If asked, Anne would say she is fond of Louis. Really, marriage is something of a lottery; Europe is full of foolish princes and rare is the woman who is given a choice. But Louis is no sillier than many men she has met, and wiser than some. He tries, and that surely is worth something? Their marriage is not unpleasing. They have no child yet; awareness and self-consciousness grow as the months and years pass. Anne is not always convinced that Cardinal Richelieu, that ubiquitous eminence grise, truly has Louis' best interests at heart, or even the Pope's. Man of God he may be; man of flesh and blood, and pride, and ambition, he most certainly is. She does not trust easily. A queen cannot afford to.
Anne tries her best, and Louis tries his best. They try to be the king and queen that France requires. They wear beautiful clothes and show themselves to their people. Stern yet merciful. Mighty yet loving. They should be loved. Too often, they are not. Sometimes, Anne thinks it would be so blissful to be unaware, to walk within their court, arrayed in silk and jewels, secure in the knowledge that she is beloved by all. To believe that her life is perfect, ordained thus by God.
It is not perfect. She is not beloved by all. Her marriage is as yet unfruitful and her husband is often distracted. Sometimes, Anne feels like a failure – as a queen and as a woman. Sometimes, Anne looks elsewhere for approval, for a sign that she is worthwhile. She is not unfaithful; she knows her duty. Oh, but when a handsome musketeer saves her life, strong and chivalrous – well, she is not made of stone. And he is very handsome. The feel of his body against hers is quite thrilling. She enjoys the spark in his eyes when he looks at her. She wishes – she wishes…
But Anne is queen. And Anne is dutiful.
(Sometimes her gaze meets that of Aramis, beautiful Aramis, and he smiles at her.)
She is Anne of Austria.
She is Anne of France.
She is touched by God.
(Sometimes she smiles back.)