felicite?"
"How do you love all of your sons, when they are all so very different? How do you love Lucien, who is as evil as a man can be, and Torran and Florian, who are loyal only to whoever suits them best at the time, and Julien, who is stubborn as a bull, and Killi...well, I suppose I understand how you can love Killi. But how can you love them all equally?"
Saoirse sighs and rises from her chair, moving it closer to Felicite's bed.
"Lucien is not my son," Saoirse says. "He is the son my predecessor, Queen Anisa. And there is no love between us. He believes I poisoned his mother to take her place, and that I plotted to have him removed from the line of succession so my own sons would take precedence."
"But will he not be king of the Norselands?"
Saoirse shakes her head. "No. He was removed entirely, despite my pleading with his father to restore his titles and lands. My husband would not be moved, and I understand now his reasoning. Lucien is unfit to rule. He is a fine military commander, of course, he learned from his father, as all my boys did. But absolute power corrupts entirely, and Lucien is absolutely corrupted."
"I see," Felicite says. "And the others?"
"Julien is the love of my life. My own dear boy, held close to my heart. Think of the way your heart lifted when you first held your own dear Prince Fionn in your arms. There is nothing Julien could ever do that could make me stand against him. And you will come to understand that as your own sons grow. As for the others, make no mistake, I love them, of course I do. But Torran and Florian are weak and greedy and seek only to serve themselves and further their positions. My Killi, now, my sweet boy...how he inspires me. His bright, fierce, loyal courage. His unwavering devotion to Julien. Your boys will be different as night and day, more as they grow into men. But you will always love them, and all the children yet to come for you and my son."
"And what will I do when they stand on opposite sides of the battlefield?"
"You will pray to the Ancestors for both of their souls, and you will stand beside your king."