War of Hearts || Reign || REWRITE

Chapter 5

May 7th 1562, Château de Louvre, Paris

I watch as Philip and Elisabeth open the ball.

Earlier this evening, we feast on a table laden with meats, fish, and exotic delicacies. The hall is alive with poets, musicians, and dancers while courtiers laugh and mingle with ease.

From my place, I observe Elisabeth and Philip speaking quietly together, their conversation measured and dignified. My eyes, however, keep straying to Francis, seated beside Mary. They speak all evening, sharing small smiles and the occasional laugh. I cannot explain why, but it leaves me with a strange, unsettled feeling.

"She looks beautiful," Princess Margaret whispers beside me, her wide eyes fixed on Elisabeth. "Do you think I shall look like that on my wedding day?" She turns her hopeful gaze on me.

I smile. "I am certain you will, dearest Margaret."

Her face brightens. "I hope Father will arrange for me to marry a king as well," she adds dreamily.

My smile falters. It hurts to hear a child speak of marriage as if it is already her duty. She is only nine. If I ever have children, they will marry by choice, not obligation—and not at sixteen, but only when they are ready.

"With God's will, Margaret," I say softly, turning my gaze back to the young couple.

King Philip is nineteen years older than Elisabeth and has already been married twice: first to his cousin Maria of Portugal, then to Mary Tudor, Queen of England. Elisabeth is his third wife in just ten years. I pray she will also be his last.

When the first dance ends, I clap along with the others as the music swells again. Courtiers begin to fill the floor.

I move through the hall, exchanging words with familiar faces. I do not see Mary or Francis for some time, and Maximilian has vanished into the crowd as well.

As I speak with a lady of the court, a young man in yellow velvet approaches and bows deeply. "My lady, may I have this dance?" he asks politely.

I offer him a courteous smile and place my hand in his. "Of course, my lord...?" His Spanish accent gives him away at once.

He straightens. "Don Juan of Austria. And you?"

My curtsy is deeper this time. "Bianca de' Medici, at your service."

He leads me to the center of the hall as the pavane begins.
"De' Medici?" he asks. "Daughter of...?"

"My father is Cosimo de' Medici, Duke of Florence. I am his illegitimate daughter." The words always taste uneasy on my tongue.

Don Juan's lips curve faintly as we turn. "Illegitimate, just like me."

"Indeed," I reply, releasing his hand as the dance carries me forward—straight into Francis.

He smiles as he catches my hand. "Who was that?" he asks, nodding toward Don Juan, who now dances with another lady.

"Don Juan of Austria," I say softly. "A bastard." My eyes flick to Mary across the floor. "How is she? I saw you speaking with her."

Francis hesitates. "She is not as she once was. She weighs every word carefully now."

We finish the dance with a bow and curtsy. Then he slips his arm through mine, steering me toward a quieter corner of the hall. "Where is Max? We should drink together. It may be one of my last nights as a bachelor." He winks.

I shake my head with a smile. "I cannot stay. Elisabeth has asked me to accompany her to the bridal chamber..." I hesitate. "You understand."

His brows rise. "But you are not married, nor a lady-in-waiting."