Blood Upon the Snow:
The Cursed Heir
Chapter One: Grey Heavens
The gray empty heavens loomed above the sprawling castle, whose many turrets glowed beneath a blanket of blinding white snow.
As the cruel subject of the summer plague was cleverly veiled under the pretense of beauty, frigid winds from the North were welcomed as tidings of Christmastime were exchanged between all.
The castle glowed in winter's wake, itself oblivious to the losses below as inhabitants of God's "preferred nation" starved to death. Occupants of the village below served as it sentries, provided a fat sum of tax money to be dipped into at leisure, which allowed the King's growing court for many evenings of frivolity and lust.
Built up from the ruins of a town devastated in a Crusade centuries before, the carnage of warfare was silenced on the whim of an erratic monarch. The castle had proved exceedingly popular amongst foreign ambassadors, securing four successive Kings a dozen wives in subsequent years to its erection. It had garnered its nation such a reputation that distasteful goings-on outside of it were often hushed up, if not forgotten entirely. Indeed, its current mistress had been nothing short of enchanted upon first being ushered within its glorious doors four years previous. She had found herself embraced by its King and occupants as a small, formal court grew around her. In the months that followed, she herself had grown; the walls seemed to stretch on forever, having opened up only for her. Fifteen years her senior, her husband displayed an affection which she had believed wholly implausible. Advised by her parents that he was a man hardened by the strain of wars and the execution of an adulterous wife, she was surprised to find that he melted at her touch, and constantly sought her companionship.
Ultimately, the joys of court-life would burn themselves out, and marital bliss would cease to be. Her lord no longer sought her company; instead, he spurned it. As times of unease engulfed the kingdom, she was targeted as the root of all problems. The small court she'd so envied as a child in France no longer admired her; she found herself despised, and saw spies in many of her closest friends. The splendor of the castle was a façade-- it trapped her within its incessant walls, which swallowed her up with lonely shadows and austere memories. Like malignant vines they would choke the life out of her until she remained a small speck of a snowflake, left to ascend the heavens.
Her husband would ultimately destroy her, though-- murder her with his cold, dark eyes.
Mathilde bit her lip gently and gazed pensively outside the window of her bedchamber. Before she plunged her sewing needle back into the small square of material, she cast a quick glance behind her shoulder at the sound of a latch being turned. A childhood of uncertainty had provided her with a consistent sense of paranoia; she had fallen back into this state once the rumors of her infidelity and questionable upbringing began to swarm throughout the kingdom. The door swung open and to Mathilde's relief, she was politely greeted by her favorite companion. Three years her elder, Sara had remained with her mistress even in the darkest of days, when Mathilde's future had been virtually nonexistent.
At the age of thirteen, Mathilde was considered to be an old maid, and it was proposed that she should be shuffled off to Ireland or Spain to wed an earl. When the head of Edward's wife was safely lopped off, however, and the body carefully disposed of to prevent any further indiscretion, the fortunes of the French royal family seemed to at last reverse themselves, and her mother and father had been elated to learn that their only daughter would be married off to the richest man in Europe. With good relations reestablished between France and England, she was promptly assured of firm prospects once an heir was produced. She'd failed miserably in her duty the past four years, but had attempted to remain sanguine.
She donned another stitch upon the pale rose-colored cap and paused to admire her handiwork, "It is beautiful, n'est-ce pas?" she asked, looking up to meet her companion's gaze.
"Mathilde," Sara scolded gently, "it is unwise to dote so favorably upon those who would seek your demise."
As she set the cap upon the stool beside her, Mathilde laughed gently, "Even the least noble of God's creatures should be remembered in this time of great thanksgiving."
"Spoken as a saint," Sara whispered, clasping the smooth hands of her mistress tightly in her own.
"I am no saint," Mathilde replied; she had lately taken to speak in an undertone, having grown accustomed to the knowledge that anything could be overheard and misconstrued in these times of unease.
"You are a saint, cherie. Not even God himself could be civil towards such a whoring, vindictive woman as Eleanor Grey," Sara's face went white at having spoken the name.
Mathilde was taken aback at the mention of her former lady-in-waiting, and instantly pictured the long sweeping skirts of the woman who had managed to steal her husband's affections; Eleanor Grey, who was now encircled by Mathilde's former admirers and ladies.
"I pity her," Mathilde continued truthfully after a long silence between them, "She is merely doing the bidding of her family and my lord husband. Eleanor Grey has no choice in these affairs, and it is not at all unexpected, Sara. Father took a mistress himself. Several times."
"She is a jaded woman."
"Hold your tongue," Mathilde intoned sharply, "You speak as an old crone."
Sara settled herself back in her seat as the colour rushed back to her cheeks, and rubbed her small hands together for warmth. Dissatisfied, she stood, and hurled another log into the fire, pausing to stroke the dying embers upon the hearth before returning to her mistress.
Mathilde was suddenly seized by a sudden sensation in her stomach; she held the unwelcome bulge of her belly tightly, taking in sharp, prolonged breaths to steady herself, "Why am I forever plagued by these ailments?" she suddenly hissed.
"Signs of a strong, healthy boy," Sara surmised cheerfully.
"We can only hope for that," Mathilde replied dully.
"You should not doubt me in this, Mathilde; I have borne four children and buried three… I know the ways of the world."
"Merci," Mathilde replied tersely.
"You seem to forget how our sovereign despises all things French."
"Then he despises me as well?" she issued the question nonchalantly, having known the answer for many months beforehand; Sara chose not to answer.
"He shall be as beautiful as his mother," she persisted, as Mathilde finished the cap.
"And may it bring him more happiness than it did for me."
Mathilde settled herself back in the throne with some difficulty as she continued to observe her husband dancing, with his plump arms slung gingerly around the slim waist of Eleanor Grey.
He became boyish and engrossed as he continued to openly court her; it was said that Eleanor brought out such a light in him that had not been seen since before the King's first wife fell out of favor. Mathilde had almost envied the shower of jewels and fine foods the King had bestowed upon his mistress for Christmastime; he had even made Eleanor's eldest brother a duke. Mathilde continued to stare at them with bated breath… at least she was not alone in this regard; the entire world seemed to fixate upon the youthful King and his enthralling mistress. The affair was comical, albeit disturbingly so; Mathilde found that she could laugh to herself as she took in the sight of her husband chasing after the younger woman with his awkward, ungainly steps.
Edward roared with laughter as a lock of Eleanor's radiant straw-colored hair tumbled out of the pale rose cap she had been only too happy to accept from his wife. Eleanor had clapped her hands together wildly and curtseyed deeply; Mathilde had not been very surprised by this exaggerated reaction, having known the girl to be selfish and attention seeking to the core. At least she acted pleasant about the entire matter, Mathilde thought cautiously to herself, as Eleanor laughed coquettishly at some witty remark uttered by the King.
"Such a sickening display," Sara muttered under her breath.
"Quiet," Mathilde advised, adjusting the heavy crown on her head, and trying to look content.
"She is consort to the devil himself, Mathilde," Sara persisted, deaf to the counsel of her mistress.
"You exaggerate," Mathilde snapped, as they the King continued to twirl Eleanor wildly about the room.
Mathilde clapped her hands together loudly as the music came to an abrupt halt, and Edward departed his mistress to approach his wife; Eleanor was livid.
"Husband," Mathilde greeted pleasantly, offering him her hand.
He took the proffered forearm, and kissed it gently, "Wife," he whispered simply.
"Are you enjoying yourself this evening, my lord?" she inquired tenderly.
"Indeed," he paused to bring a hand onto her stomach, "My son shall make my life complete," and with that, he was gone.
Mathilde laughed again as Eleanor composed herself and hastened to re-gain her husband's attention, "She is glowing," Mathilde decided.
"A viper," Sara hissed, "She will be the end of us all."
The following morning, Mathilde's lying-in began. Anxious towards the entire situation, she found herself further attached to Sara who, apart from those who would assist in the birth, remained her sole companion.
The two lost themselves in each-others' company, prattling on endlessly in rapid French, having disregarded the King's detestation towards their lineage.
Despite the stuffiness and heat of the room, Mathilde found herself seemingly free; vicious rumors that Edward would have Eleanor as his third wife in springtime-- despite having a babe in the cradle from his second-- no longer drowned her.
"Not much longer," Sara decided cheerfully one day.
"How can you be sure?" Mathilde asked carefully.
"Do not doubt me, cherie."
Mathilde sighed and settled herself against the hard cushions, and held her swollen belly tightly, praying to God that Sara's prediction concerning the baby's sex would reveal itself true.
If the King proved discontent, Eleanor could have him then; Mathilde would seek her fortunes elsewhere.
The birthing process was prolonged and difficult for all who witnessed it; Mathilde's screams reverberated all throughout the expansive castle as hours continued to melt off the clock.
Sara remained strong, having seen her share of extensive blood loss and pain; Mathilde felt as if she were being ripped in half.
Nearly half a day passed before the child was safely out of her, and Mathilde was neatly sewn up. Feverish, she called for her husband, having forgotten that he was content in the arms of his mistress. He would not lay eyes on the babe until its christening some weeks later, resenting its existence.
"My child," Mathilde whispered feebly, as the midwife mopped sweat off her brow.
"The King should be pleased. A strong, healthy child as his heir," the midwife stated pleasantly as the infant was brought forward.
Her vision swimming before her eyes, she managed the most important question: "What is it?" she asked over its screams.
Sara carefully wiped the blood away and frowned, "A girl."
Mathilde's stomach turned, "She is cursed then."