FRENCH COURT
The smoke from the forges of the blacksmiths rose up to color the sky black and blot out the stars. Every moment of silence was compromised by the ring of the hammer against steel. War had seeped into the castle. Everyone lingered a moment longer when they said their goodbyes as if they were afraid it would be the last time.
Scouts went out every day to try and find the troops from Netherlands, but either no one saw them, or they just kept their mouth shut. Everyone had a guess as to where they were. Speculation ranged from half a day's ride to all the way back out to the border.
Court was in chaos. Half the lords had already ridden back to their homes in order to be with their families when the time came. Men who had promised to fight in the army deserted, confident that their bodies would not be missed in the carnage. The fear of what could lie in wait made it impossible to run the country, but Francis did not have the option of giving up.
He sat on his throne, that which leant its power to him and seemed so ominous to those who approached it. To him it seemed little more than a place to rest for a moment. It was a coffin in and of itself of a sort. It boxed him in on all sides and buried him in his duties. There were days when he barely had the energy to lift himself from the seat to make it to his chambers.
Today there was a seemingly endless stream of visitors, each complaining about the heightened taxes, burnt farms, or soldiers being torn from their homes. There were others too, others pushing for more money, more food, more men to fight against Netherlands. Francis's head spun with the calculations of risk, possible reactions, and reactions to reactions.
"A tonic for your cough, your majesty," the servant said. He proffered a silver tray with a tiny glass bottle on it. Francis took it and downed the mixture.
"Many thanks," he said. The servant bowed and left the room. "Who else?" He called out to the crowd of French subjects waiting to speak with their king.
A girl dashed into the room breathless. Sweat stuck her dress to her back as she doubled over. She lifted her head of greasy black hair. "Your Majesty," she began.
"There's a line, girl," a guard said as he advanced on the girl. "Get to the back of it."
The girl pulled herself up to her full height of five feet and one inch to stare down the guard. "I need to speak with the king," the girl said. "Now." The guard was not affected in the least by the girl's words or her stare.
"You'll wait your turn just like the rest of them," he said. "Get to the back before I bring you there myself."
"Wait," Francis said. The guard stared at him with shock. Francis nodded to the guard. "You may return to your post." The guard swallowed his pride and walked back to the entryway. "What is your name?"
The girl looked up. "Sibyla, your majesty."
Francis nodded. "You have shown yourself to possess a plethora of confidence to stand up to my guard, Sibyla. That may well get you killed someday, but it is also a quality I respect. So, girl, tell me. What is the news that you have brought to French court? What is the news that could not wait?"
Sibyla glowed with pride at the compliments from her monarch. She pulled herself taller again, but this was no challenge, merely an attempt to appear representable. "Your Majesty, I found the Netherlands's army."
A whisper swept through court. How had this girl, a mere child, find the army of the Netherlands when the king's scouts themselves could not?
Francis felt a pit drop into his stomach. They were here. It was childish to hope that they weren't, but he had hoped for that in a secret corner of his heart, and now that hope was dashed upon the rocks. "How," he demanded. "how do you know?"
"My sister and me, sire, we were exploring the woods and we saw tents. We followed them 'till they got really dense, and then we heard them speaking. There was this man, this Orange William? He was the one they were listening to. He was talking about attacking the castle, sire. My sister and me ran out of there, quick as we could, and when I told my ma about it she said to run here fast as my legs could carry me, and to talk to you. So I did."
Orange William. That had to be William of Orange. Francis had heard his name brandied about before. Rene of Orange had been a prominent man in politics, and had left everything to William, even his title. It had caused such a stir that the rumors had traversed the many miles to make it to French court. William had to be the leader of the army of Netherlands. But to rely on the word of a mere child…
"How do I know you truly saw the army of the Netherlands?"
"I saw them, your Majesty, I did. I swear on my immortal soul I saw them."
"I am sorry, but I cannot make decisions that could change the future of the nation based on the warning of a single girl."
"Making no decision could change the fate of the country," Sibyla argued back. "But there is also this." She reached around to her pocket and pulled out a scrap of orange, white, and blue cloth. "My sister, Evonne, she cut it off of one of the flags they had. When Ma saw it she said it was the mark of Netherlands."
It was a sign of Netherlands alright. It was the flag of the Prince of Orange, of William of Orange. Some men in the crowd subconsciously gripped their swords at the sight of it. Francis had heard tales, tales about how that flag had flown high over the carnage of the battle for independence in Netherlands. It was the flag of the rebels.
"Where did you see them?" he asked.
"The forest's next to my house. My ma's one of the gardeners here. We live two and a half miles from the southeast gardens."
"Two and a half miles?" That was close, much too close for comfort.
"Yes, your Majesty. But the soldiers were deep in the woods. They can't be closer than three or three and a half miles away."
"Can you find the camp again?"
"Yes, your Majesty. I can do that."
"Good," Francis said. "You will lead my brother, Bash, and three companies of men to the spot where these men are camping. Try and be discreet, do not let them know you are there. Once my men are in position you may go back to your mother's house and take her and your sister to the castle. You will stay here as guests until the battle is over. Is this understood?"
"Stay in the castle?" Sibyla said, her cheeks red with excitement.
"Yes, as a show of my gratitude."
"Of course!" Sibyla coughed, trying to hide her elation. "Of course, your majesty. Thank you."
"Thank you," Francis said. "You are doing your country a great service."
THE SOUTHEAST WOODS
The woods were not strange to Bash as they were to others. He had even ventured into the Bloodwoods, a place where few went in, and even fewer came out. These were not the Bloodwoods, but they held different dangers. It was an ideal spot for robberies, a place where it was easy to take one too many turns and find yourself hopelessly lost, and now a place for a foreign army to make camp.
"You are sure they are here?" He asked Sibyla.
"They're just through those rocks there." Sibyla pointed through a narrow pathway
surrounded by tall stones.
Bash paused. Even looking at that path made him feel uneasy. "We ought to go around," he said. "If we went through there and were attacked, then we would be easily overwhelmed. They would have the advantage of height, and we would be stuck single file. Each escaping man would have to fight the full force of the Netherlands army by himself."
Sibyla swallowed. "Of course," she said. "Whatever you think is best. Did you want to go that way?" She pointed up a steep slope that climbed over the ridge of rocks. Bash nodded. "Let me scout it for you," she said. "I can find any places where a horse might miss a step and break a leg. Besides, your men should rest for a while."
Bash hesitated, but without a reason to object, he nodded his approval.
Within seconds Sibyla was scrambling over the rocks. Once she was out of sight of Bash's soldiers, she stood on the tallest of the rocks and placed two fingers in her mouth. She blew hard, and a high pitched whistle fell into the forest. Satisfied, she climbed back down and returned to Bash and his men.
"All clear?" Bash asked.
"Yes," Sibyla said. "All clear."
"And you are sure that that sister of yours will deliver the message, Evonne?" a soldier snarled through the bars of the makeshift prison.
The girl curled in the corner could smell the alcohol coming off the soldiers breath in waves. She nodded her head. "Yes," she said. "Yes. Sibyla wouldn't leave me."
"Alone? In the middle of an encampment of enemy soldiers? Too late. She already did."
Evonne's eyes flashed. "She left because you made her. She left because you threatened me. She will do what you told her to."
The soldier laughed. "Sisterly love. I suppose it's simple nowadays, just wait until you grow up."
Evonne jumped to her feet. "Sibyla won't leave me!" she yelled.
"Works for me, my young friend. Just as long as she gets us what we want." The soldier took another swig from the bottle.
The flap of the tent flew open, and William of Orange strode in. The soldier attempted to pull the bottle from his lips, cap it, and hide it in his garment before William saw it. Some of the alcohol went down the wrong way and left him coughing for air in a way that was even more incriminating than the bottle William saw flash before his eyes. William glared at the soldier. "You there," he said. "We are in enemy territory. There is to be no alcohol here, especially when one is with a prisoner." The soldier ducked his head in shame. William sighed. "Leave us," he said to the soldier. The soldier darted out, glad to be free of William's stare.
Silence filled the tent as William stared at Evonne. Evonne huddled against the wooden bars that ran all the way around her, fencing her into her cage like a wild animal. She pointedly stared away from William.
William crouched down until his face was on the same level as the girl's. "Evonne, is it?" Evonne didn't acknowledge him. "Evonne," William said, "Evonne, do you know why you're here?" Evonne finally moved. She twisted her head to stare directly into William's eyes, and then spat on the dirt ground. William nodded. "That's to be expected I suppose. Do you know why we're here? Netherlands?"
"You want to take our land. You want to take our money. You want to take our food. You want everything we have."
"No, we don't, Evonne. All we want is for you to help us when we are in need. We would help you too. It would be like an alliance between our two nations. Mutually beneficial in all ways. Yes, we would ask you to support our shared government, but no more so than you currently support the King of France."
"Why can't you just form a normal alliance then? Why not meet with the king and bargain with him? Why come into our country and fight him? Why steal our grain, burn our barns, and take our lives?"
William swirled his finger in the dirt. "Evonne, I wish it were that simple. You see, Netherlands is a fairly new country. Other countries won't respect it yet. If we made a deal with France we would get the worse part of the deal by far, and I can't allow that for my subjects." He lifted his finger from the dirt and stared at Evonne. "Don't you see, Evonne? We wouldn't ask anything more of you than your current king. Nothing would have to change. In fact we would have less blood spilled if everyone just agreed. Together we are stronger. Nothing could tear us apart."
"But you would kill our king," Evonne said.
"Only if he becomes a threat to our joint rule," William said. "And besides, what have your kings brought you? King Henry nearly cost you all your lives with his war on England, and King Francis shoved an unnecessary war on France, all to protect his beloved wife's country. Think, Evonne. Was all that spilled French blood necessary? What makes her crown worth so much more than all of your lives? Netherlands would never do what your kings have done."
"King Francis rules over all of us. He is my king."
William stood up, fire flashing in his eyes. "When will you Frenchmen stand up and see that a king that does not put his people's interests before his own is not a king at all? The people of Netherlands understood that, and out of the fire of revolution they made a real monarchy. This is not just a war for Netherlands. This is a war for the people."
"Then why won't you let the people choose? Why won't you listen to what the people want? Frenchmen want France. We want King Francis!"
"Then hope is lost for France!" William spat. "The French do not know how to think for themselves, so I must think for them. Without me, you would grovel under a tyrants despotic rule. Watch me, French girl, watch me as I forge your pathetic nation into a country that can act and think."
"I won't stand with you," Evonne said.
"No," William said, "but your sister will. She will betray her nation and her king to save your life. Poor girl. She probably thinks that we'll let you go."
Evonne tucked her face in between her knees. William was right. Sibyla was going to ruin France, all to save her. Her stomach tightened, and it was all she could do to prevent herself from puking. How many would die because of her? All because she had wanted to investigate. She would be the cause of deaths. And they would kill her too. They would kill her, and then they would kill Sibyla.
A whistle echoed through the silence. William cocked his ear, and a smile spread across his face like a spot of water running through a cloth. "Well, French girl, your time will come soon. France will rise from the pitiful mess that it is. I will lead it to glory. That whistle beckons death to your country as you know it."
The snake-like smile on William's face made Evonne grow cold. She felt his toes turn to ice, then her calves. The cold creeped up her body until she was completely unaware of any touch, any sound, anything but the smile on William's face. Evonne gathered herself to her feet, brushed off her dress, and released the roar that had been building in her chest. "No!" she screamed. She fell upon the bars. The wooden slats shook beneath her weight, and William took a step back, the smile falling off his face in pieces. Evonne relentlessly pounded on the bars without care to the state of her hands. "You will not tear us down!" she clamored.
"Guards!" William called.
"Get in here and fight me yourself!" Evonne yelled. The twelve year-old girl challenging the twenty seven year-old man, she was hopelessly outmatched. But her rage, oh her rage shook William to the core.
"Guards!" William called again. A soldier came stumbling in, sword in hand. "Subdue her. I want you here until the battle is over. When it's done, kill her."
The soldier nodded and approached the bars. "Get back," he said. Evonne snarled at him. "Get back I said." The solder turned the sword to batter Evonne's hands with the hilt. A crack echoed through the tent as Evonne fell back.
William's eyes were trapped by Evonne's. The girl cradled her bloodied hand, it was no doubt broken, but her glare was no less intense. "You will pay if you hurt my country," Evonne said.
William tore himself from Evonne's gaze. The soldier looked to him, waiting to see if there was anything else he needed. William squeezed his fear into the darkest corner of his soul. There was only anger left behind. "I am going to fight the king's men, who, courtesy of our friend here, will be brought straight to us. When her sister gets here to collect her," he said, "kill her too."
FRENCH COURT
Francis paced the nearly empty throne room, his crown pushing down harder on him with every step. Mary watched him, her hands fidgeting with nerves. "It's been far too long since Bash left with his men. He should have been back by now. The force I sent was too small to be noticed, there couldn't have been a confrontation," Francis said.
"Perhaps he saw an opportunity to evict these intruders from our lands and seized it," Mary reasoned.
"So long as this opportunity did not cost my brother his head," Francis said.
"Come clear yours," Mary said, holding out her hand. Francis paused and looked at her for a moment before letting out a breath he had not known he was holding. He took her arm. "It will do both of us good to get out of this stuffy throne room. We'll be able to think about this more clearly," Mary said as she led him out of the throne room. Their footfalls echoed down the hallway. "How do the north gardens sound?" she asked.
Francis smiled weakly at her, his mind still occupied with what had happened in the woods three and a half miles from the southeast gardens. Mary squeezed his arm, knowing perfectly well what was running through his mind. She saw it in his face, in the way he held himself, and in the way he was holding her arm a little more tightly than usual, but she knew it most of all because it was exactly what was running through her mind.
Heavy footfalls shattered their companionable silence. A King's Guard ran through the stone hallways and skidded to a stop before them. "Your Majesties," he said, "you must go back into the throne room. You mustn't leave there for a while at least."
"And why must we do that?" Mary asked, indignant at a guard throwing orders at her, his queen.
The guard never faltered. "The Netherlands's army, they're here. They're right outside the gate, your Majesty."
"They're what?" Francis asked. He felt as though someone had struck a blow right to his chest.
"They're here, your Majesty. A guard saw some lights and summoned someone to go investigate. That person didn't come back, your Majesty, not in one piece anyway. His head rolled to a stop right outside our gate." Francis tensed against Mary's arm. She swallowed and forced herself to keep upright. The guard faltered. "Your Majesty, there's more. That girl you sent, Sibyla, they sent her head too. There's one other, a girl who looks only a touch younger than the other."
"The sister," Mary whispered.
"That's what we thought," the guard said. The night suddenly felt colder.
Francis straightened himself to his full height. There were things that a king was meant to do, and things that a king was not meant to do. He would not allow himself to sit in the fear their act of atrocity lent him. "Are their troops concentrated at the south gate?" Francis asked. "We could lead troops from the north gate, go around both ways and fight them as soon as the sun's first rays are upon us."
The guard shook his head. "Your Majesty, I am afraid that they aren't concentrated at the south gate, or at any gate. They are everywhere, your Majesty. Only a few held the torches that the guard at the south gate saw. The rest slid in and were not noticed until it was too late. They are just out of bowshot, but they have enough men to encompass us. They can easily wait until we run out of food or water."
Mary snapped. "How could this happen? This castle is meant to protect us, not cage us. How did your men miss an incoming swarm of armed men, and where are the other soldiers, the French soldiers, our soldiers? France has strength, stability, allies. How could Netherlands waltz into our country and force us to capitulate with one stroke?"
The guard lowered his eyes, afraid to meet the blazing inferno in the queen's. Francis grabbed her shoulder. "Mary," he said. "Mary, please." He felt her anger fizzle out of her.
A coil of fear gathered in his stomach. His brother was out there. His brother, whom he had spent his childhood with. Who had shown him how to filch food from the kitchens when the cooks weren't looking. Who had distracted their father from Francis when Henry was boiling with rage. Who had shown him that there was hope for the future when Francis had been heartbroken. Bash was out there.
"Any news of the men that went out to find the army? What of them?" he asked.
The guard pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. It was speckled with blood and was crinkled as though it had recently dried from a water spill. The guard's face was strained as he said, "This was found in Sibyla's mouth."
Francis reached out to take the paper from the guard. "Thank you," he said. He closed his eyes to the dim glow of the grand hallway. The guard bowed and returned the way he had come.
"Francis, you're shaking," Mary said. He felt her warmth press into him.
Francis sucked in a tumultuous breath. "Read it to me," he said. "Please, Mary, I can't read it myself if it tells of my brother's death. Read it to me."
She took it from his hand. She shifted against his arm. The paper rasped as she unfolded it as if it were a beast taking its first breaths. "King Francis II Valois," she read, "your troops are scattered throughout your lands. We control your communication to them. You cannot beat us. Surrender." Her breath caught in her throat. "Give up your crown for the good of your people."
For the good of your people. Her words echoed in his head. The faces of his subjects flashed before Francis on the backdrop of his eyelids. There were so many people depending on him to keep them safe. So many people needed his help. If he refused to surrender, the cost would be lives. But what of Netherlands? Would they keep his people safe? The head of the only person known to have seen them lay just beyond the castle walls. And the others who were supposed to find them…
"What of my brother? What does it say of Bash?"
"Your forces cannot defeat us. We have proven that today," Mary said. Her voice hitched on proven. Their forces had not been enough. Their forces could not keep Bash safe. "Francis," she said. "Francis, here. Read it." She placed the paper back into his hands.
"Please, Mary, please do not force me to read this."
"Francis, trust me, this you do want to read yourself."
He pulled his ten pound eyelids open. The paper sat there, just as ominous as ever. It was coarse in his hand. He took another breath and unfolded the paper. As a gesture of good faith, we have not killed your men, but kept them prisoner. Tears of relief pricked Francis's eyes. We will allow contact with the man your soldiers have identified as the king's brother.
But it will not be you, King Francis, that is allowed this contact. Nor will it be one of your men. Rather you will send the Queen of France into our camp. It is time you returned our act of faith. I guarantee her safe passage. She will be allowed five minutes with your brother. If you agree to our terms, you will let her out of the south gate at dawn. From there my men will escort her to our prisons.
I doubt that you will be inclined to let her out, but you must. If she does not come to talk to your brother, I will attack the castle and slaughter our prisoners. A battle here will be bloody, and neither you nor I have men to spare, but I can assure you that I will prevail as easily as I did when I captured your men today. I will see your queen at dawn, King Francis.
Prince William of Orange.
Francis folded the note back up. Mary stared at him with imploring eyes. "Absolutely not," he said.
"Francis, we haven't even talked about this," Mary argued.
"Absolutely not, Mary," Francis said. "I will not allow you to walk undefended into an enemy camp. You are too important to this nation. I cannot allow this to happen."
"It won't help the nation if the castle is attacked and the king and queen are both dead," Mary said. "France needs me to take this risk."
"It is not a risk I will let you take."
"Do you say that for France or for yourself?" Mary's eyes bored holes into Francis. The pressure of her gaze forced Francis to turn his head. "Francis," Mary said, her voice soft, "we are rulers. You must put aside your love for me for the good of the country." Francis scoffed. Those were William's words, for the good of your people, for the good of your country. What had those words brought him but pain and misery?
"We need this," Mary said. "France needs this. I can gain valuable knowledge from Bash, I'm sure he's seen something. And I'm not defenseless. I can protect myself."
Francis looked down at the note in his hands. "Mary, there is another way. We will find another way."
Mary took the note from his hands and folded her fingers around his. "There is no other way, Francis. We have spent our whole lives thinking that maybe we can find another way to make things work. Sometimes it has, but, Francis, think. More often than not things fall apart, and the only path is the one offered us. The stakes are too high on this one, Francis. We can't let this one fall through."
"Mary, I won't let you," Francis said, but his words were weaker now.
Mary lifted her hand to cup Francis's face. He instinctively leaned into her warm, familiar touch. "I know," she said. "I know you don't want to. But, Francis, you have to. For France. Give us a chance, Francis. This is a risk, but it does not mean that I will not return. I promise you, Francis, I promise that I will come back to you."
"Mary," he said in one last attempt to fight her determination.
"I will come back." Each syllable she said was articulated and strong. Her words pushed his heart, trying to force him to put his love for his country above his love for her. That was what Francis had always envisioned when he pictured himself king. He thought he would be a king above a husband, but what made him nod was not France, it was her. His uncompromising belief in her and her power and her promise.
Responsibility settled in her heart, and Mary wondered whether or not she believed herself. France needed this. Francis needed this. She would do it for him. She lifted herself on her toes and leaned forward to kiss him. "I love you, Francis," she whispered.
"Jerard?"
The uniformed soldier turned to face her. His feet were lead in his shoes, and his stomach clenched for fear of what he was about to tell her. Fear was the wrong word, it wasn't fear, it was regret. He stayed there, looking at Amelie's face, memorizing how she looked in this instant. Her hair floated on her shoulders in soft, auburn curls. A smile played on her lips, and her heart was still bright as a daisy. There was fear, there was always fear in the castle now, but she was alright.
"Jerard, is that you?" Amelie put down the tray she was delivering and padded over to him. "Jerard? Oh I didn't think I'd see you again, how are you?" He didn't answer. "Oh, do you not remember me? It's okay if you don't. We only met each other at the market a few weeks ago. I ripped my dress?" she prompted.
Jerard forced a smile to his lips. "I remember you," he said.
Amelie let out a breath. "Good. That would have been incredibly embarrassing." She looked up at him, waiting for him to say something to shatter the silence that was growing harsher by the second. The weight in Jerard's chest gained a pound each time she looked at him. "How was the war?" She said, attempting to reconstruct some semblance of conversation. "I can't imagine it's pleasant, and they'll need you back with the soldiers out front…" Her eyes narrowed and a line appeared between her eyebrows.
"What are you doing in the castle?" she asked. "They need every man ready to defend the castle. Why are you here?"
It was time. The words were sluggish as they made their way from his mouth. "Amelie, I met a boy named Tristian when I was fighting at the front. He wouldn't stop talking about his sister. He said that she worked in the palace kitchens, and he talked about the times that she took care of them when he was sick. He talked about her ferocity, and then I knew that the girl he was talking about was you."
He could see the bud of worry working its way up to her heart. He couldn't watch this any longer. He couldn't watch her as she realized what he was about to tell her even before he said it. He couldn't watch as that hateful bud blossomed into pain. "Amelie, two days after I met your brother at the front, I watched him die."
The flower of worry encircled her, plunged through her heart, and expanded at her throat. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. Her body was frozen, not moving, not blinking, not breathing. The half smile was still on her face even as gravity pulled the corners of her mouth down. Her throat trembled.
He couldn't watch this. Jerard's heart pounded. "I have to go," he said. He turned, ready to flee until and iron grip circled his hand. His blood ran cold.
"Who do you think you are?" Amelie said, her voice shaking and frozen. "What gives you the right? You knew my brother for two days, you knew me for five minutes, and now you think you have the right to come here and tell me, without a shred of evidence, that my brother died? You come here and shatter my world, and then you think you have the right to leave?"
"Amelie, you need time. You need space," Jerard reasoned.
"No, I don't. I don't need any of that. What I need is my brother. The men in the army should be released a few days. I'll go talk to him then, and I'll have to bring them food again, he'll be hungry…"
Jerard reached in his pocket and drew something out. He pressed it into Amelie's palm. "Amelie," he said without taking his hand out of hers, "your brother is dead."
Her hands were shaking when he pulled his hands away. She uncurled her hand and looked down. A string tied auburn hair the same color as her own together with a small note. The frail piece of paper was weightless in her hands. She almost couldn't feel the texture of the paper. It seemed as though there was an eternity between her fingertips and the paper. She turned the paper over.
Tell my sister I love her.
"I found this among his things," Jerard said.
Amelie felt tears prick at her eyes. She couldn't cry. Not here, not in front of him. Her breaths were fast and ragged. "Thank you," she said. "I have to go." She splintered her feet from where they join date floor and ran. She didn't know where. She didn't know where was safe.
Her arms flung open the door to the kitchens. It was deserted at this hour. The shadows pulled along the walls and filled every corner. Moonlight strode through the window, but Amelie didn't see this. Not tonight.
She collapsed on the sack of flour before she finally let herself fall apart. The thorns of the flower inside her ripped along her chest mercilessly. She opened her palm and saw the note tied around the auburn hair. It didn't smell like him. It smelled empty. Alone. It smelled like the salt pouring down her cheeks. She pulled her hands around his hair and dug her fingernails into the skin of her palm, trying to hold him again, to see him, to know that she still had him even though they had lost their parents. She tried to stop the feeling that was growing in her chest, the feeling that she was alone in the world.
Tell my sister I love her.
He told her loved her, and she would never be able to tell him the same.
