As the Royal carriage traveled bumpily across the vast countryside toward the French Court of France where my betrothed awaited me, the nervous knot in my stomach evolved into fluttering butterflies. Sheltered as I had been at the convent, I never worried about my looks, whether a boy liked me or not, or if I was ready to be married.
Now, my head was crowded with a myriad of random thoughts, and I was filled with a kaleidoscope of emotions. I had not seen Francis since the last time I had been at French Court. We had both been six years old and each others constant companion. He was a wonderful playmate and we had shared many hours of fun together. We had explored the endless chambers of the great monstrosity Francis called home, roamed over the vast lawns and gardens, jumped on beds, had pillow fights, and countless other adventures.
Nine long years had passed since then. I couldn't help but wonder how he had changed during our years apart. Was he tall like his father? Were his eyes still the stormy blue of the Loch after a heavy rain or had they lightened? Did he still have unruly blond curls or had his hair darkened and straightened?
I wondered whether he would remember the fun we used to have playing together. Would he be as nervous about seeing me again, as I was at seeing him? Would there be an ease between us as there was when we were younger, or would our meeting be stiff and awkward?
So many questions with no answers. I suppose I would have the answers to my questions soon enough. As we passed through the gates of the castle, the fluttering butterflies suddenly took flight, and a wash of discomfort swept over me. I wondered whether or not I would embarrass myself by being violently sick, as the carriage came to a rolling stop.
I took a shuddering breath and then another, willing my insides to cooperate. Gathering my courage around me like a sheltering cloak, I stepped down from it and went to greet my future husband.