War of Hearts || Reign || REWRITE

Chapter 9

May 22nd 1562, Château de Fontainebleau, France

A little over a week later, I find myself in the palace courtyard.
I had taken the morning free from Mary's service, for my father was to arrive in France that day.

I explained to Mary that my father was coming to court, and she gladly excused me, though she did not know the true nature of my relationship with him. For that, I was grateful, as I knew my mood would be far from pleasant.

I spoke with Francis here and there throughout the week, but always in the company of others. Often we spent our evenings together—Francis, Max, Henri, Philippe, Claude, and Renée—and sometimes even Mary joined us. We drank, danced, played cards, and sang songs.

I knew there was a certain tension between Francis and me, but no one seemed to notice.

The sound of hooves echoes across the courtyard. Several riders enter, the foremost carrying banners with the Medici crest. Among them rides my father.

I had thought I would have forgotten his face after so many years. Whenever I tried to recall his features, or those of my siblings, my memory gave me nothing.

But now that he stands before me, he is all too recognizable. His dark hair, the same shade as mine, is streaked with gray. His blue eyes shine as vividly as I remembered.

I recall the nights he came to my chamber, telling me stories of our ancestors—of his grandmother, Caterina Sforza, and of our forefather, the first Cosimo de' Medici.

He dismounts and strides toward me. I sink into a deep curtsy and rise as he reaches me, extending his hand.

"Welcome to Fontainebleau, my lord father," I greet him, my voice cold, my gaze lowered.

He places his fingers beneath my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. I see tears glistening there.

"My beautiful daughter, my Bianca. How you have grown. As lovely as your mother once was," he says with emotion in his voice.

A knot forms in my stomach at the mention of my mother. She was the only one who wrote to me nearly every week after I was sent here. Until her death years ago, when I was thirteen. Upon her passing, my father sent me all her possessions—her gowns, jewels, portraits, and what money she had left.

But the small palace in Florence he had bought for her was seized back into his possession. He likely did not bequeath it to me because he never expected me to return.

I do not answer his words. "You must be weary from your travels. This footman will lead you to your chambers. The King and Queen will receive you formally in the throne room in two hours' time." I step aside and gesture to the servant to collect his belongings. "Attend the Duke of Florence to his chambers."

My father takes hold of my arm gently. "Accompany me, so that we may speak."

I want to refuse, but he has already placed my arm in his and draws me along into the palace.

I sigh. "Your chambers are on the second floor, facing the oval courtyard," I explain as we ascend the stairs. The corridors bustle with courtiers, and I feel their curious glances upon us.

"And where are your chambers?" he asks.
"Also on the second floor, but on the side of the smaller gardens," I answer as we cross the long hall. "The King and Queen occupy the wing overlooking the great gardens, while the princes and princesses, like me, reside near the small gardens."

He raises a brow. "So your chambers are close to those of the royal children?"

I nod, and he makes a low, thoughtful sound. I glance at him briefly. "The Queen raised me as one of her own. She granted me nearly the same privileges as her children." My teeth clench. Something you never thought worth the effort.

"I shall express my gratitude to her when I see her," he says.
"Tell her at once that you will always remain grateful to her," I reply coldly. "For I am not leaving France to return to Italy."

He halts, his body stiffening. "You know of this?"
I nod. "The Queen herself showed me the letter. And like me, she does not agree with it."

"I am your father. It is for me to—"
I cut him off. "You were never truly a father. Only when your wife died did you remember me. You were not the one who cared for me when I was ill, who raised me into who I am now, or who gave me a place in society. She did that. And with her, I will remain."

We reach his chambers. The servants carry in his trunks while we remain standing at the door.

"Bianca, I regret what I—"
I interrupt once more. "Your chambers, Father." My tone is curt.

I turn on my heel and walk away without another word.