An Accidental Queen

Chapter 16

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.