Dowager (Hand in Hand Chronicles)

Part 5 - the duchess

Five years after I am returned home I am to be married again. This time, it's a bit different circumstances than before. Hes' not a king.
"I know you said you didn't wish to marry again," my mother prefaces.
"It's fine. Charles is only eleven I've known him most of his life," I say, holding our little Charles in my arms. My mother's latest and likely finaly baby. A happy, chubby boy with thick black hair and big round eyes. He's a cherubic little thing, clearly Valois stock and perpetually merry. He's only turning four so he's too little to chase his older brothers even if he wants to. We're outside of Paris, in our usual state of hiding out in a nice hunting palace.
"I need someone to run Orleans," my mother sighs, "Logically that's you this is how."
"I know. It is fine, really, I'm here to help," I say, rocking the four year old who giggles.
The other boys are out on the lawn. What looks like productive sparring has devolved into a fist fight. One of th knights has both princes on his back and his clearly humoring them and pretending to lose. Not a very good session but none of us have the heart to stop the boys from their fun. They shouldn't have to prepare for war all the time they think of it enough.
"Since Burgendy murdered Orleans, Charles is an orphan in our care anyway with me his wife I teach him how to control it and it's all on our side, simple, it's the best move," I say.
"Your happiness is no move," my mother says, "I won't arrange a marraige for any of you—if I can help it—where you won't at least be decently content in your life."
"I will. I'll be here—or with him and his family which is where we usually are anyway," I say, "Really I'm fine."
"You always say that," my mother says.
"Maybe I always mean it," I say, "Where's father? Doesn't he want to give me the same speech??"
""I wouldn't know he's still not speaking to me," my mother says.
"I am with him on that you probably should have brought up at one point Odette was being you when he's mad," I say, nearly smiling.
"I was going to we have been busy and in the grand scheme it wasn't actually all that relevant.  And if you thought it was that terribly relevant you'd have told him yourself," my mother says.
"Hm, got me there. No it's fine I'll marry him. I promise I don't want to marry anyone else so," I shrug.
"You don't have to consummate it till he's fourteen that gives us time to annul it if you like," my mother says.
"Yeah, it is fine," I say, "Really."
"Thank god, I didn't have the heart to talk you into it," she says.
"After the first one died and I got kidnapped?" I ask, nicely.
She glares at me.
"Oh he'd find it funny," I shrug a ltitle. He would as well.
"Hm, I'll take your word on that," she says, looking out, "Are those boys actually slaughtering a member of the staff or is that one just a very good actor?"
"I think he's a good actor—hey brown eyes! Are you the victim of a homicide or is this a game?" I call.
"I'm fine!" The knight calls, clearly laughing, as Louis tries to get him in a headlock and mostly succeeds.
"See he's fine—oh don't look at me like that most of them are named Jean yes I renamed them, they find it endearing," I say.
"I was surprised he responded to it," my mother mutters.
"You want me to go and tell my father that the marriage is all right by me yes really?" I ask, "you take this one?"
"I'll take that one, and yes, actually go and talk with Charles. He didn't come down for any sort of sparring with the other boys."
"I will," I say, rising to hand her our Charles who is laying in my arms giggling.
"Maybe we should stop that," my mother observes the brawl. The princes recruited a couple of more knights to their cuase and the original is fighting all of them with mock desperation.
"I've sparred against him that's definitely an act—what?" I ask.
"Why do you still go sparring with the knights?" My mother asks.
"If I say 'england' how badly are you going to get this conversation off the trail?" I ask.
"Never mind at least one of you will know how to handle a sword. Yes, go on," my mother nods, "Do you know why they're doing that?"
"Boys—? LOOKING STRONG LOUIS," I call, Louis is fully on one of the knight's heads.
"Surrender!" Louis is shouting.
"Don't surrender I believe in you!" I call, doing nothing to help.
My mother shakes her head, "You started that didn't you?"
"Of course I did," I say, smirking, as I toss John my wooden sword. He'd lost his.
I go back inside, checking my hair which is still neatly braided. I'm still sweaty from the morning sparring, but it's not going to be a formal chat. More coaxing a sad eleven year old. I've got some idea what it's like for your father to be murdered when you're nine. And Charles took it poorly, I expect as poorly as I did.
The Orleans children are in the own quarters, a bit separate from us just so we don't keep each other up. By request I'm still on the same hall as my siblings. All the better to help tend to them at night, and quiet their fears. I'm more than aware no where, and no one, is safe. If worst came to it I'd put the babies in my arms and run.
Charles's room is at the end of the hall, big oak door a crack open. I lean in, knocking a little.
The sullen boy is curled up in the corner of his room, on cushions, clearly hiding behind a large book. Weedy thing, with soft straw hair and sad eyes, red rimmed from far too much crying.
"Can I come in?" I ask.
He shrugs, not really looking up.
"We missed you out sparring today," I say, sitting down across from him.
"I know I'm supposed to marry you, even my mum wanted it before—,"
She died as well not long after his father.
"Yeah, we can protect Orleans, like your father wanted," I say.
"I don't want to get married," he says, quietly.
"Why?" I frown.
"Why d'you again?" He asks.
"Because it makes sense for us. And because—if I gave up hope of having a life, and a family, I wouldn't have anything at all," I say, "I learned that—I guess the hard way. And I don't think we're a really bad idea, you know?"
he lowers his eyes a little.
"So what do you say, do you want to give us a try, till you turn fourteen or the like. If you change your mind we can forget it. But otherwise, we're in it together, just like we always were," I say.
He nods, slowly.
"what are you reading,"I ask.
"A book on weapons. And explosions. And definitely horses."
"It's a romance isn't it,"I ask.
He winces.
"I like those too. No shame in reading that,"" i frown.
"It's not going to be much help avenging my father," he says, quietly.
"You never know. King Arthur's pretty brave. And —I don't think your father would you want you spending all your time worrying about that. You're alive, he'd want you to be happy with it,"I say, "That's what Richard taught me. That and—this marriage is what we make of it. If it works for us taht's fine. If you wind up liking other people that's fine too."
"Your first husband," he says, quietly, "You were younger than me when you got married."
"Yeah," I nod.
"Did you fall in love with him," he asks.
"Yes. I did he was a good man,"I say.
"I don't want to like other people. I don't even usually like poeple," he says.
I laugh, "Oh people can be fun somtimes. Now come on, you're late for lessons and I think my little sister is too."
"Okay," he finally smiles, letting me help him up off the cushions,"I—I could read to later. If you like."
"That would be nice,""I say. All he likes to do is read it's quite sweet.
I lead him back down to the lesson rooms, my sister Michelle is already working, Charles moves to join her, lowering his head so as not to make eye contact with anyone else.
"That go all right."
"Mostly,""i say, turning to see Odette standing in a corner, holding my youngest sister, Catherine. Born a few months after I came home she's a sweet little thing, brown eyes and hair. Our father came back to his senses to find two new daughters. Catherine has been all of our pet ever since birth. Now she's five and a perfect princess, wears her little dresses neatly like a little doll, and adores being carried and cuddled.
"He's a quiet one,"" Odette says.
"You can say, I don't really blame him though. I mean I took—murders and insurrection, poor enough and I wasn't expected to swear revenge,"I say,,"but still, he agrees the marriage is for the best. Speaking of people I need to comfort on that, have you seen my father the king."
"No, I kidnapped this one so he'd come talk to me, this is ridiculous,""Odette says, gesturing to her swollen belly. Several years of idiotic coping mechanisms that did work, finally resulted in her falling pregnant with my bastard sibling. Which should be a scandal but at the moment the child's father is the only person scandalized considering it was news to him he was having an affair as he loves my mother. The phrase "don't give yourself a stroke Charles we have bigger problems" didn't do anything to make him feel better. My mother tried though.
"I do feel bad we didn't make it totally clear but catching him up on who's still alive, and how—mad England's being is about enough. D'you know they wrote asking for my hand again last week," I sigh.
"Yeah, I did hear that one," she says.
"As if I'd forget, or marry that prince,"I say.
"You are marrying a duke which is lower," she points out.
"yes, except the point is I"ve met the prince, and his father, that's a no," i say.
She smiles.
"Not that this one is coming around. He's very low. I just hope he warms enough to me,"I say.
"He will. Just give him time," Odette encourages, "you've got a few years, I've only got three months to convince the king not to be cross with us."
"Oh I''m sure he blames my mother,"i say, dryly.
"That's good your mother said 'what makes you think he'll be in his right head in three months, he'll want you again'," she says.
I laugh, "i can hear her saying that as well. No he'll come round like I said I'm sure he blames her completely."
As if sensing his name being taken in vain, my father enters, very wearily, face going nearly red when he sees Odette.
Catherine, who has been quiet through all of this, promptly holds out her arms, "Papa!!"
"hello my sweet—Isabela—yes you—," he says, unable to look at Odette.
"Oh, blame mum not her, we were only trying to help you,""I point out, helping Catherine who crawls into his arms.
"Oh I, do, blame your lovely mother, completely, child," he says, kissing Catherine's forehead as the little girl clings to his neck, "where are your brothers?"
"Slaughtering a member of your guard. Or two. I think one turned traitor to help his own,""I say.
"I'll interpret that as good for them—and you—you said you needed to speak to me—," he begins.
"Yes—can I reply to england and tell them where to stuff their marriage proposal," I ask.
"No."
"Please!"
"No, now, have you spoken to Orleans' Charles," he asks.
"Yes, he's good, we're going to try,"I say.
"Ah yes, speaking of trying marriages—,,"
"Mum's not going to apologize,"I say.
He glares at me.
"I'll take another sister," I say, shrugging.
He finally laughs, "Go on then, don't you have a hunt to sneak off to while I go and apologize to your mother for something she's done."
"Yes—and you don't have to apologize to her, she doesn't care,"I say.
"Oh it's for me. Now get going," he says, smiling.
I grin.
But Charles doesn't warm to me. He lives with us, then I with him, over the next couple of years. The weedy boy grows taller but little else. He's still thin, and painfully shy. He's polite to me, but not much more. I try not to push it. I'm four years older than him, and I'm well aware my upbringing has been unusual. I know how much it hurt when I was first orphaned too.
but as his fourteenth birthday approaches, the time to consummate the marriage is coming as well. Or not. It's up to us we can still annul it. But we're as painfully aware as I was of my twelfth birthday. He was born in November, as was I, so it's just before advent and Christmas, an easy enough distraction.
I decide to broach the subject in private. While we're out riding one day. Someplace he can't avoid me in the pages of a book or the corner of a library.
We're on royal land so we forgo guards, staying within the wood and not properly hunting.
"I wanted to have a talk. About your birthday," I say. It's just past the new year and still quite cold, though there's little snow on the ground.
"Oh," he says, simply petting his horse.
"I know you're old enough—we could lie together, but—I wanted to ask if that was what you wanted, eventually, even," I ask, a little awkwardly. Richard was much better at this I feel like. "If it's not then, that's fine I just—if you felt that way about someone else. We could talk about it."
"I don't," he says, "And I wouldn't—," he blushes fiercely. "I mean. I want to fall in love. Forever. And—and you're the most beautiful girl I've ever met."
"don't call me beautiful,"I almost laugh.
"I'll find other adjectives then—you're singular to me. And always will be," he asys, holding up his hands.
I take his horse' reigns for hm.
"You're not like—anyone ever and that sounds stupid but it's not just you, it is you but, you make me see how every person in the whole world is uniquely beautiful, because I see it all in you, from your crooked smile to the way you argue with your brothers or dance with our sisters when they're scared of thunder—everything is so uniquely you and perfect, it's made me see how the world should be—or how I wish everyone could see the world," he says, holding his hands up still like I shan't hear him out, "I'm sorry this sounded much better in my head or on paper I'm terrible outloud."
"I thought you didn't like me,"I frown, shaking my head. He doens't say anything.
"I just said I'm better in my head or on paper. And it doesn't matter because I want to be in love and I know you don't love me and that's okay," he says, quickly.
"How do you know I don't love you,""I ask, tethering our horses, so I can walk up to him.
"Because you loved your first husband. You told me," he says, frowning, "How could you ever love me too."
"Because. My love is infinite. It binds us together, through death, and time. It is not limited to one single person or moment. I love Richard, it is constant. I still love him. That does not mean I cannot love my brothers and sisters. Or I cannot love you. There are no limits on the bounds of my love, my love is not a thing on a map to draw lines around and contain. I love you, and I do that freely," I say, putting a hand on his cold cheek.
"You do," he frowns.
I smile, "yes, Charles of Orleans. You are my friend, and I like you. And I hold love for you. Life is to precious to be spent not loving those around us."
He leans forward and kisses me, very quickly. I let him, putting a hand to the back of is head. His lips are cold and unpracticed. I like it all the better for that.
"May I be your husband, then," he whispers, voice shaking just a bit, "i mean—,"
"If you wish you may come to my room yes,," I say, smiling.
"Why is that a yes," he asks.
"Because we'll only be this young once. We might as well make the most of it. We both have had murders and political—mess, since we can remember. We've been running for our lives. One of my first memories is knowing someone could want to kill my father. So let's be children now. Together. I want that, we deserve that. The world can be complicated we are simple. Yes,"" I say, taking a step back, "Now let's back inside. You're freezing. I'll race you."
"You won't win," he says, smiling finally.
I win. Of course i do. I don't fully expect his nerve to hold and him to come to my bed tonight. My long awaited loss of virginity. And it's behind closed doors in secret, another child tripping into my room nearly dropping a candle.
I wasn't expecting him to come so I'm lying in bed already, looking at a deck of cards. Poor Charles nearly sets himself on fire on his candle, stumbling on in.
"shh-put that down," I laugh.
"Do you really want to do this," he asks, seriously.
"If you do. Nobody has to know," I point out.
"That's true," he says.
"So if you wish to marry another fine—this isn't like that, all right," I point out, as he comes over to the bed.
"I won't. I love you," he says, strongly.
"Okay," I say, smiling. He might, I don't think I'll care. I don't expect anything to be forever. Everyone who has ever said those words has left me.
He kisses me, more practice than before, and much to his blushing I tug off my nightdress. He's very ready to be drawn to me in the thick bed, sinking into velvet sheets, and kissing ourselves senseless.
The fire goes out and he curls in my arms, falling asleep his face in my shoulder. I wake him before my ladies come so that he's not embarrassed. We both are a little. Our first time we hardly want the world to know.
The world quickly does.
Before lent begins I'm throwing up every morning. My mother immediately suspects though I try to deny it and claim illness. Charles thinks nothing and I get sick in winter sometimes. I want it to be nothing.
By the time winter is gone so is my slim waist. My summer dresses are too tight around my waist and my chest is so swollen they have to bring fabric to wrap it up. There's no confirmed child till there's a quickening but my condition is painfully obvious. The baby will be born before it's father's fifteenth birthday.
"Consummated the marraige I take it, good job," my mother says, dryly, hand on my puffy belly.
"I'm blaming you,"I say, dryly, "No other explanation then."
"You know there isn't. It'll quicken it's its own time firsts are slow," she guarantees, "go ahead and tell him."
Charles doesn't take it so well. Of course he doesn't.
"You're sure," he asks, color draining from his face.
"Fairly," I say, gently.
"I'll take care of you. Both," he says, boldly, "You're my wife. We'll be well I'll hire—nurses."
"Yes, we will, of course we will," I promise, despite not feeling well at all.
I'm living with Charles now permanently, which means our own house. My mother sends nurses. The pregnancy is quickly uncomfortable, by the time spring fades I have a thick swollen roll around my middle, even riding is awkward now. Besides that smells still make me ill, and I'm tired.
The quickening finally comes, the baby shifts as packed in as I am. I've never carried weight like this and my back aches from my heavy breasts and belly which grows bigger and rounder by the day. My mother writes to predict a girl, a boy wouldn't ruin my body like this.
Charles orders me a new saddle to cheer me, since I can no longer ride.
"we'll hunt next year," he promises, knowing how I miss going out.
"And soon teach this one," I say, now I sit with my hands folded over my big belly like my mother used to. I'm happy to have the child, but bearing it is a burden i can't imagine having twelve like my mother did. Odette agrees with me, my sister Margarite is her only and last she says. I'm tending to agree with her. The little thing won'T stop growing in me, and by the time summer ends it's a strain to roll over out of bed.
The baby's due in the start of fall, a couple of months before Charles' and my birthdays. My mother sends midwives, and I go into my confinement. That's a relief in that I can barely waddle from my bed to the window now. I can't sleep and pray for it to be over. The labor done and the baby out of me so i can hold it.
I wake in sheets wet with blood, pain shooting through me. I don't even know where the pain is coming from it's so intense. The midwives urge me to rise. Blood is pouring from me onto the stone floor. I feel arms under mine dragging me back up. Charles is holding me up, sobbing.
"Don't weep, I'll be well,""I whisper to him.
"No, no, no, hang on to me, hang on," he whispers, face pressed against mine, "Please."
I don't know what I'm holding on to.
I feel arms bear me back to the bed, I can't move. Everything in my head feels so light.
"where's the baby,""I whisper. I need to hold my baby. Did they get it out. Where is it.
"She's fine, our daughter is beautiful,' he says.
"Not beautiful,"" i whisper.
"No, no perfect, she's perfect. Rest now I'll hold her," he's weeping so hard he cant' speak. But I am so tired.
The pain is fading away, at least there's that. And they must have left me all alone. I stare at the darkening window. Waiting for it to open. Why do I always stare at windows.
A dark shape moves within it.
"Roger,"I whisper, holding out a hand. "I waited so long."
"Not long enough, sweet girl," he says, rough english accent, dark eyes glittering with tears. He reaches out and puts his hand in mine.
"Is Richard with you, we looked for him—I know you were searching," I whisper.
"Yes—yes he's waiting for his girl.  Are you ready to go home now, we've waited for you."
"Yes,""I say, and he lifts me gently into his arms.
I'm safe now. I lean against his chest, closing my eyes.
I'm going home.

Isabela of Valois died in childbirth, at the age of eighteen.
Her husband, Charles of Orleans, would remember her with love for the rest of his life, dedicating many poems to her memory.
Isabela never spoke ill of Richard, or her time in england, maintaining her love for him.