Warning: This story mentions a stillborn child. If this is a difficult subject for anyone I would advise not to read it.
Hello Lovelies,
This story is inspired by the "Fete des Mousquetaires" December theme "Frozen". It wasn't finished in time, but it would have been too sad for the festive season anyway. Nevertheless, enjoy reading.
The lonely queen
Madrid, January 1609
It is snowing. She presses her nose to the frosty window glass and watches the snowflakes fall. Her look follows a single icy star falling from the sky and landing on the ground. She gazes at it a little while until she can see that it is really cold enough for the snowflake to stay, to not melt instantly. The little girl can't help but be happy.
She loves snow. Whenever the winter graces her with the white resplendence she has difficulty to step away from the window. She loves how the myriad of snowflakes cover everything and leave nothing but a bright, innocent white behind. The well-tended garden of her parents and the cluttered kitchen backyard – with the snow they both look the same. Even the most elaborate flower arrangement suddenly is rendered insignificant; and even her father can't do anything about it. She smiles wistfully. How she would like to run through the cold white powder, to sink in it and hide, like the expensive roses her mothers so loves.
But then she hears her name being called, the loud and impatient voice of her governess.
"A princess doesn't play in the snow!" she is scolded when she tries to explain why she halted at the window.
She doesn't object, asserts without saying that princesses aren't allowed much as it seems. Regardless the stern, tall woman claims that every girl would be happy to be in her place. She would agree willingly to swap places, but she has never met any of those girls.
Madrid, October 3rd 1611
'A princess doesn't cry!' She can't stop to think about this sentence. It is this sentence that fills her head, prohibits her to think, to speak, to breathe. She clutches her mother's hand, which is cold, almost as if the life has already left her. But the eyes are still awake, opened wide in the sweaty face, the pupils in a fast-paced scampering. Finally the gaze finds her, rests on her and the familiar mouth forms into a thin smile.
"My big girl," she whispers as weak as a single snowflake on a summer day. "My big girl."
She doesn't say anything else and Anne can feel the hand she is clutching squeeze back one more time and then go slack, forever.
'A princess doesn't cry.' She won't cry. Not today, not tomorrow, not on the days following.
Madrid, December 1611
It is the first snow this winter, covering her mother's roses as well as her grave. For the first time she realizes that the roses may freeze and never will blossom again; for a moment the white flakes loose all their comfort.
Her father summons her. It is the first talk they have since that day in October. But every hope of rapprochement she might have had is instantly destroyed by his words.
She will become a queen, she is told. She will reign a land that is next to hers but where she has never been before. She will reside in a city a couple of hundred miles* away, will live alongside a man she will meet for the first time at the day of her wedding.
All this isn't really surprising and she herself doesn't fully understand the fury inside of her. She just knows one thing: She does not want to leave. She knows that, after she is gone, she will never see her family again and her little siblings have already lost their mother.
She states this but her words fall on deaf ears. So she lets her rage roam free. She gets loud and tears streak her face. Her governess drags her from the room and the cold rebuke stays with her for a long time.
'A princess doesn't cry. She doesn't let herself go. And a queen even less so! A queen shows strength and keeps her composure!'
A queen.
She stands in front of a window. The snow covers the world with a white blanket.
Immaculate.
Her tears dry and don't come back. She buries them deep inside of herself and shows the world an immaculate face, a mask.
Bordeaux, November 21st 1615
The bells are droning so loud she can pretend they can be heard at her home.
But it isn't her home anymore. And she doesn't know her new home, yet. She is in between two worlds and feels so lost, so torn, like snowflakes in a rough November wind.
Her eyes search Rochefort. The duke has prepared her for her life in France for the last months. And he has accompanied her to Bordeaux. But she can't find the familiar face.
Timidly she turns to the man next to her. He also has been pushed into this marriage, he also has been thrown into a life he couldn't choose. She hopes to find an ally in him. But the look meeting hers is distant and cool.
She would love to shy away, to run and hide, like the roses in the snow.
'A queen shows strength and keeps her composure,' she still can hear the harsh voice in her head and she recollects herself. She straightens and her mask falls into place without effort. Her eyes are empty and stolidly straightforward when she walks to the altar.
Paris, December 6th 1619
The thin lips are blue, the little fists clenched. The eyes stay closed and no breath raises the small chest.
"It's stillborn," she hears a soft noise,"somebody has to tell the king."
"I want to give him a name," she requests,"I want to hold him!"
She reaches her hands out for the small bundle, but the man holding it, turns away and disappears from her view.
"Please, my child... I want my child..."
"It's a stillbirth, Your Majesty," one of the women around her bed explains,"there is no child."
"But it is here!" She disagrees and doesn't comprehend why the other woman can't understand.
The child is here! Just there, in reach of her outstretched hands it has been a moment before. A child, a son!
"Please!" she begs, but the woman shakes her head.
"Your Majesty, you have to calm down. The child is dead!"
"No, no! That is not true, that can't be..." A part of her knows that the woman is right. The blue lips, the silence surrounding the little one. Even so. It was here. Just a minute ago it was here!
Somebody holds a cup to her mouth and without really understanding why she is doing it, she drinks.
"My child," she tries one more time, but her voice sounds slurred. She notices the room begin to blur and suddenly go dark.
When she wakes up she is alone. Some candles burn, cast a hazy light on the tapestries, furniture and the canopy over her bed. It seems strange to her, unreal, something isn't right.
"My child," she remembers. And she knows she has to look for it. They took it from her and hid it.
She gets up and her feet bring her to the window. It has started to snow. Thick flakes are falling and the ground in front of the window is already covered in snow. Suddenly a door opens.
"Your Majesty! You need to lie down!" one of her ladies-in-waiting exclaims.
"He is hiding. In the snow," she tries to explain to her.
"Who, your Majesty?"
"My son. He is out there. He is hiding."
'Hopefully he isn't cold,' she thinks,'he is still so small!'
A couple of days later she finally is able to understand what happened. But she doesn't cry. The queen doesn't let her. The queen shows strength and keeps her composure.
Paris, November 1628
The autumn weather is mild this year and even the coldest days don't rival the coldness in her husband's look. They have buried their third child by now. The small lungs are just too weak to breathe.
The palace seems alien and unapproachable. She is cold, even near to the fire place. Sometimes she believes she could get lost in the big rooms, melt like a snowflake and nobody would notice.
"Are you quite well, your Majesty?"
She looks up and into the probing gaze of Cardinal Richelieu. Occasionally she thinks the man can look behind her mask, but that only encourages her to persevere.
"Well, of course, Your Excellency."
He doesn't believe her. The probing look stays, as does her mask.
"Maybe it is of no consequence," he finally begins, a trace of regret visible around his mouth, "but since Your Majesty and the duke have known each other for a time, I wanted to let you know that Rochefort is missing since La Rochelle. At this time we can only speculate..."
"Thank you."
"Maybe Spanish imprisonment..."
"Thank you!"
She doesn't say more. She doesn't stir until Richelieu has left the room and even then she just stands there. 'A queen keeps her composure' but how is she supposed to suppress her trembling if she moves for just one inch?
At some point she needs to move, she crosses the room to the window and back. She is cold. She goes to the fire place, as close to the fire as possible. She stares into the flames and tries to remember what warmth feels like.
A convent somewhere in France, 1630
Hands on her skin, warm hands petting her, touching her at places she has never before been touched, hands that linger, tease, hold, embrace and send hot flashes through her body. Lips caressing her where moments ago the hands have been. And words, breathed into her ear.
Part of her knows that she shouldn't do this, the part knowing of strength and composure, the part she shows the world. But this place isn't the world. These walls are a place on its own, in this room are only she – and he. The knowing part closes its eyes, hides and turns silent.
She can hear her name in a way she has never heard before, whispered with devotion, with deference, with promise.
She let's go and says the only word she is still able to think.
"Aramis."
Paris, March 1635
The footfalls echo too loud in the big room. She looks up from the table and receives the visitor with blatant surprise.
"Minister Treville!"
He nods and bows shortly.
"News from the front-line, Your Majesty!" he tells her and hands her a letter. The seal is broken, but that is not what confuses her. This message isn't primarily for her but for Treville as minister of war. Normally she gets the letter later.
She has formed a habit of writing the condolences to the relatives of the soldiers killed in action. It is an occupation she at least thinks a little useful during the otherwise seemingly endless waiting war means to her.
"A messenger, like always, would have been sufficient, minister," she explains while taking the letter.
"I fear not, Your Majesty," Treville says softly.
She recognizes the familiar clear handwriting of captain Athos, stating the fallen comrades of last month. One name stands out. The writing seems distorted, as if the writer has had difficulty bringing it down on the paper. She reads the name again and again. Aramis.
"I am sorry," she can hear Treville say, but she shakes her head. This name is like any other on the list, he has no special meaning, can't have any special meaning.
She turns away and walks to the window. The world outside hides her horrors under an immaculate white blanket. She can see the dark-haired little boy running through the snow excitedly. He seems to have escaped his teacher. And shortly after she can spot the graying, pudgy man call him with a throaty voice.
But her son doesn't show any interest in his teacher. Instead he squeaks with pleasure when he lets himself fall into the cold powder. He forms balls and throws them towards the oncoming man. When this doesn't stop him the boy jumps to his feet and runs away.
She looks after him and smiles. She doesn't cry, she isn't allowed to cry. But she can smile.
'Run,' she thinks, following the flight of her son, 'run and never get caught!'
-END-
*Notes:
Madrid – the Spanish royal domicil at that time was in Real Sitio de San Lorenzo de El Escoria near Madrid
Miles – The Spanish unit of measurement was Legua, approximately matching a mile, so I chose to use mile for writing.
Anne of Austria was born on September 22nd 1601, on October 3rd 1611 her mother died in childbed. In the same year the marriage with Louis XIII was arranged, whom she married on November 21st 1615 (both are 14 years old) in the Cathedral Saint André in Bordeaux.
On December 6th 1619 she sufferd her fist stillbirth, more followed in the years 1622, 1626 and 1631 until Louis XIV was born on September 5th 1638.
Since the story orientates itself more on the TV series the Dauphin is born seven years early.
Likewise all other facts deviant from real history are taken from the TV series or freely fictitious.
All research was made on