The Young, Most Beautiful Queen
(Prelude to Snow White)
by icedpetal
Seven weeks had been spent en route, and she had watched the landscape evolve from golden fields to grey mountain peaks, thinking about the new life she was on the verge of entering. It was a destiny she had been aware of ever since early childhood and now, at the age of fourteen, had to kissed a painful goodbye to her parents and younger sisters, leaving behind the fruit-strewn orchards and tender nursemaids forever, for the throne of a strange and distant land.
Tales of her great beauty had preceded her arrival, and for once such tales did not go unwarranted; all, from nobleman to serf, agreed that the King's new bride was a sight to behold. Townspeople pressed towards the procession as the gilded carriage approached the royal palace, eager to catch a glimpse of her adulated beauty, and when she finally stepped down from it, upon entering her new seat of residence, the courtiers were immediately awed by the perfect grace and clear honey-coloured skin of the Princess.
In the royal apartments of this unfamiliar castle, standing before the ornate frame of a long mirror and fussed over by a flurry of women who were strangers to her, she was draped in pure, trailing white. Her raven-coloured hair was braided with golden threads, and on her veiled head was seated a small gold crown, a wedding-gift from her mother. The women cooed and giggled excitedly as they brought the long delicate tulle down over her face, and in her reflection someone different stared back at her - a young woman, mature and sophisicated, not the nervous little girl who achingly longed for her nursery back home.
A flaxen-haired women knelt on the floor, putting silken slippers on the Princess' feet, and when she looked up from her work, smiling warmly at her, seeming to understand her anxiety, she told her that she was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. The older woman helped her down from the dias, before she was led to the bridal carriage which waited in the courtyard.
That morning, under the vaulted ceilings and pointed arches of the cavernous cathedral, she knelt angelically next to a man she had never met before. He too responded to the words of the round priest, and clearly expressed, in a deep, unfamiliar accent, his vows to the admiring congregation. She stole moments to survey him: tall, sallow, and far older than she, with yellow-coloured hair, a serious face and pale, round eyes which were firmly focused on the altar.
Among the wooden rafters, far above this spectacle but watching it with a keen interest, was a freckled Sevant-Boy. He listened closely as the bride relayed her vows, in a faintly trembling manner, and thought it astounding that his new Queen was so near his own age. She would shortly return to the castle and take up her residence there, which had been carefully and thoroughly prepared by the maidservants, and he would help attend to her every need and wish, just as he had been taught. In his eyes, watching her graceful movements as the King slowly lifted the veil from her face, she was a delicate white flower.
The castle had its seat on a hill at the centre of the large town, its substantial grounds protected by high walls and spindly gates. It was irregular in shape, with an angular front and tall, rounded towers, but its light-coloured stone and wavering flags gave it a pleasant, friendly appearance. Inside, the vestibules were cold and shadowy, leading to large, high-ceilinged chambers which were lit by perpetually glowing hearths. Heavy tapestries blocked ever-blowing draughts, which whispered through the cracks of large glass windows, criss-crossed with ebony frames.
She had never known true loneliness until these first few weeks. The cold stone corridors looked out onto a perpetually grey sky and mountainous horizon, while inside, far from the playful laughter and affectionate warmth of her sisters, was the detached and almost fearful respect paid to her by the courtiers. Her nights were restless and dreaded; an utterly new matter for her, but, as much as they weighed on her mind in the daylight hours, she had no-one with whom she could discuss such details. She was usually surrounded by a small group of ladies of the court, but they were mostly distant, almost frightened of discussing the most mundane things with her.
One exception from this general rule was the flaxen-haired Countess, who had assisted her so warmly on her wedding-day. She lived within the Court, and had been so amicable towards her from the start that soon any homesickness the young Queen had begun to cultivate disappated in their growing friendship. The Countess was the most beautiful woman she had seen, with long curls and dark eyes flecked with green and livliness. She had promised to teach her how to read; her apartments were stacked with leather-bound manuscripts, each filled with lines of inked letters and coloured symbols which the young Queen - whose childhood education had only emphasised the cultural differences and spoken dialect of this new kingdom - could not comprehend.
During the day, the King usually attended to governmental affairs and administration in the town, or recreational activities of hunting and falconry in the vast royal grounds; she barely saw him unless he was in her own apartments. And so, the Countess became her concomitant. They would wander about the castle together, the older girl teaching all she knew of the ways of the world, and her attentive listener would nod and giggle, glad to have regained the sisterly companionship which she had feared had been lost to her forever.
As one of his Queen's lesser attendants, the freckled Servant-Boy, often accompanied the pair at a distance. He had watched their relationship quickly develop, and though he had no interest in and limited understanding of their girlish conversations, he closely observed their expressions. The Countess, with her tumbling blonde curls and wide smile, would hook her arm into the elbow of the younger, who, with an innocent trust showing on her beautiful face, would frequently lapse into elegant mirth.
The Countess was quick to educate the Queen on the detailed manners and customs of the court, aspects which had been omitted from her early education. She informed her of the expected behaviour of the King; the Queen was always expected to bear his princes, while it was accepted that he might have vested interests in other ladies of the court. The young Queen had never before imagined such occurances at Court, but though her mind found this difficult to believe, the elder stated these facts with such conviction that she had no choice but to accept the customs of this strange land.
One afternoon, when many of the ladies were taking a habitual post-luncheon nap, the Servant-Boy escorted the Queen from her apartments to those of the Countess, in the other wing of the castle. They walked alone in silence, her silken hems gliding across the marble floor as the cold sunlight drafting through the coloured glass. She rarely addressed him, other than to carry a message or to give an order, and always appeared so perfectly composed that he was surprised when she stopped and wavered slightly, sitting down on a long wooden bench that bordered one side of the passage. Panicked, he was quick to enquire as to what he should do, but she waved a hand to silence him, and, to his great astonishment, asked him merely to sit beside her until her dizziness passed.
There they sat, and he watched her closely lest her condition should worsen. Her eyes were closed, and the exotic, honey-coloured hue of her skin had paled slightly. Resting a small hand on her wide crowned brow, she drew large breaths of air, but she regained her calm, and when she reopened her wide pale eyes to see him watching her intently he blushed, and looked away from her pretty face. Instead of growing uneasy, however, she smiled at him as she stood up again, steadying herself on the marble tiles but without need for his alert arms. She lightly excused her fatigue, but seemed to require comfort, proceeding along the corridor he resisted every urge, the strict law of the court weighing on his mind, to reach out and touch her delicate frame.
When the pale May blossoms had flowered on the trees and the royal rose garden was a riot of colour, some months after her ascendancy to the throne, she sat in the comfort and privacy of the Countess' mirrored apartments. Looking down at her embroidery, which was illuminated in the bright sunlight, the Queen shyly divulged her suspicions to her friend, who, after a momentary pause, embraced her warmly - the first such human intimacy the Queen had shared with anyone since departing from her beloved home. The joyous news spread quickly around the court, and then throughout the land, which indulged in a week of festivity to celebrate the prospect of an heir to the Kingdom.
Her carriage procession every Sunday to the cathedral was now followed by swarms of well-wishers; they sang and waved, lining either side of the street. Looking shyly through the veiled window one such morning, the Queen perceived several little girls, running about and giggling, being supervised by their mother. She was brought an instant and painful reminder of home, but these girls, instead of being dressed in pretty little dresses and coats, were dressed in filthy rags, and their mother, who raised a hand from her swollen belly to wave at the royal procession, was very gaunt and pale, a thin shawl pulled about her narrow shoulders. The Queen raised a jewelled hand to wave back, but the carriage trundled quickly and the impoverished family fell out of view.
The newly expectant mother was examined daily by the royal doctors of physic, but the Countess was quick to offer her services, due to a fine knowledge of herbs exacted from the gardens of her own home. She pressed a thin vial of clear liquid into the Queen's grateful hands, imparting on her instructions concerning weekly dosage and strictly private administration - the physicians would be inclined to sneer at such a remedy for nausea.
But the ragged family the Queen had seen remained on her mind, and she enlisted the Servant-Boy, and only the Servant-Boy, into her services to develop a plan in order to help the poor woman. And so, early one morning not long afterwards, a young woman dressed in coarse, patched robes, stepped from an embellished carriage and walked quickly, accompanied by a young man of similar age, away from it and down a rather deserted side-street.
The robes had been his sister's, and the Servant-Boy observed the Queen as she walked, unrecognised, beside him, the hood pulled up over her head - her foreign complexion would attract attention. She had never truly entered the town before, but now she was appalled by the wretched poverty which she saw about her; the waste strewn about the ground, the bones jutting out of the frames of those who passed her, and the wails of sickness and hunger which emitted from the dense, decaying buildings.
The Servant-Boy led her down a rank side-passage, where she immediately spotted the family of girls, skipping and chasing each other, and their mother, who sat on a blanket against the wall, feeding a little one on top of the bulk of an expected child. At her feet was a small wooden dish, in which a few small coins had been thrown, but the Poor Woman seemed disinterested in it, looking sadly at the small child who sucked from her. She raised her tired eyes to mutter a thank you to the hooded girl with a dark complexion who placed something in her bowl, trying to ignore the pangs of hunger which rumbled through her as she fed her child.
Returning from the narrow passageway, the Queen was struck by the terrible injustice of the world, of how her own child would be born into such tremendous luxury while there were so many already starving, living on the streets. Tears streamed down her face as she dwelt on the hardship faced by that poor woman, and her knowledge that what she had given might only alleviate her suffering to limited degree.
So as to avoid suspicious glances from the now crowding street, the Queen entered into conversation with the Servant-Boy. The summer heat reminded her of her homeland; she explained that it was never cold there, a land of thick orchards overflowing with fruit, and skies which were blue and bright. He was an attentive listener, nodding frequently as he bent his ear down towards hers, and she found herself expressing her recently developed sentiments towards the injustice of her privilege. As they walked, she began to feel slightly faint, and he quickly ushered her, protectively, to an empty doorstep. The surface was hard and cold, and she wondered at the contrast between this seat and bed of the Poor Woman, and the luxurious goose-feathered down in her royal apartments.
He knew, from the talk of the nursemaids, that the Queen had occasionally felt faint since discovering that she was with child, but believed her current assurances that she felt perfectly all right, simply tired. Yet he worried for her, and wondered, now, if he had done the right thing in agreeing to accompany her this morning. In doing so, however, he, who had at first thought her beautiful but cold-hearted, now realised her extraordinary goodness in taking such an exertion upon herself in her condition. He had never witnessed any other lady of the court undertake such an act, and there was a growing tenderness of feeling within him for her, which both excited and terrified him.
She kept her head bowed as a group of men passed the doorstep, howling in drunkeness, and the Servant-Boy felt her suddenly clasp his hand in hers. So that people would think her as his wife, and not an unescorted woman, she explained nonchalantly, watching the bustling hub which passed them. His heart beat uncontrollably at this suggestion, and though he thought the idea heavenly was painfully aware of his own position. Seeing that her smile had returned, he quickly helped her up, knowing that they must return to the carriage, which waited patiently for them in the shadows.
A month after this event, which remained on the Servant-Boy's mind without respite, the King, normally an intimidating, detached figure, expressed his great joy at the approach of an heir. There was an official ceremony on the balcony of the castle which overlooked the town, to a crowd of thousands of subjects. The radiant Queen rose to tumultous applause, as the source of their joy had become apparant - her swollen midriff was swathed in fine silks - and beneath her jewelled forehead she smiled broadly, clutching the balustrade and waving at the crowds in the late summer heat.
The Servant-Boy was very busy that evening at the banquet; he ran to and fro, issuing messages to cooks, musicians, jesters and guests. The main hall was a hub of celebration, all happy faces turned to the King and his lovely Queen, seated at her throne.
The Queen, however, was not as radiant as she appeared to her guests; the day had fatiqued her greatly, and she was longing for the hour when she could lie on her bed and no longer be subjected to constant public scrutiny. Her crown bore heavily on her and the jewels which wrapped about her neck were growing uncomfortable. Movements in her belly, which she had now grown accustomed to, added to her desire to leave the hot and stuffy room. Unfortunately, there was no sign of the hour of departure approaching, but a break from the music and chatter came when she rose to attend to herself, accompanied by two ladies-in-waiting, and the Servant-Boy, who was at her side at a moment's request.
He emerged onto the mercifully cool corridor, holding the door open for the Queen who walked past him graciously, taking tiny elegant steps. They had barely spoken since their secret outing together, but they had often exchanged smiles when there were no witnesses to judge. Her long black hair was coiled prettily about her head and studded with tiny jewels, while her face, adorned with those pale, wide eyes was as that of perfectly carved sculpture.
Walking past the heavy tapestries of the west vestibule, the Queen stopped suddenly and leaned, eyes closed, against the shadowy stone wall; the moonlight illuminating numerous droplets on her crowned brow. The cries of the ladies echoed against the walls as he ran to her aide, but she seemed frighteningly unaware of him. Her breathing was abnormal; she took wide, desperate gasps as though in fear of drowning, and with a sudden jolt, she collapsed into his arms.
She awoke to the sounds of voices and a trembling hand clutching her own. Opening her eyes, she saw the relieved faces of her physicians, and, the owner of that hand, her husband. They gently told her about her sudden illness the previous night, of which she had no recollection. It was generally agreed that the Queen should undertake no further exertion; she should endure only relaxation in the coming months. As the doctors exited, the King caressed her cheek lovingly, placing his hand on her belly and telling her that they should take every precaution for the hope of the kingdom.
From then on they were seen frequently together within the inner apartments; they would sit side by side, he taking her hand and whispering into her ear, and she drew to his kind, calm person, adjusting her ear to his vocal intonations and expressions, familiarising herself with his wishes and hopes. She grew used to his solidity and, from those first awkward weeks, fresh green love was blossoming. Though she trusted the Countess with all her heart, she had now little reason to believe that the King was shared by anybody else; the thought of it now pained her, but his eyes were so clear and sincere that in his presence she felt perfect faith in him.
The Servant-Boy observed these developments with growing hopelessness, but the Queen still spoke to him kindly, and as the days grew chllier her vestments grew larger, accomodating the gestation with further mounds of silk and furs, highlighting the apporach of the King's heir to the throne.
He stood attentively at the doorway of the sewing room of her apartments, watching her steadily embrodier a piece of silk, when the first feathery flakes of snow came fluttering down. The young Queen gasped in amazement as she slowly stood from her chair to watch as the lawn became iced in a white coverlet; she declared, laughing, that it was the most beautiful thing she had every seen.
Eventually she returned to her chair, but was still so distracted by the tumbling snow outside the ebony panes that she pricked her finger. He saw a droplet of blood ooze onto her work but she, instead of regretting her lack of concentration, marvelled at the beauty of those colours. She laid her embroidery on the table and sighed, quietly confiding in him that she should not mind a little girl, if it had hair as black as ebony, skin as white as the fallen snow and cheeks as red as blood. He thought this extraordinary; the entire kingdom was praying for an heir... but the Queen caressed her curved bulk lovingly, her eyes glazing over in a reverie of such a daughter.
This glittering snow was so fascinating to the young Queen that her physicians soon relented and the King, now willing to grant her whatever she wished, permitted her to go for occasional walks in the white frozen garden, provided that she was accompanied by her intimate ladies-in-waiting and a Court Physician. On these occasions the Servant-Boy escorted the chattering group through the walled gardens, where the flowers were long dead but the wet black bark of the trees still gleamed a certain beauty. He noticed, on these occasions, that the Queen still parted slightly from the group with her trusted confidante, the Countess; he would follow them closely, knowing that his duties were with the Queen and the unborn heir, above all others.
The Countess was always cheerful, widely gesticulating and issuing tinkling laughter which seemed to catch on the light winter breeze. Yet he perceived a lurking, disconcerting hunger in her oft-admired face; it flashed through her eyes whenever the younger turned away to admire the angles of the bare branches or the pale blue shadows her form made on the snow. But he allowed himself the capacity to fail in his judgement, and knew that the Queen, who was so good, trusted her beyond every other.
One winter's day, when the cool sun shone brightly in the pale sky, and the branches of the bare royal orchard swirled in a soft breeze, the Queen and her small entourage strolled through the long walled garden. Wrapped in luxurious wools and a long fur cape, the Queen moved slower now, often stopping to put a small hand to her back. This was not of concern to the Court Physician, however; she merely stepped back to view this beautiful, iced garden, with its frozen fountains and white leaves which embellished the rusticated wall. The snow, this magical, revelatory element in her life, swept about her feet in a delicate powder and, one hand on her swollen belly and the other supported by her loving friend, she thought that the world could not be more perfect.
As was commonplace, they had made their own separate coupling, away from the rest of the group. The other ladies, though pleasantly mannered, only wished to discuss their embroideries and to gossip about the locally aboding nobles. The Countess, with her delicious wisdom and encouragement, she thought, was a far more preferable companion, and had ensured her good health throughout the long months; she had experienced no nautious feelings since first taking her friend's kind offering, and had complete trust in every aspect of her judgment.
Her breath was warm in her ear as she whispered, giggling her opinions of the other ladies into her ear. She was often sharp but never cruel; the young Queen always found that she agreed with her every opinion. Though she was growing weary, the Queen willed herself to keep up with the Countess' longer pace, and soon they were at a good distance from the rest of the group.
The sky was veiled in white, and through it drifted glimmers of fading sunlight - these glimmers danced around her feet, bejewelling the powdered ground. The Countess' gloved hand gripped her elbow firmly, and when she next spoke, in a low, trembling whisper, it was in a far more serious tone.
The crowns of the trees behind her shook and her beautiful face, framed with flaxen hair, was tracked by salty tears as she told the Queen of how the previous night, the locks of her apartments had been broken and that, in the dark silence she had been woken from her slumber in a beastial attack, the raw memory of which reduced her voice to gulping sobs.
The Queen was horrified by this terrible, unspeakable act and, insofar as the large projection of her midriff would allow, embraced her friend's shaking frame. But the Countess pulled away from her and, through further racking sobs conveyed to her that the perpetrator was a tall man, sallow, and blond, who had hunted within his own court for a satisfaction which his wife could no longer provide.
She felt the Countess' tearful eyes on her as she stumbled backwards, as though hit by a massive blow. How had she not known that behind the King's large pale eyes was a hideous demon, capable of the most revolting acts known to man? How had she been so deceived by his mild manners and gentle caresses, to think that nothing more lurked below? Beneath these shrill questions which spun about in her mind was something more painful: she had been tricked into thinking that he loved her, that he cared for her... and now he had inflicted irreversible damage on her most intimate friend.
The Countess was clutching her arms with her fingertips, beseeching her to tell no-one, that such an act would do more wrong than good. Her perfectly composed face was broken with upset, and the distraught Queen felt her smooth, trembling hand touch her face, wiping her own tears away. The rough walls of the garden seemed to wander forever, and the cold air steamed away from her mouth as she choked on her agitated sobs. She was possessed by a passionate longing, one that had been forced dormant for so long but which erupted with full force as she stood in the snow; a longing to run freely in the long grasses with her little sisters, to paddle in streams with no cares for what the next day would bring, with no knowledge of betrayal or hurt...
Convulsed by a sudden, immense pain, she stumbled backwards, balancing herself against the solid wet bark of a tree trunk. Within a few breathless moments the pain returned and she cried aloud, collapsing into the freezing snow. She heard the running, crunching footsteps of the distant group, and Helena's soothing words beside her, but opening her eyes she saw that the deep white blanket veined with the black roots of the tree had been stained with red. For one instant her gaze was transfixed, before she convulsed again, experiencing the excruciating contrasts of hot gushes of blood into the freezing, engulfing snow .
Her cries stabbed his ears as he ran, the cold air leaving his lungs in bursts as he neared the her. As as he approached the source of his exertion, the cries became more desperate, and he was filled with bitter regret at his momentary lapse in duty.
The nightmarish sight that he beheld beneath the trees scalded his vision; it issued a terrible trepidation within him to see the most beautiful Queen collapsed in the blood-stained snow among the black snaking forest roots. Her bulk fluctuated with her rapid breathing, and kneeling beside her, holding her hand and watching her terrified face was the tearful Countess. Without hesitation he lifted the suffering creature from the frozen ground and enthroned her in his arms; she clung to him but her cries weakened, and as he crunched upon the snow, through the throng of flustering women, he felt her precious imperial blood leaking onto his garments, and perceived countless clear droplets forming on her brow like early morning dew.
The Court Physician took one look at her and ordered her to be carried to the birthing chamber at once; there she would be undressed and he would follow with his colleagues. She moaned - a low, quiet moan, disrupted with growing frequency by a weakened, anguished cry which shook the Servant-Boy's heart. His feet pounded against the stone slabs of the round tower as he ascended; her moan permeated the narrow curving shadows, and his pace quickened as far as the narrow steps would allow. Her dark lashes closed and fluttering, her beautiful face pale and veiled with terror, she clung to him like a petrified child.
The birthing chamber had served its function for centuries; the oldest part of the castle, it had a hollow, beamed ceiling and sparse narrow windows. The nurse-maids had already assembled there, and as soon as the Servant-Boy entered this group gathered around; she was told to stand up so that they could remove her outer garments and he reluctantly submitted, leaving her to stand in the middle of the cold floor, doubled over in pain. The women spread her arms apart to undo the long line of hooks buttons that traced the heavy fabric of her long dress. She convulsed in agony but they steadied her as if she were misbehaving, focusing on the details of removing her garments rather than acknowledge the awful agony that impressed her face.
An eternity seemed to stretch as they pulled each layer of heavy fabric from her; untying ribbons and unhooking long lines of tiny buttons, until she stood barefoot and shivering on the cold flagstones, wearing only her delicate crown of coiled gold and a sheer white tunic, through which the contours of her body were visible. He was struck by the enormity of the protuberance which emerged from her small frame; it seemed disproportionate, completely overwhelming the Queen's delicate stature. The dying sun shone its last pale orange rays through the narrow window, and she gazed up at him, her eyes wide and frightened, but full of goodness and gratitude.
This brief moment was ripped by and unmistakable sound, splattering the stone floor loudly, but not loud enough to drown out the Queen's terrible cry as the nurse-maids conducted her to the bed and, seeing the servant-boy still standing in the shadow, ordered him to admit the physicians and, pressing a silver bowl into his hands, to go outside and fill it with snow.
Having stumbled, almost blindly, down the steps of the tower he reached his bare hands into the icey slush, ignoring the sharp pain as he filled the bowl, and ran back up, beckoned by the cries that emitted from the birthing chamber.
There, her body heaved wretchedly in the growing darkness, lit by the flaming torches of the small crowd which surrounded her. A freezing cloth was pressed against her perspiring forehead, and the shivering murmer of repetitious prayers rotated her as the sounds of her own torment reverberated against the curved stone walls. Metallic odours wafted towards her as the hot gushes continued, soaking the sheets where she lay, and a calloused thumb administered oil and murmered implorations to her brow.
Standing outside the door, in the outer chamber, among lesser members of the court, he heard her desperate screams echo against the walls, joining the wail of the snowstorm which grew outside. His heart was rife with fear as he heard her voice fluctuate, reminding him of the terrible night of his poor sister's death, and willed the elements to restore the Queen to full health, while his colleagues in the room prayed for the safe delivery of the heir.
Merciless agony convulsed her wearied frame without relent; the firelight licked her skin, the burning heat almost suffocating her as she drew hot gasps of air. The shadows which pressed in on her from all sides obscured her vision; their voices seemed to tumble away from her as her swollen body heaved, her long hair sticking to her neck and her screams becomng weaker.
Confused sounds of tumult at the bottom of the bed became audible to her blurred senses, and her own cries were suddenly arrested by thin infant wails which issued from beyond her rapidly fluctuating bulk. She gazed at the linear shapes of the shadowy rafters in the roof, mesmerised by the voice of her child; she paid no heed to the background noise; a dull accompaniment to the beautiful melody playing in her ears...
But her own agonised cry broke this fluid movement; her exhausted body was flung into excrutiating pain once more. The shadows pressed against her, and she briefly felt a larger, older hand in hers but she pulled away, gripping the bed and summoning all her energy to persevere with the task for which she had been destined.
Outside, the Servant-Boy's colleagues wept with delight on hearing the newborn wails, but his heart contracted with concern as he heard the Queen's pain continue. Her cries loudened momentarily as the door opened; it was a nurse-maid, passing the silver bowl to him in order to fill it again. He paused as the door shut once more, dreading the thought of abandoning her in her suffering, but, making his way through the joyous crowd, he resolved to be back as soon as was possible.
Inside, the Queen, for all her sense of purpose, struggled on the brink of consciousness; her vision faltered and her head tumbled back against the bed. The rumbling voices of the physicians hovered above her as she pressed on, her weak limbs flailing, her body bursting with excruciating pain until she felt a final release from her efforts.
Returned, and having received no answer to his knocking, the Servant-Boy quietly entered the birthing chamber. In the area where his eyes immediately flickered, the Queen lay unattended, abandoned by the small crowd of physicians, nurse-maids and nobles, for something which held greater importance on the other side of the room from whence the infant cries came.
He approached the bed where she lay, her black hair falling away from her braid and about her face, and the hem of her white tunic stained with blood. Oil and perspiration mingled together on her brow, beneath the twisted gold that still coiled around her head, and he placed the cloth in the melting snow and transferred it to her damp face, cooling her hot skin. Her eyelids fluttered but registered nothing, and fear wracked his soul in a silent sob as she retreated into a semi-conscious slumber.
Someone had recommenced the sponging of iced water onto her face, and the room was now so hushed that she could hear, beneath the infant cries, the whirling flurries of snow beyond the thick tower wall. And that image of most natural purity remained in her mind as she closed her eyes, feeling the icy droplets trickle into her damp hairline.
She awoke a short time later in great discomfort, but filled with a most desperate desire to see her children. Turning her face to a portly nursemaid who sat devotedly at her bedside, she made this simple request through dry lips and a voice which struggled to make itself fathomable.
Within moments a little daughter was passed to her, where it lay against her shoulder, whimpering. In spite of her great physical fatigue, she lifted a tired hand to caress the tiny child, kissing its forehead and experiencing a buoyant joy rise up within her.
Its skin was as white as snow, with whimpering red cheeks and little sprigs of black hair on its head, which she kissed tenderly. Her husband smoothed his hand on the Queen's face, bending over them both and she, mantaining her gaze on her little daughter, used her remaining energy to express her wishes for its name, a name she had dwelt on ever since seeing the feathery snow flutters in the ebony-framed window of the sewing room. Her heavy lids closed again, and though she felt a certain distress at feeling the warm weight of her daughter being lifted from her, had no energy left to show it.
When the room shifted into focus again, she requested to see the other child. The portly nurse-maid wrung the cloth in the silver basin, the ice water dripping from it with a patter, before replying slowly, that she would hold the child soon, but that she needed her rest. As the nurse-maid smoothed the cool cloth against her neck, the Queen inquired about the child, and her tired face broadened into a wide smile when she was told that it was a little son.
She closed her eyes, her heart glowing with the satisfaction of having fulfilled her task of providing an heir to the kingdom, and the happiness of having been granted a daughter. The sounds of whispered prayers, like fluttering leaves, filled the air of the room, and though she knew that she was at their centre she was not perturbed; those voices did not know her inner ecstacy.
In the outer chamber the Servant-Boy treaded the cold flagstones, fatigue burning his muscles and sadness weighing his mind. His colleagues, who had been informed of the Queen's worsening condition, had gone to the royal chapel to pray; their words were heard from beneath the now largely empty room. Two Court Physicians were talking in low tones just by the door, but their discussion registered painfully on the Servant-Boy's ears; neither had seen such a case in all their years of experience; she had bled excessively - almost unnaturally, they ventured to add.
A soft hand smoothed hers, and the Queen slowly reopened her eyes to see the Countess, her tumbling flaxen curls golden in the firelight, kneeling at her side. The Queen smiled weakly, trying to voice the futility of her friend's tears, but lacking the energy to do so. Seeing that she was wakeful, the Countess told her, in whispers, that she thought the princess beautiful, as beautiful as her mother. The Queen, still unable to speak, caressed her friend's hand appreciatively, while her friend gripped hers tightly.
Though tears were evident on the Countess' cheeks, she also smiled, putting her face nearer to the Queen's as she continued. In a very low voice, she expressed that she thought it was a shame that the poor King should have to remarry to gain an heir to his throne. At this, had she the strength, the Queen would have laughed aloud. Instead she answered, in a cracked, faltering whisper, that the King had an heir to his throne already, and having spoken, wondered to herself why the Countess should speak to her of a remarriage, or even of the man of whom, only hours ago, she had connected with such demonic, detestable facts.
The Countess raised her eyes to meet the Queen's, and they flashed victoriously as she lowered her voice further still, to whisper in her ear as she had done so often in the vestibules or gardens. She told her, in the same calm, relaxed manner as she would have used to discuss Court gossip, that the little prince had been born dead; the result of his incapable, spoiled and foolish young mother, who had insisted on going for walks in the chill of winter when she was so near her time. The Queen, her soul unexpectedly overwhelmed by an anguish different and far more terrible than any physical ache she had experienced that night, turned her head away, but the Countess would not release her delicate jewelled hand.
The whispers hissed in her ear, of how the Countess would be her successor, and would succeed where she had failed; of how the King had made his choice some time before, in making her his mistress... and all this time, with her free hand, the Countess smoothed the wet cloth upon the young Queen's face, still appearing to all onlookers merely as a concerned, dedicated friend.
The Queen, too weak to object, too utterly spent to protest, closed her eyes, writhing in internal torture, her soul suffering the gaping hole of loss and the gashed stabs of betrayal. She heard the Countess leave her bedside, issuing loud, ostentatious sobs as she did so, while all present in the birthing chamber seemed to know that her condition was deteriorating.
In her dulling mind, however, she knew that there was one person within the court who had not betrayed her, and she searched desparately for a sight of him in the shadows of the room, looking for a glint of his light hair and his energetic gait. But he was not to be found, and her terrible sense of abandonment increased tenfold.
The Servant-Boy entered the birthing chamber, driven by a sudden compulsion which defied court etiquette. There she lay, her honeyed skin now white and trembling, her form surrounded by the King, priests, and her most intimate ladies-in-waiting, who uttered repeated, sorrowful prayers in tired, mournful voices. He remained by the wall, watching her beautiful, good face between the gaps in the enclosed circle of mourners.
Beaded droplets still descended her face, but she was now trembling with cold; the candles were dwindling, and the metallic smell of the thin crown and her recent efforts was becoming more pungent. Still the snowstorm spun outside, in gusts of wind more frequent than her own breaths. Heavy, sharp religious symbols were pressed into her hands, and her hands were crossed directly above the curved hollow protuberance where her twins had grown. All around her was sobbed grief, and in the distance, above the sound of the flurries of snow a long, sustained and mournful brass note sounded, informing her subjects of her passing.
Hot tears sped down the Servant-Boy's cheeks as she stilled, frozen forever in the realms of time, as a blossoming rose stiffened by frost. He turned and left the chamber, unnoticed by the tearful nobles, and as he retreated down the stone steps of the tower heard the easily distinguished voice of the King, howling with grief at the death of his beloved wife.
He ran into the iced garden, into the clutches of the bare trees and threw himself at the site, at the foot of a large oak, where he had found her only hours earlier. He lay there, his heart shattered by grief, his mind overwhelmed at the loss of one so good, but realised that he had known, observing her shape and expression as her nurse-maids undressed her, that she had been too young, too delicate, to survive the night.
The Kingdom mourned; the townspeople donned only black, so that on the grey, icey day when she was laid to rest they were like fluttering, grief-stricken shadows. She was laid out at the Cathedral where she had been married less than a year before, draped in pale silk and crowned with gold; death had taken her to be his bride.
On the steps of the Cathedral, among the throng of common mourners, stood a woman, dressed in black like the rest, cradling a little babe on her shoulder and surrounded by a group of tearful daughters. Hunger pangs disrupted their lives no longer; the gift that the good Queen had given them had dissapated their poverty; they now had warm beds to sleep in and a table, on which food was laid three times a day - more than she could every have hoped for. In her haze of exhaustion that day she had not known, but as their fortunate days numbered, she had concluded that such a complexion belonged to none other in the Kingdom. Her youngest daughter had been born into a house, and not onto a rubbish-strewn street as she had expected, and they now lived in great comfort but today, terrible sadness, mourning the premature death of such a kind and generous girl.
After a year of mourning, the King remarried; there was a small ceremony in the Cathedral, and the town, though respecting the memory of their dead Queen, were awed by the great beauty of their new monarch, with her flaxen curls which tumbled from her veil like freshly spun gold. She soon provided the sons which the King had longed for, and in time, it was forbidden to speak of the King's first bride, whose reign had been so tragically short-lived.
The dead Queen's little babe soon grew into a healthy little child, detached from her distant, saddened father and unaffectionate stepmother, but doted upon by the servants, who sadly remembered her mother's great kindness. The new queen had established herself firmly in the former's apartments, ravishing her clothes and jewels and exerting enormous influence on her broken husband.
The little girl often played in the walled garden, under the watchful supervision of the maidservants. Watching her also, with an intense mixture of sadness and curiousity on these occasions, was a Servant, who had aged visibly since her mother's short reign.
Once, chasing a wayward ball, she ran nimbly through an overgrowth of thorned roses and into a clearing of trees. The portly Maidservant, who had breathlessly pursued her charge, entered the clearing to see the stone tomb of the King's first bride and stillborn prince, kept hidden from sight of the second and overgrown with beautiful wildflowers. She urged her young charge to return, which she did, immediately, giggling, her black hair glossy in the shafts of summer sunlight. Taking her hand, the Maidservant glanced up at the sculpted form of the girl on the surface of the tomb, her hands crossed above the draped stone protuberance of her midriff, her crowned face placid and restful.
Lifting her chattering charge into her arms, she thought sadly of the underprivilege which the little girl had been brought into, the misfortune which the new queen declared lurked within her, segregating her from her own children. But the servents believed none such declarations; their loyalty remained with the true Queen, whose every image, bar the sculpted one which lay on her tomb, rendered almost accessible by a barrier of thorned roses, had been jealously destroyed by her successor.
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