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Literature Text
- Fickle.
- Chapter Five. I could hear cries of outrage as I was rushed away from the Hall of Mirrors; the Duke gripped my arm so tight his fingers overlapped his thumb and near dragged me back to my chambers. I scraped my toes on the tiled floor and muttered small curses; he didn't slow down. The door of my rooms slammed shut, and we slumped on to the bench. Mary, bless her heart, brought me smelling salts and poured both me and the Duke a cup of tea. "Was that really necessary? You ran like you were going to get lynched!" I words came out in bursts as my lungs drew in much needed air. "Lynched? I do not understand that word." He turned to face me, his eyebrows casting shadows over his pale blue eyes. "Hung." "Ah, yes it was necessary, because you could have been." He seemed a little taken aback by my frank and blunt reply. "Why?" I was puzzled to why, what had I done since my arrival to create such a reaction to my receiving of a title. "Because the King is mad." "Mad? Are you sure you won't get ly- hung? Isn't that treason?" I turned to face the Duke, my face no doubt ashen. "Perhaps, but it's true. He is mad. Mad." The Duke looked at me and the seriousness in his eyes, made my stomach twist painfully. It took me awhile to speak and when I did my words were spoken slowly and carefully. "He seems sane to me." "You didn't know him before." There was a sharp edge to his words. "Before what?" I snapped back. "You." He looked me straight in the eye as he said it, and it was as if he condemned me. Like before however, I was not going to let a man condemn me. "Me, what have I done." My words were tainted with an indignant tone "You came here, with your beauty, your history, your English allure, you fiery tongue, everything about you is so different to the ladies here." "Well that's just wonderful." "Most unmarried women with your reputation would be thrilled to have the King of France's attention." "Well I am not most women, I will draw the King into disrepute, and he will become the laughing stock of Europe. There is danger in my past that he should not meddle with." "The danger intrigues him. We men, we like danger, we all wish to be a woman's knight in shining armour, to save a damsel in distress, and you, my Comtesse, are undoubtedly a damsel in distress." "Oh what a wonderful reminder of my desperate situation." "You're safe here." He delicately touched my hand; I drew it away onto my lap. "As safe as any English girl in France I do suppose." I spoke with a blade of sarcasm in my voice. "Not every English girl here has the heart of the King in her hands." His voice mimicked mine in tone. "Not every English girl here has her heart in the hand of the King of France who will twist it and ring it out for politics." "To have your hand in politics is not always such an awful thing Mademoiselle." "For a woman it is, and I have had my taste and find it quite disgusting." "France is different to England. The King is not like your English Prince, remember that Comtesse." His words were harsh and chastising and defensive. We sat in silence until the King came; Mary sat quietly in to corner with her embroidery. When the King came in the Duke peeked around the door to check his identity before letting him in. The King rushed up at me gripping both my shoulders and kissing both my cheeks with his soft, rosy rouged lips, dusting where I blushed. "My beautiful Comtesse." The king cooed at me. "I heard quite a stir your Majesty." "You always cause quite a stir ma belle." The two gentlemen perched either side of me and in remarkably perfect coordination the Duke removed my coronet and the King my cloak, they both got placed on the other bench for Mary to tidy them away, which promptly as ever she did. "Ma belle, you are quite beautiful." With those words he took my left hand and placed a ring on my ring finger. With that the King left, without a word. I sat for several long minutes staring almost blankly at the item on my finger, a gold band holding a large diamond surrounded by little rubies. I just looked at it twinkling in the candle light that flickered with the breeze that danced in through the window with the cool sent of night musky with roses. I blinked back tears that clouded and dulled the glinting. "Look at it Comtesse. It's you." The Duke spoke to me with such care I felt that after the emotion on the night that I might break into a hundred tiny pieces. "How is it me, I have none of the beauty, the strength or the endurance of these precious stones." I whispered with hopelessness. "Then you I do believe are quite mistaken ma chère." There was such a tone of defiance and blunt honesty in his voice that it quite startled me. I looked up at him, but he was gazing out the windows making it impossible for me to read the impression on his face and thus determine whether I was mistaken in his attitude. "Look at it, it's an English rose, the Tudor rose." "Oh. The diamond is the red rose of Lancaster and the white the rose of York." "I will have to trust your knowledge. Take it off for a moment and look inside." I did as the Duke told me and inside the band etched in a swirling font was the words: "L'anglais Rose du Roi". The English Rose of the King. *** The days moved past in a blur of activity, as everyone prepared for the ball. I spent the week in solitary confinement. Both myself and Mary blame my bare feet at the ceremony for giving me a chill at the for the two days after the ceremony, where I was forced by the physician to spend the days in my bed resting with a blazing fire and taking various foul drafts of I know not what. I had such an awful headache and a running nose. Once I had recovered I stayed in my room so as not to re-infect myself in case it was something that was running rife in the palace, that and Mary and I had much to do preparing for the ball. My dress was perfect by the Monday, five days before the ball, and by Tuesday both my fan and my mask had been delivered and scrutinised to make sure they were of the best quality, and they were of course flawless. On Wednesday we spent the day calmly choosing ribbons and jewellery that I could ware for the ball, though this did not take us long. The afternoon was spent drinking tea, taking time over our embroidery and playing cards. I had no visitors, other than the physician. On Thursday the excitement began to bubble in my stomach and pour out in fast enthusiastic speech and fits of giggles, but also came the nerves. It was after all my first public event here in France, and though it was masked, as the King had said I was easily identifiable, my accent making my nationality obvious. My history was the gossip of the palace and no doubt the entirety of Europe, and it was not sociably acceptable not to converse with anyone for the entire evening. The nerves caused me to snap and lose my temper rather quickly as the maid who brought in the tea discovered. Mary prescribed me a bath to help relax me before I retired to bed that evening. I had dined early in my room as I had all week, as Mary felt I needed sleep to ward of any relapse of my cold and she had joked to accumulate the sleep that I would miss on the night of the ball. She kept glancing at the clock to make sure I did not withdraw too late to my bed. At about nine, I dried myself and pulled on a thin night gown of damask cotton woven into flowers. It made me feel beautiful like the diamond on my finger, the dress in my armoire, and the rose by the window. I looked into the elaborately framed mirror above my elegant dressing table and rolled my eyes at the girl who looked back with her pale skin, blue eyes and dark hair, she was just so very simple. Quickly I brushed my hair and tied it into a long plait with a vibrant scarlet ribbon. With that I said my prayers, removed the rose and slipped between the under the sheets and blankets and floated into blissful sleep as though I were floating down a stream, a happier Ophelia. I awoke possibly two hours later with the knowledge that something had woken me, but I could neither hear nor see anything. I went over to where my jug of water stood and poured myself a glass, sitting down by the window, gazing through a gap in the curtains at the stunning gardens. I took a sip to find that it was not water it was wine. I drank it all the same, despite my confusion, as I was quite thirsty. It wasn't till after I thought of poison. I didn't panic, if I died, it would mean an end to my suffering and would hardly likely cause too much fuss, I was after all a woman of ill repute, they died tragically all the same. I did however say a little prayer. There was a knock on my door; it sounded impatient, all I could assume was that was what had woken me. "Jean, the key." I heard the King say hastily on the other side of the door. I put the glass down. The lock clicked open, the door opened and closed, and still I continued to look out the window, feeling a sense of loss, I was once again the prey of a powerful man, clashing with a sense of pride; He was, after all, the King of France. With that I turned to face him as he sauntered closer, dark eyes glinting with a dangerous fire and a cheeky boyish smile curving those handsome lips. "Joanna."
Chapter five of Fickle. Enjoy.
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