The Feast of St. Mark, for the past eight years, had been a day of meticulous and somber ceremony at the royal court. April twenty-fifth, the very beginning of spring, was a difficult day to be melancholy for most, but not for Constance Laurent. It marked the anniversary of her father, Captain Marc Laurent's, death. He had died protecting his best friend, her uncle, Prince Henry, in a skirmish with Iberian rebels. And Prince Henry had vowed that Captain Laurent's bravery and camaraderie would be remembered always. Eight years later, and still the court and the village mourned together. But each man, woman, and child raised a misty eye today to behold Constance, Captain Laurent's only child, as she passed in the royal carriage. She was close, as always, to the ailing Queen Marie's right elbow, across from His Majesty King Francis. Constance was sixteen this year, and her beauty was ethereal.
She resembled her mother, Lady Jacqueline, in appearance. Exact comparisons were not easy for the people to draw: Captain Laurent's death had plunged his widow into a depression from which she could not be retrieved. She had not appeared publicly since his burial. But Constance's black, shining hair and peachy complexion most certainly came from her. While the courtiers who knew Captain Laurent, and who had spent even a moment close enough to his angelic child to take notice, remarked that her bright amber eyes and gracious smile were his.
The carriage rattled into the courtyard. The assembled courtiers gaped as she debarked first, in a gown the pale blue of April morning dew. She extended a patient arm to Queen Marie, and helped her down. She was the favorite of the queen and had been made her consort. The king followed.
Prince Henry and Princess Danielle, who debarked with their three sons from their own carriage, soon joined their Majesties. Everyone except Constance wore black. Prince Henry stepped towards her. She curtsied. He kissed her hand.
"You are a refreshing sight, my dear. So fair a creature ought not dress in mourning," he said, and the courtiers closest by stopped to listen.
"Your Highness," said Constance, blushing, "I thought my father would rather I wear your favorite color – you, whom he loved so well – than to look down from heaven and see me pass another day of life in black."
Princess Danielle stepped forward to kiss her cheek. It was known throughout the land that the princess thought of Constance as the daughter she never had. Like Constance, her own father had died when she was just eight.
"Let us go through to court," the king suggested. Constance linked her arm through the queen's and they proceeded. The crowd paid obeisance as the royal family passed. From the corner of her eye, Constance saw a lanky, towheaded man. Sir Adrien LeTorneau. Sir Adrien had fought by her father's side, and had even taken a blow to the face from a barbarian's pike that was meant for Captain Laurent. This prolonged the Captain's life by several hours, enough to turn the tide in France's favor. But Sir Adrien would be disfigured for life. When his face healed, the entire right side remained an inch or so lower than the left, as if Death himself had tried to wipe his face off, and froze the motion in time forever. Thankfully, Sir Adrien escaped his clutches, but the price he paid fate to remain alive was obvious.
Despite all he had endured, Sir Adrien was a kind, quiet man who had retired to a merchant's life after the war, maintaining his mother's estate in the countryside near Constance's. The Laurents lived in the childhood home of the princess. Although she could not remember Sir Adrien's face before his suffering, he had been close to the Laurents before she was even born, and she had always loved him has her guardian.
She stopped their walking and approached him. He genuflected deeply. The action touched her in a way that made her realize that she was now a lady, that made her understand all at once the gravity of this day, and of all the days she had lived without her father, and the many more to come. She realized, too, how important the valiant Sir Adrien was to her. He had been the last man to see her father alive. Legends of the court informed her that her father had spoke his dying words to him, but she knew not what they had been. Tears formed in her eyes.
"Would I could try every tear from your eye before you shed them, and cure your every sadness," he said, still bowing.
"Rise," she said. He did. She kissed his cheek with reverence. "Your bravery has stayed the sadness of many, though they cannot realize it. But I will thank you for eternity." The royal family went inside. The crowd outside buzzed about the eloquent young lady.
Constance had retired from court early, at the first opportunity, and ran to the secret caves underneath Hautefort. They had been her favorite place to play make believe as a child, either alone or with her Aunt Danielle, or with her aunt's three sons, all around her age. And even now she still took her innermost thoughts and secrets there, to play them out in her mind if not in the charades and pantomimes of childhood. She loved the vines, the flowers, even the thin trees that grew there: planted, she knew, by King Francis shortly after his marriage to Queen Marie. The place was a sign of his love for her, a place she could run to when the duties of royalty seemed overwhelming. She loved that story as she loved the Queen. Constance had never known her grandmothers, and the Queen seemed to be one. Constance's mother had always told her that her grandmothers had both died, a long time ago.
"There you are," she heard her uncle call. She turned around. "You could fool anyone else into thinking you were a nymph descended here to perform the rite of spring, but I know that furrowed brow. Only my dear Constance bites her lips like that when she is thinking. My dear, dear Constance." She ran to meet him, embracing him. She was comforted to feel his coarse beard on her cheek. "It is still a trying day for us, is it not?"
"Yes, Uncle," she said. She had done all her crying before he arrived, and there were no tears left now. "I'm sorry I did not return to court after seeing Her Majesty to her nap."
"There was no need," he said. "Though you were the topic of conversation for most of the afternoon."
"Oh?" She looked into his eyes, chastened. "I dressed too ostentatiously."
He laughed. "No, certainly not. I don't think anyone noticed that at all. They had much more to say about your demeanor." He brushed a strand of her long hair from her eyes. "You were very well-spoken today," he said.
"It is thanks to Aunt Danielle," she said, "and all the books we've read together."
"She has certainly left her impression on you. As you have on all of us." He lifted her chin up with his index finger. "We must start to plan your official presentation at court. You must take a title."
She bit her lip again. "I don't like that."
"Why not?"
"Because next after that I will be married."
He roared with laughter. "I assure you it's not as bad as all that. And besides, you will have the finest man in the land. Think of it, Constance, you are doubly linked to the royal throne. Your mother is the sister of the princess, and your father was nothing if not a brother to me. And you are the most beautiful woman in court. We must look towards life – you have such a brilliant one in front of you. With another man to love you, you will feel the pain of your father's loss the less."
She broke away from his grasp.
"I have so much love. I have you and Aunt Danielle, and my cousins, and my mother. And oh, Uncle Henry, how I love the Queen Mother. Please, don't take me from her."
She broke into tears afresh. Prince Henry held her close. "Never, never. She loves you so. She trusts you. You will not be parted. I promise it will not be until after she d—"
Constance quivered with grief and howled into her uncle's velvet cloak. He said, "Your aunt is always telling me I've not outgrown all my brashness, and she's correct. Forgive me, Constance. I meant to cheer you. I picked the wrong day to try to chart the course of your life." They hugged until she regained calm breath. "You are like my daughter," said the prince. "I can never replace your father, crown or no, but I will protect you always, and give you all the happiness of life I can."
"I want only what my father would have wanted for me," she said.
Now it was Prince Henry's turn to bite his lip, knowingly. "I am sure I know what that is. But not today, Constance. Not today. Let's go find your aunt."