A beating heart

Chapter 7

7.

She tried to keep herself occupied, to keep her mind from wandering to places she ought not to let herself revisit. There would always be a smile on her lips when greeting courtiers or assuring her husband all was well. In some moments she could even convince herself that the happy expression on her face was genuine, that she truly felt happy inside. Then her hands would absentmindedly wander to her expanding belly, reminding her of all the things she so desperately longed to forget. All the memories, safely sorted away in the back of her mind, would come rushing back in, flooding her thoughts. It was all she could muster in these moments, to keep her facade up, to hide her trembling hands and conceal the pain in her shimmering brown eyes.

She could never quite tell if Bash knew how tormented his wife felt, what was truly hiding behind her smile. He had been so occupied the past weeks, and when he had returned to their rooms late at night, she would already be soundly asleep, curled up under multiple blankets.

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He now slowly started to grasp what it meant to be the King of France, to rule a nation. Their would be hours spent discussing boarder control, riots between catholics and protestants or the distribution of their scares resources, with the council's advisers. His back would hurt after spending too much time bending over maps, moving different pieces around the table, mimicking their troops' movements. The English were relentless in their advances against Scotland, but France itself was plagued by unrest, religious differences causing whole towns to burn to the ground and their were whispers, rumors that the black death had returned.

Bash felt the pressure constantly growing, heavy on his shoulders. He had never been good at this, politics had always bored him. He would rather spent the day on horseback in the bloodwood then listening to French subjects scrabble about landownership or stolen crops. He had grown to accept his fate in away, trying his best to keep his mind from drifting when listening to his advisers make suggestions about the safety of their borders with the English. In the evenings, he constantly had to battle with migraines, his brain not accustomed to the heavy workload.

The advisers listened to his opinions and decisions, all eyes on him as his father sat in the corner, absentmindedly blabbering of attacks and conquests that would never happen. It had started a few weeks after their wedding, Henry would have sudden outbursts of anger and rage, smashing things and threatening people, his eyes wild and his breath reeking of liquor. Cathrine would try to hide it, but there were dark bruises covering her arms and parts of her neck. The normally so outspoken Queen had grown more silent, wary of her husbands rage.

The King would lust after girls in public, even whispering inappropriate things into the ears of high ladies in passing, who would in turn hurry away, their eyes filled with horror. Fantasies of conquering England, crushing the dying Tudor queen would take hold of his mind, making him spew out mad orders, calling for troops to attack the English stronghold in Calais. After some initial confusion, the royal advisers had learned to bow to their king's made requests, but listened to Bash's commands behind Henry's back.

Word of the king's madness could not get out, if their enemies in France and beyond her boards got word of the situation at French court, chaos would inadvertently follow. The situation was tense enough as it was, some of the nobles not willing to accept a bastard as next in line to the French throne. They would always talk in hushed voices whispering to one another, no doubt plotting something. He felt their stares in passing, knowing too well of the struggles awaiting him when he would some day wear the heavy crown on his head.

He had never envied his younger half brother, always mocking Francis for his willingness to follow the rules and do as their father bade him. He had never been one to embark on a reckless adventure like Bash, the duties of the Dauphin confining him to a life at court. That was Bash's life now, while Francis no doubt spent his time roaming through Paris, enjoying the freedom of a rich and titled young man. He smiled at the thought of his younger brother, drunkenly staggering through the Parisian streets.