My Anthologie. The Revenge of Feidre Drummond COMPLETED

From the King to his Majesty's Wife

Darling.

They will not allow me entrance to our chambers any longer, nor does my heart wish any other place to be. In this quandary,  our daughter found me, and suggested I write this missive and have the doctor deliver it to your bedside.

She is strong and healthy, my dear, and the roses of youth and cold adorn her cheeks as she rushes by on her important, childish occupations as I stand in the corridor and pace the polish off the floor.

They will not admit me, for they say that you do not wish me entry granted, for fear of your illness spreading  to my person, and from me, to our child, and darling,  I understand,  but will you not at least grant me a glimpse of you?

One sight, perhaps? Once a day, to assure my anxious mind that you are as your doctor tells me, in growing health and greater strength,  as the fever abates and you eat your platters clean?
         I know you do not wish this, but it shall soothe my soul to see with mine own two eyes that you do live!
          Armand

From  the Queen to Her Majesty's Husband 

I will not allow your glimpse of me, my love, for as much as your love and concern affects me, the thought of you brought low in illness beside me and our daughter with no parent hale to aid her in her growing and her care affects me much more.

I know that you are frantic, but please, love, know that I have borne you one child already,  and I defeated the fever that threatened then, did I not? And I have learned much when confined with her, and now do not fear the time I spend here.

The fever has slackened, and the child moves still within, and no bleeding or discomforts un-expected assail me, and I beg you to do with your time more than draw yourself fine with worry until you snap into pieces like badly spun thread, husband.  Dance with our daughter this afternoon, take luncheon with your brother, and tell me of them once you have done so, and leave not out the many times she may step on your feet.
               Isobela

From the King to His Majesty's Wife
I took upon my heart the advice you sent, my darling,  and such as I might try, our daughter only stepped upon her father's feet twice.

My brother is well, and he thanks you for  your insistence on my leaving my post outside our chambers, having begged me himself to no avail. He sends you a sprig of his newest aquisition, a plant with the sweetest scented flowers I have ever smelled, as a thank you for it.

Our daughter sends to you this kiss, which she bade me to  mark out in ink, so that you might press it to your cheek and receive it. 

I send one of my own, my love.
                  Armand

From the Queen to Her Majesty's Husband
Oh, darling,  these buds are the finer choice than all my perfumes and powders. Do beg your brother to send me more of such, perhaps a plant I can have my lady place on the window so the wind can blow the sweetness all through the rooms.

She has learned so much since I have been abed, then, love! When last we danced, she trod so much upon my feet we stumbled about in the dancing tutor's study that we crashed into his mirrors and cracked one all down the length. Has it been replaced as yet, or is Krauss as tight with coin as ever? Silly man, it'll fall and dash itself to shards and be much more bother when all the dancing shakes it loose.

My lady says she must deliver this, but that the doctors say I must try and sleep the rest of this night through, and she can allow no strain upon me, from either the writing or the candles on my eyes. Send her back with words, if you must reply, for I cannot read what I write now in the dying sunlight. My love,
        Isobela

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Elèona, wife of the beaten silly Duke of Milone, stood outside the chambers of the only woman who she called friend, and wept.

She wept of heartbreak, not for herself,  but for the little queen's family and the shattering of it soon to come. Isobela's pregnancy was killing her, and she didn't have enough time left to weep for herself, leaving only Elèona to do so.

She held her sobbing in, but the tears streamed down, soaking the fine material of her gown, the queen's last words before she'd left to receive the king's words ricocheting inside her skull.
"Elèona. You must promise me, as your queen."

"Anything,  your Grace. "

"You must have them cut my son from my body when I die."

"Isobela!" Shocked, she clasped the frail hand of her queen in both hers. "Do not tempt the fates!"

The young Queen smiled faintly. "You know as well as I that the fates have abandoned me to this end. I could not have it all, Elèona."

"Please, my dear. Do not speak of this again. I shan't do it."

Sudden strength seemed to infuse the queen, and she squeezed Elèona's hand so hard, her bones met. "Promise me, Elèona. You must. Or this would be for naught. Armand will not allow me to carry on, if he knew, and he will hate me for keeping my health from him, but he must have the child. Promise me, Elèona, and swear to me you will remain with my children when I am gone." She coughed. "Please,  my friend. Do not waste what I have tried to save."

Elèona bent her head and prayed aloud, her voice hitching and breaking. "Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art  thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Pray for us sinners now, and at the hour  our deaths, amen." Tears plopped onto their interlaced hands.

The queen reached for her cheek with her free hand, wiping her eyes. "Don't abandon my family, Elèona. You are who I trust to love them." She squeezed her hand around Elèona's. "Go and bring me words from the king, and do not show him the truth with your manner or eyes."

She had fled, her throat burning, and now, she was hidden from all eyes, her heart broken, her queen and her king waiting impatiently for her.

Fool. You should not have begun to weep, not until you'd all seen his Grace.  Although it wasn't like she'd planned to fall into weakness. She'd been pounced upon by the queen, and unprepared, had shown just how deeply the promise had cost her.  Damn it. God damn it. She had stood absolute when confronted with the reality of her husband's tragic incident, stalwart in keeping her properties and wealth in fine form. She'd be damned if she'd cry. Then. 

Before Isobela had made her first lady-in-waiting.  Before the queen had confided that she was chosen, not for her title, but her aptitude.  Before she had been named godmother to the newborn princess and was expected to be for the new child.

Now... now she had a duty to her friend.  And she must carry words of love from a man unsuspecting to his dying wife, and do so without breaking into unsightly weeping.

She straightened her spine. Elèona de la Vici had  not been broken, and she'd not make it harder on anyone by unloading her terrible promise onto another.

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