The Cardinal gloats…

Chaucer had been a liability ever since he had entered the princess' inner circle. I could not afford to lose a pawn to a rival so I sacrificed him. Of course, I could have had the princess killed but I had several reasons not to. First off, I had no way of guaranteeing whether her death would actually motivate her admirers to promote her cause posthumously. Second, the hostilities between Cinderella and myself were rather well known at this point. If I should need to eliminate her at some future point, my pretense of saving her life would make me less of a suspect. Third, it was simply more difficult to kill the princess because her guards had been doubled ever since it became possible that she would soon bear the prince's child. So I killed two birds with one stone. Chaucer shall hang tomorrow for attempted assassination of the princess and this alone should be enough to distress and distraught her for a while. Her leadership will suffer and I shall have more leeway to steer the king in my direction.

The Princess ponders what has just happened…

I was still in shock. Everything had happened in a rush. I sat alone in my room, after having screamed at everyone to leave. I slowly reached for the pile of letters that was still sitting on my dresser. By fate or incredible chance, I had received a letter from a good friend I used to work with back when I was still a commoner. Few other correspondences would have made me set aside Chaucer's draft for later. It was this letter that the cardinal had snatched from my hands and burned. I found it very suspicious that he destroyed the evidence, or perhaps he had merely acted out of impulsive haste.

I took the poet's envelope and turned it around in my hands. I refused to believe that he would ever try to harm me. However, it was possible that he was an unwitting pawn who was framed for his deed. However, why hadn't the plotter accused Chaucer after I had actually been killed? Just in case, I put on a pair of gloves and pulled out the letter. Instead of a poem, there was a frank warning.

"The cardinal wanted me to kill you with a poisoned letter. Be careful."

So this was why Richelieu had burned the letter. He had anticipated this. I had to free Chaucer. However, there were guards at the door who kept me from leaving. "Prince's orders, Your Highness," one of them explained. "He wants you kept safe until we search and question the entire palace for any accomplices."

That would take days. By then it would be too late. "Let me speak with Lord Byron," I demanded.

"No one is allowed to approach you, except the cardinal's most trusted servant." One of his mistresses, no doubt. She would be utterly loyal to her protector.

I swore. The prince had never cared for my welfare, much less my life. He merely wanted Chaucer dead because he was jealous. Not that he loved me, or because he wanted to share something exclusively with me, but because I was just a piece of property he wanted to keep for himself. Nonetheless, I was trapped. Never in my life had I felt so helpless.

Did you know that tying your sheets together to climb out the window simply does not work? The fabric is not durable or long enough for that purpose. Also, guards were swarming everywhere. I tried to reason with and bribe the servant who brought me dinner but she immediately left before I could say a word.

I paced the floor all night, attempting one futile escape after another. By the time the sun rose, I was exhausted. I ran to the balcony when I heard the drums that are beaten before each of execution. I craned my neck to see the hangman's platform where Geoffrey was standing. His head was covered with a black hood and his hands were tied behind his back. My nails began to bleed from digging them into the stone ledge as I watched the hangman place a rope around the prisoner's neck and push him forward. The poet fell out of sight into the trapdoor. The rope swayed for a bit but soon became taut and still.

I screamed with anguish and burst into sobs. I had lost my only true friend in this court.

I began to wear a black shift underneath my dress to mourn him secretly. Like the hidden taunts in his poem, I hid my sadness from the world. It would possibly compromise my position in the court to contradict the prince's accusations. I had no doubt that either he or the cardinal would not hesitate to kill me as well.

Two weeks passed without Chaucer's jaunty commentary. The new poet was incredibly boring with his flowery metaphors for feminine beauty. I actually left the performance early, feigning illness. No one raised an eyebrow, presuming me to be with child. I sank into a chair in my room and stared out the balcony, where I had witnessed my friend's execution. I ran my hands along the stone rail as I walked and found a piece of paper wedged into one of the crevices. I frowned and tugged it out. "Meet me in the rose garden at midnight," it read. It was in Geoffrey's handwriting.

I shivered in the cold, anxiously scanning the dark for guards. I gave a start when I suddenly felt a presence behind me. I spun around and saw the friend I had taken for dead. "How is this possible?" I asked in a hushed tone.

"Lord Byron had me switched with another prisoner at the last minute. I was hooded early and the guards were a little drunk." So this meant that I could rely on at least one political ally. He had acted in my stead during my own time of incarceration.

"You should not be here," I told him. "You put yourself and many others in danger."

"If you love me, at the very least my prose" he whispered fervently. "Come with me. We shall both be free of this gilded cage. We will live humbly but free of politicking and backstabbing."

"You speak suddenly of such matters!" I admonished him.

"We have little time. You are in danger as well if you stay."

"Nay," I replied, my voice trembling. "I shall risk what I must. I can do more here. In a center of politics."

His face filled with hurt and disappointment. "You have grown accustomed to your finery. You would rather have it than be with me."

"Foolish poet. I thought you knew me. There shall be no end to this war if I am milking cows instead of consorting with kings." I ran off before he could see the tears flowing freely down my face.

I thought I had lost his company but I regained him only to lose his respect.

The Poet broods…

I had not really expected her to run off with me. However, deep down inside, I had dared to hope we could have had a life together. Thus I could not suppress my disappointment. I only managed to rid myself of this by replacing it with anger. I took up a pen and began writing.

Madame, for youre newefangelnesse,
Many a servant have ye put out of grace.
I take my leve of your unstedefastnesse,
For wel I woot, whil ye have lives space,
Ye can not love ful half yeer in a place,
To newe thing youre lust is ay so keene;
In stede of blew, thus may ye were al greene.
Right as a mirour nothing may enpresse,
But, lightly as it cometh, so mote it pace,
So fareth youre love, youre werkes bereth witnesse.
Ther is no faith that may your herte enbrace;
But, as a wedercok, that turneth his face
With every wind, ye fare, and this is seene;
In stede of blew, thus may ye were al greene.

Ye might be shrined, for youre brothelnesse,
Bet that Dalida, Criseide or Candace;
For ever in chaunging stant youre sikernesse;
That tache may no wight fro yuor herte arace.
If ye lese oon, ye can wel twain purchace;
Al light for somer, ye woot wel what I mene,
In stede of blew, thus may ye were al greene.

A/N:

Give me any historical event or character and I'll try to incorporate it into the story!

That poem in the end is Against Women Unconstant, authored by Geoffrey Chaucer, a medieval British writer, famous for his unfinished work, The Canterbury Tales.