A Hundred Years of War

Chapitre 2


The following week was a blur of formal dining and treaty etiquette designed to overwhelm the Scottish dignitaries with the might of France, as well as long elegant nights that I spent with Scotland solidifying our own treaty of sorts. When he left, I felt like it was too soon, and yet I sympathized with his predicament at home. With England on his own private rampage over the last few decades, it was best to not leave the house unattended.

I returned to the countryside and lost myself in my own people. I passed months in the south, in a little village near Toulouse with a sweet dark-haired woman. Her family ran a vineyard, and she helped sell the wine at market and to inns and eating houses in the province. I helped when I could, but mostly I tried to ignore the growing anxiety I felt. It throbbed between my temples at times like a hissing snake and I knew it wouldn't be long before it struck venomous fangs. Queen Isabella had called for French help to overthrow her husband, and in a marvelous coup d'etat had instilled their son on the throne of England instead. The imprisoned former king died in the winter, with whispers of a horrible and premature death. The young boy, Edward III, seemed full of youthful hotheadedness, baited by greedy old men and his plotting mother. Wasn't a young king to mold better than an old one who even his wife wouldn't follow? With both French and English royal blood and the whole of England and a duchy in France under his belt, Edward III would be poisoned with lies of his own greatness, all to manipulate him into giving more treasure to his older accomplices. The poisonous tide of history was sweeping back up the shore, residing only to leave war and torn kingdoms in its wake. In my heart, I knew it was only a matter of time, although I swore I would do my best to keep it at bay.

I returned to the north the following year when Charles, King of France, died. His funeral was the usual pomp and circumstance with the added flair of his pregnant widow throwing doubt on the line of succession. Luckily, the nobility accepted his nephew as regent until the birth: Philip of Valois, who also held the counties of Anjou and Maine. I had met Philip years ago in his youth, and while I had never been pleased with his father, Philip was relatively unknown to me. I kept my distance from him, feeling sick with the unsteady state of affairs. There were those who threw their support to the English King instead of Philip, and the uncertainty was unbalancing. I was torn between hoping the child would be a boy, one that I could give my protection to and that the nobles could all stand behind, and a girl who would be mostly safe from the political intrigue so rampant in the court.

When Charles' widow finally gave birth to a girl, Philip marched triumphantly to Reims for the coronation. I followed the procession, keeping to the back in the stormy May weather, listening to the whispers of the wind. None of the nobility knew I was present, and in my current state of flux, I preferred to keep it that way. It was almost as if I could feel England's presence, with his green eyes watching me cat-like. I celebrated Philip's conversion to Philip VI, King of France with a rowdy crew in a tavern, not missing the stiff ceremony of the nobility.

The next morning, I was horribly, horribly sick.

"François, mon ami, tu as la gueule de bois encore?" It was Jean-Marc, one of my fellow revelers from the night before. He didn't look very steady himself, eyes red and blurry from drink, and with a squint meant to shut out the sun's morning light.

I nodded weakly, lifting my head from where I had unceremoniously vomited into the gutter. Jean-Marc held out a hand, and I took it gratefully. He laughed and pulled me up with a strength I certainly didn't have yet. Somehow, we stumbled our way back to a rickety house together. I wasn't sure who was leaning more on whom for the journey, but I realized immediately why Jean-Marc hadn't wanted to return home alone after a full night out.

The moment we were through the doors, a woman started shrieking at us. Three children of various ages scrambled out from a back room and launched at Jean-Marc with a tangle of limbs. It was obvious that he'd been sorely missed.

"Christ Almighty, where do you think you've been all night?! Children, stop being so underfoot, and let me get at your father!" the woman shouted, shooing the little ones and advancing on the pair of us. "And who is this?" It was most definitely an accusation.

Head throbbing, I still did my best to make a good impression. "Pardonnez-nous, madame, it's my fault that Jean-Marc stayed out so late." I smiled my most harmless smile, despite feeling like I'd been run over by a carriage. It was a surprising effort. "I appear to have little head for the local wine. He was looking out for me."

She seemed slightly taken aback by my winning charm, but didn't let it get to her head. Instead, she turned to glare at her husband. "And what exactly were the two of you doing?"

Jean-Marc shifted, adjusting my arm that was still flung over his shoulder. "The king's been crowned, Élisabeth! It doesn't happen so often, you know."

Her eyes narrowed. "Neither does my forgiveness." She turned and huffed away towards the hearth, adding another split log to the fire. It crackled, sending up sparks that mirrored the ones I was beginning to see behind my eyes.

"Ma chere," Jean-Marc began, trying to calm her. He shuffled me off onto a bench, and crossed to her, taking her arms. The world was beginning to take on an ethereal quality and I sensed that something was very wrong. Danger, the snake hissed, and my head spun.

I woke the next day, Élisabeth's worried face over mine. I sat up nearly instantly, and the rustling of the straw under me drew curious child faces into the doorway.

"Are you feeling better, monsieur?" she asked carefully.

I nodded. "Thank you for caring for me. I'm sorry to be a bother."

She looked away, caught a glimpse of the children, and shooed them away with a hand. She didn't return her eyes to my face. "Jean-Marc said you came from Paris with the procession. That you worked in the south with wine, or as a stonemason in Orlèans. But your face… and your hands… show none of it."

I swallowed uncomfortably. "I have done both those things, my dear."

Her face turned back to mine, and I could see the lines of humanity at the corners of her eyes, and traces around her mouth. Her lips were no longer the plump ones of girlhood. "What do you do really? I don't want any lies in this house. Your face and hands belong more to a wealthy background."

"I have been in wealthier places and found I don't prefer them." I watched her eyes carefully, holding them with mine. She seemed compelled to lock my gaze. "A kingdom belongs to all its people, not just his wealthy king. Its earth is just as young as the day it was first turned by humankind."

Her brow furrowed in puzzlement, and I realized my enigmatic explanation was all I was willing to give her. She might figure it out eventually. Maybe.

"Please take my thanks and offer them to your husband as well. I should be going." I rose from the bed, finding my boots next to the straw mattress and began putting them on.

"But…" she started, and then her confusion turned to anger and she resumed the same spiritedness I had seen the day before. "You men! You think you can just say a few meaningless words, and that sets everything right! Well, you best be leaving this house if you're not willing to spare some explanation to its mistress."

I stood, and gave her a broad smile, ignoring her anger completely. "May you and Jean-Marc always be happy."

And then I strode out the door. My headache had lifted, but I knew I was still in danger.

I needed to see Philip.


Philip was not a bad person as far as kings go. I don't think he remembered me, but when I announced who I was, messengers scurried around and he was willing to see me almost immediately.

"My king," I said upon entering his sitting room, giving him only a short bow of deference. "Congratulations."

Philip smiled, his dark hair framing his face. He seemed almost heavyset, with a weak chin folding into a thick neck. He really would benefit from a beard. His rather prominent nose didn't help the effect, even though his hands had a contrasting delicateness.

"And you are France?" he said curiously. He looked me over for a moment, seeming to reach a decision of some sort. He waved me to a seat opposite him. "Thank you for coming to congratulate me. I believe we will be great for each other."

It was one of the nicest things a King had told me, and I couldn't help my smile stemming from hope. "I hope so," I replied, sitting in a plushy upholstered chair, before getting right to the point, "but I fear not all share my feelings on your coronation."

Philip frowned, looking confused, and then he smiled, leaning forward in his chair. "You speak of Edward of Gascony and the English?"

I nodded slowly. "He will try to take me from you. I can feel it and it makes me sick."

Philip laughed, shaking his head. "But what can he do? He is sworn as vassal to the French crown! And that crown sits upon my head."

I cringed inwardly. "Philip, his father swore, but he has not. It needs to be clear. He needs to fulfill his duties as a Duke himself. Not his father, not his advisors, not anyone but him."

The king seemed taken aback that I used his given name, but recovered well enough. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, and I could see him thinking before he spoke. "Very well. I will call him to account." He looked down his long nose at me. "And you have my thanks for your counsel."

"Of course," I replied gracefully, "it is for the good of the country, is it not?" I stood to leave. He motioned me out with a flourish of his slender hands. His inherited rings of large rubies and emeralds looked clunky on such slim fingers.

I paused at the door, the handle in my grasp. "Oh, and Philip? Grow a beard."


The king seemed to take my words to heart he arranged for the next year to have the young Edward grudgingly swear his loyalty as the Duke of Gascony. Not only that, but he also grew a tuft of a beard on his chin and even a dark mustache to top it off.

In return, I followed his knights to Flanders, and suited up at the Battle of Cassel to help stem a minor rebellion. I hadn't seen much fighting for years, and so I had to nearly beg the King to give me a horse and heavy armor for my participation. It was with great reluctance that I reminded him that I was a country, not a man, and as such, putting down a rebellion was a much more likely way for me to survive, rather than slowly be torn apart. I'm not sure he understood much more than the idea that I was immortal, but he enthusiastically gave me a strong charger and an embellished suit of steel.

After Edward's homage, the next few years passed easily and comfortably. My headache had faded almost immediately. Small squabbles arose between my king and England's, but were discounted easily enough-the two humans seemed to get along rather well. But it was belied by a tension that built, and then held steady between England and me. Several times, I considered writing my blond-haired companion of old a letter, but I couldn't figure out what to say. And then he invaded Scotland again. I despaired that England would ever stop breaking his word.

After much persuasion on my part, Philip relented and Scotland's royal refugees made land on my northern shores. It was a month after they had been established in Normandy at Castle Gaillard, before I visited, mostly out of curiosity.

I never expected to see the shock of red hair fixed over haunted green eyes there.

"Écosse…?" The name fell from my lips. But… what was he doing here?

I wasn't dressed formally, but instead had entered under the guise of a peasant or poorer merchant-farmer. My clothes were plain, as I had been wandering the rolling hills and valleys like a happy vagrant. Scotland didn't look much better off than me, although his clothes had perhaps been finer once. He looked smaller, gaunt in a way that made muscles seem wiry and thin rather than the broad warmth I remembered from our last meeting.

He saw me, and immediately looked down, and I knew he was ashamed of his state. He mumbled something, of which I only caught my name in his heavy brogue. I had already taken several quick steps, but stopped a few paces away yet. I nearly choked, feeling tears prick at my eyes. He was not himself.

Reaching down, I picked up his hand, holding it between my own. It was callused from the sword, and I knew part of him was still fighting back against the English. His heart at least, was not here, even though his fight for independence was failing. Without thinking, I pressed his hand to my chest, the gesture startling him into looking at me. His lovely, lovely eyes were bare.

I spoke fiercely, my tears turning to barely-controlled and whispered anger. "I swear to you, I will get you back home, whatever it takes. I will not let you be alone, and I will not let anyone refuse our agreement, be it King or even God Himself. Tonight, we ride for Paris, and afterwards….

"…if he touches you again, I will cut off England's poisonous hands myself."


As always, thanks for reading. Ah, France has a serious and deadly streak! How different things were back in the early 1300s~~. Please leave a review!