CHAPTER ONE

THE TURNING POINT

Catherine looks beautiful, there is no denying that. Her pretty golden locks are brushed out so that they resemble fine silk and the natural, loose curls are falling down her back as the maid braids some strands together. Catherine is gazing at herself in the mirror with a look of both worry and fear on her young face as she watches the maid progress, silently wishing that she will never be done. They've been preparing for this day for a while; ever since the boats landed on the Normandy coast, ever since the other King lead his army across French lands in a success that no one had expected. Catherine had been waiting for this, they all had, but now that the day had finally come she was as nervous as ever. Petrified in fact.

"What if he does not like me?"

She asks in quiet French, the worry rippling through her voice which makes her sound younger than she is; vulnerable almost. They have all heard stories about this King. This brutal warrior that had invaded their home killed their men and demanded their Father's crown as a reward. This man that she was to marry, and appear to be glad to do so.

For a moment there is silence in the room, until the creak of the four poster bed signalled some movement and a younger girl appeared behind her, watching Catherine's reflection in the mirror before them with a bright, almost naïve smile.

"How could he not like you?"

The girl replies in the same lamented French tones, her smile growing softer as she touches Catherine's shoulder in comfort.

"He will love you, sister. Everyone does, you charm people easily and this English King will be no different. He will take one look at you and he will be enamoured."

Catherine's features softened a little and the smallest of smiles touched her pinkie lips, her eyes lowered modestly as her shoulder was patted.

The two girls were siblings, and it just took one look to confirm this. Though Catherine was fair and with slightly darker skin, this girl that stood with her was raven haired and with skin the colour of milk. They did, however, share some facial similarities. Their lips curved in the same way, with the latter's cupid bow being a little more prominent, their cheeks harbouring the same dimples when they smiled and their eyes were the same colour which they gained in inheritance from their Father, Charles.

"Thank you, Lucinda."

Catherine murmurs in sincerity as she takes her sister's hand and squeezes it. Despite Lucinda being the youngest of the pair, Catherine finds her the most comforting.

"Promise me you will accompany me today. I would feel better with you close by."

Lucinda stiffens slightly and her eyes dart to the maid who is still working on her braids.

"I do not know if that would be allowed. Father sa-"

"Just to the hall, that is all I require."

Catherine watches her, and there is a pleading in her eyes that Lucinda cannot ignore. She pities her; pities her because she would not like to be in her situation. Catherine is strong where Lucinda is naïve and young and with much still to learn; she would not be able to shoulder this dutiful burden if it were thrust upon her. Quietly she nods and Catherine beams, hugging her briefly before they part again and Lucinda moves aside to allow the Princess to finish with her preparations. By the time she was dressed in her new gown, her hair fixed into place and with a light mist of fine perfume lingering in the air of the room Catherine looked more nervous than words could ever describe.

There was that pity again, turning over in the pit of Lucinda's stomach and quietly she moved closer to her sister and grasped her hand tightly. Nothing needed to be said between the pair of them as they left the room; Lucinda's unspoken support did not need to be commented on. Instead Catherine just returned the tight grasp and strolled beside her, drawing strength from her presence.

Lucinda was a few inches shorter and just a year or so younger than her sibling, but as they walked side by side there didn't seem to be much difference in them at all.

Lucinda looked older than her seventeen years, and the way in which she was there to support her family said volumes about her love for her family.

The halls in the French palace are wide and filled with grey stone that are cold and draining and dreary on certain days when the flickering light from the torches that are mounted on the walls do nothing but cast ominous shadows over the stones.

The pair walk in silence, with just their shoes echoing off of the stone with each step they take; along with the steps of the old maid that followed behind them. She would accompany Catherine into the meeting hall and this filled Lucinda with a small, warming comfort to know that she would not be completely alone, as if thrown to the wolves.

"Voilà."

Catherine murmurs as they reach the double doors that will lead her to what will be a turning point in her life. The Princess attempts to smile and looks to her sister, who mirrors the same, wry, tight expression.

"Just be you, Kate." She murmurs quietly and squeezes her hand again. "And you'll be fine."

The sisters hug in a crushing embrace before they finally part and the doors open for Catherine to enter. Lucinda steps back and lets her go, but even as she does this she can see the gathering of both Kings and their men around the small fire in the centre of the room; the sight of them there unspeakably threatening. How neither King spoke to the other, or so much as looked at him. It was as though the hatred and the hostility poured out of the room the very second the doors were opened; a tense atmosphere that Catherine was forced to stroll into with a smile. The King's conversing, each to their own people, halt once the doors creaked open and they all turn to look. Catherine walks in, perfect posture, pleasant aura, hands clasped neatly in front of her and a polite smile upon her features as the maid follows behind her. Both women curtsey in respect, bowing low to both Kings.

But as the doors close behind the glowing French Princess, Lucinda briefly catches a pair of blue eyes upon herself; piercing and striking and brighter than any blue she has ever seen before. She stares at them, captivated in those short few seconds before the doors thud closed and the room beyond is shut away from her prying eyes. All she is left with is the image of those eyes watching her, of the weak knees they invoke and of how the King of England had watched her rather than the regal entrance of his bride to be.