Dowager (Hand in Hand Chronicles)

Part 1 - the wedding

I don't want to marry him.
I have to marry him.
"You have to marry him. Look at me. I wouldn't ask this of you if there was another way," my mother says, hands on my shoulders. It's the last moment. He's coming. He's coming. I don't know if I can breath. I'm standing in a tent while my ladies finish my dress. And hair. I have to be perfect for him.
"He'll sack Paris won't he?" I whisper.
"Yes, it'll be like Rouen again. Twelve thousand dead in ditches, starved in winter," my mother says, quietly, I can see fear in her eyes. "I would never ask you to do this. But they are our people. You can save them. Save them. Save your brother. You will always be stronger than him."
"No I'm not," I whisper.
"You are. Because you are good. You will survive him because you are strong. Look at me. He won't harm you. He can't harm you the world see. So you are safe," my mother says, cupping a hand to my cheek.
"I can do it," I say, taking a steadying breath. I don't believe I can.
"Charm him. He's only a man. Charm him, have his child. Then you hold all the power of his heir and his kingdom," my mother says, hand on my arm.
I don't want to do it. I''m terrified. I don't want to have that terrible man's child. He's a monster. I'm being sold to a monster to save my country. My people. In the stories the dragon or the monster takes the princess, and then some handsome knight saves her. Why am I being sold away? And there's no escape.
"Shh, you can do this. You're strong,," my mother says.
My father looks at me, eyes hazy. I don't know if he knows who I am. He takes my hand in his own, and says, so gently, "You're stronger than any knight."
So maybe he nows.
I think of our dead. I think of women who starved in those pits. Who were raped by his men. Who knew no one was coming to save them either. I can save so many more from such a fate at the hands of his men. All I have to give up is my wedding bed. And my life. I'll spend my life in chains. But my brother might escape. Charles, and our sister Marguerite is with him. They can get away. But I'll be imprisoned. A womb he's purchasing. I want to be sick.
"We meet him now. Smile. You know you have to be beautiful. He can't complain or find reasons to lock you away if you're sweet and perfect. Pretend to adore him. You can make him think you love him," my mother whispers, hand on my arm. That's good I might fall. This dress is so heavy. I feel like I can't breath. I want to do this. I should want to do this. But I'm so scared. I just want to go home. In my head I just want to go home. I'm scared. And I know I have to save France. But i really did want someone to save me too. Aren't I worth saving? I don't want to have to be the hero.
I'm trying so hard to stop shaking. All eyes are on me. I have to be perfect. Beautiful. Dazzling. The prettiest girl in france his pretty prize. And I want to be sick.
The English profession looks far more like an invading force than a wedding party. I see King Henry immediately. And my stomach drops from my chest.
He is taller than any man I've met, dressed in gorgeous robes, a thick jeweled collar. Rubies on his fingers. His eeys are dark and hollow, staring ahead like something that's died with no soul behind them. That could be tolerable. But his face.
He is a monster. His haunted face. Half of it is torn away then sewn up improperly, completing the picture that he was meant to already be gone. The skin is severely marred, with a hole beneath his right eye dragging the skin down unnaturally. He has no expression but that side is far worse.
He's upon us in an instant. I'm first he's to greet me I'm shaking. I'm meant to kiss his cheeks but he doesn't have a face and I can't even move to do it he must he's that much taller than me.
He puts one hand on my shoulder and kisses my lips with no hesitation. He smells of—fire. Smoke and ash. Like the men when they come back from the cannons. His lips are marred as well on mine. The kiss is as brief as possible but I'm sure I recoil, it takes all my strength not to.
And I would shrink away but when he moves back I see a look of utter disgust on his face that I am sure is mirrored in mine.
"My lord," I whisper, it feels a stupid thing to say. The on lookers are laughing, cheering him. He got his bride after all.
"Were you going to kiss me yourself? Don't cause a scene," he says, his French is perfect, tone almost innocuously level.
Of course I wasn't going to figure out how to kiss his wreck of a face. So he knows how repulsive he is. I feel a heartbeat of something approaching sympathy. He thought I wouldn't want him. I am trembling, so I reach out and put a hand very carefully on his arm. It chills me to the bone. But I don't wnat him thinking that I won't touch him.
He says nothing and also does nothing to return the gesture, turning to greet my parents. My father is so clearly afraid of him which distracts I hope from me being clearly afraid him.
We marry in the morning.
He says nothing to me at all, moving away from my touch as soon as possible. So he doesn't want me. Why I'm Frech, or not good enough for him? Or simply he has a mistress or two at home and has no need of me. Why not I"m beautiful?
the wedding is in the morning.
I don't sleep. Time seems to move impossibly quickly. This is my last night when he won't be in my bed.  And yet I cannot sleep.
A wedding night is something many girls dread I know. But I'm marrying a monster.
"I have know knowledge of any mistresses, but you'll know soon enough by how he handles you. They claim he's chaste. If he is then you'll probably be worse off. They don'T know how to be kind not on their own it's better if their trained but if the rumors are true he is not. Either way you charm him, you can be kind and sweet, pretend you want him in your bed, the sooner you get a child the better," my mother coaches, practically. But there's a look in her eyes. She knows she's selling me as a brood mare.
"Kiss him, and pretend you're sipping wine," Odette offers. She's my father's mistress, she's usually here.  I've known her my entire life. "Put your hand on his arm, or his neck. Since he's got scars kiss those they like don't ask me why."
"Give him what he wants. It's all right if you're afraid. They like it when we're afraid, the bad ones. And he's bad. But I've done checking and I've no reason to think he'll use you badly," my mother says.
I don't know how much she wants to think that.
"Do not use if unless you must," My mother says, pressing a small vial into my palm, "Nightshade. It can kill you. It can prevent a pregnancy. It is better you do not however—,"
She breaks off.
"Kill myself if there's no other way out," I whisper, breath raw in my throat. Killing myself would be the only way to leave. Like a soldier locked up with no hope of ransom.
"I won't have you live in bondage. But. On a better note shoudl you be unsure of the father of a child. Do it. Find someone you enjoy it won't be him," my mother scoffs, "If that's what you wish. But you don't need a child from that unless he can't give you."
I nod, tears leaking down my face.
"You are strong. You'll survive. You will survive him. He doesn't get to take that," my mother says.
"He's a man. And you're pretty, you can win his heart, if he has one," Odette says.
"They don't need one. He will want you, take your time," my mother says.
She's taught me how to charm him. I just don't know if I can do it.
All of Paris it feels has turned up for my wedding. They line the streets with flowers. I wonder if they know I'm doing it for them. I expect they do. Some of them. I feel their eyes on me. Knowing I'm the virgin sacrifice to a vengeful god of war. I wear a dress of silk and gold. So beautiful.
He is to meet us at the church, St Troyes. The english are decked out in finery and jewels. The conquering force. Our French people line the streets. And I can feel the eyes of the women upon me. I dare to look. Weathered faces look back. Mothers clutching children. Grandmothers. Widows. Tears on their cheeks as they watch me be born to my fate. Not a princess. Another woman that he's taking to defile. they already mourn what fate awaits me.
Henry comes to the church. It's a parade but he's dressed like a soldier. Purple velvet robes, gold spun sleeves, and dripping in jewels. Though he wears armor, a crown upon his head like this is a coronation. Not a wedding. He doesn't even look at me.
I am no longer shaking. It's over. I dread tonight. Of that I'm terrified. But I could still drop dead today and then tonight won't come.
The priest is blessing us. I can hear the words but I feel like I'm screaming under water.
Henry simply takes my hands.
"You're shaking. Just don't," he commands, in French, so quietly I'm sure no one hears us. If the priests do they don't stop.
"Your only role is play the part. I've made you a queen. Now play your part," he says. Like commanding an unruly dog. I hate him. I don't wnat him touching me.
I don't know how long it goes on. My arms are aching and my neck form being bowed. I'm married to him. It's over. I belong to him. The English are cheering. They look drunk.
There's feasting and all else the rest of the day. Celebrations until our wedding night. I feel so sick.
Henry guides me by the arm into the hall. Then he releases it. I look up and he's vanished. Simply walked away. Like a hound he bought now he's waiting for it to come into heat. I want to be sick.
"You're all right. You did well," my motehr encourages.
"He spoke to me," I hiss.
"well he's going to do that."
I scan the room. I cna't see him. The rest of the English are here, drinking as though sobriety is a cardinal sin. They are so obviously drunk it's not yet noon. Of course it's a lovely feast, nothing less for the princess. The french are moving as though in a haze. They keep looking at me. It's for me. My beautiful wedding. It isn't for him.
And he's not here.
Henry was does not return. Hours wear by. I'm exhausted, sweating, just sitting here unable to eat. I'm relieved he's gone but soon he'll return. And that's worse. And tonight is getting closer. And closer.
The english are clearly getting drunker. My mother and my party stay by me, none of us are enjoying the feast let alone the festivities.
Henry doesn't reappear till dusk is falling. He's in a completely different outfit, so what he went and changed his clothes for six hours? Sank into his whores his own celebration of is marriag?
Laconic as ever, he simply reappears near me, acting as though we're happening to be at the same party and nothing more.  My mother says something to him he doesn't answer. My head feels like it's full of water.
We have to sit next to each other at the table. He does this as a matter form, not even looking at me, his eeys gaze off as if he can see equations up on the ceiling and he's happily solving them.
I sit down, looking awya. If he's ignoring me I'll ignore him. No I'm not supposed to do that.
A giant dog places its head in my lap. I nearly jump. It's a huge mastiff, fully black with yellow eyes. The only reason I don't scream is it wears a heavy, red leather collar set with jewels.
"Alexander, quitter la fille," Henry snaps his fingers, patting his own thigh.
The dog shifts back, moving over to snuffle his knee. He pets the great things head, with no acknowledgement that I'm even there. But he did call his dog off.
"He's yours," I ask, make conversation. As my mother taught me.
Herny looks at me then at the great dog so clearly sitting at his feet, leaning on his leg, "No."
"He's —handsome," I say, trying my best to sound like I mean it.
"It is a wardog, that's how they're meant to look," he says, cuttingly. The dog is ugly.
"What was his name," I ask. That's a good conversation. I think he called it Alexander but he commanded it in Latin.
Henry ignores me, not really touching his food but picking up a knife just the same. He does it with his left hand, moving  his cup to the opposite side as it was set. One of his men already fluidly moved to move the cutlery.
I move to pet the dog. He likes the dog. I'll start there. It wiggles a little, moving it's giant head towards me.
"Grognement,""Henry says, quickly, but the beast growls at me anyway. I jerk my hand back.
"Don't touch him," Henry says, a bit harshly.
I look back at my plate. That didn't go well. I'm failing. I'm so scared. I can't do this.
Nearly an hour passes. Henry is content to say nothing ot me. Treating me like an errant child? Yet one he plans to bed? How dare he. He's acting like I'm an annoying cousin at a feast not his bride. I shouldn't talk or bother him, he'll just bed me later and have done. Better be quiet.
"You're not eating," Henry says, startling me. It's the first thing he's said. "It's been all day, you won't be able to think. Eat something."
"I can't eat when I'm looking at you,' I say. I don't plan it. The words just come out. He's a monster. He knows he looks like a monster.
But the words hit a nerve. Heat nearly rises to the good side of his face and he looks away, pointedly. I see the muscles in his hand tighten. But he says nothing.
And I'm too afraid. I shoudln't have said that. I don't want to disobey. So I eat as little possible.
This feast is torture. Yet when it ends i go to my wedding bed. So I can't stand the idea of it being over.
"It's time," my mother touches my arm.
I can't speak.
"You will survive him," my mother whispers. It's a command not a promise.
My staff don't come to take me away. It's someone he hired. I don't know them.
I am taken to a bedroom to undress. The bedroom. Someone chose it for him to have me in.
They undo the laces on my beautiful, beautiful dress. I'm given a modest white night dress instead to slip into. Nothing else. I feel raw. Exposed already.
The bed is blessed by a priest. I don't know him. So many people in this room. The room is cold. This happening. I won't have a stroke and get to escape. The firelight feels far too bright for the late hour. Like he'll see every line upon my skin. I don't want that.
Finally everyone leaves. So he can come and take me. I sit down at the end of the bed. My hair is undone and long down my back. I look down at my bare feet. Calouses on the edge of my toes. I was scrubbed clean yesterday so he can make me filthy. I'm shaking. I want to run. And yet. This saves them. Why does this have to be the only way to save them? I never want to live this life again. I want no daughters. I'm here waiting to bear his children but I don't want to bring any daughter into the world to feel this way. No one should. I feel tears on my cheeks.
I don't know how long I sit there. It feels like an age. The death of my innocence coming so slowly.
The door. It opens.
He's still dressed from dinner, mostly. Nice robe and cloak. No, his jewels are gone. And his craggy, haunted face clean shaven. He looks past me, eyes searching the corners of the room as though knowing he's haunted.
Then finally they fall on me. He actually looks at me. And there's something behidn his eyes. Like he sees me now. Shaking before him as I wait on the bed.
And in the gentlest voice I've heard from him, he says, "I"m not going to hurt you. Don't."
It's still a command. But gentle. Like he saw my tears and knew half what they were for.
I'm not going to hurt you. You've murdered thousands. Why would I believe that? The blood of France is on his hands. You hurt everything.
He takes off his cloak and comes over to the bed. I know I must be shaking.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeats, softly, putting his left hand on my shoulder. Just resetting there, fingers curled delicately.
"Yes, my lord," I say, lowering my eyes.
"Don't look at me, you can—just lie down," he says, shaking his head a bit.
I obey, I can do nothing else. I lie back on the bed. I don't know how I will still myself not to shrink from him.
He puts his other hand awkwardly on my shoulder, and I do shrink away. He raises his hand, floating it in space off of me. Waiting for me to move back. I realize he's paused hand still hanging there as though figuring out what to do with it. He makes no move and tips his eyes from me.
"Please hold me gently," I whisper, "I can't."
"Can't what?" He sighs, a bit, also not looking at me. We're looking away from each other I realize like frightened children. He's not at all undressed and my skirt is pulled over my knees. We're kneeling here awkwardly trying to avoiding looking at or touching each other, on this too large bed. His hand is still hanging, fingers curled gently, not touching me again. Waiting for some permission? The hesitation for my consent. It's enough to give me strength to answer.
"I can't not move. I mean I can't stop myself from moving. Please hold me—gently," I whisper. I'll move away from him I know it. And I can't do that. I know it has to be over. And he stopped. "I need you to hold me." Pretend you love me.
"Just take my arm," he mutters, "Move your—do not take that off. Just move it up."
I obey, sliding my dress. He puts his arms around me gingerly, but there's a thick strength in those wirey limbs. Like he's made from metal and not flesh. His fingers are calloused as they grip my arms, enough to steady me but not gripping, not with the force that's behind them. Something like gentleness or his best approximation of it.
I close off my mind to everything, praying for absolution. I hope we die. I hope we both die. I can't stand this. I'm weeping again, so softly. He moves his hand to my neck to hold me up as he moves me back onto the bed. Easy and practiced. Like this isn't the first time he's deflowered a weeping virgin girl. I'm sure it's not. He knew how to keep me still.
He rises and moves to dress. He barely undressed as it was, but I try not to look at him. I'm trying so hard not to cry.
"I'm leaving. Now," he says, moving to the door.
I say nothing, crawling back on the bed, arms curled around myself. What if I am carrying his child? I don't want it. I'm scared.
Henry leans at the door, glancing back at me once. Dark eyes again roving the corners of the room.
Then he leaves, quietly as he came. Leaves me here like this. I feel like I've been torn apart.
I sink down to the bed, weeping bitterly. I wrap my arms around my belly now. I don't want to have his child. I can't do this again. I can't go thorugh waiting for him every night. I feel filthy. So very filthy. I don't know how I'll survive it. I can't do it. My mother was wrong i cannot survive this.