The Winter Queen

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  He shrugs. “Soon enough”

  “Perhaps you should tell your dear cousin the duke to rush the agreement,” I counter.

  Father has been negotiating the arrangement for the entire month of our visit, far longer than it should have taken. The politics of marriage—alliances of nations—were never easy. Besides simple things like dowries, a host of other items are included in the agreement, everything from how many ladies I will have to my allowance and lands—most of which increase the moment I produce a healthy male heir. The thought of it twists my stomach. Having a strong son is the key to a stable future, and a task even my very capable mother had never managed to accomplish. Her failure on that count is a constant shadow over us all.

  “You may not sit upon the throne of Russia,” Father assured me during our voyage to Paris. “But a throne you shall have.”

  My father is nothing if not a man of his word, and in this matter, I am confident. Not only because of his wealth and power, but also because of the way I’d been able to immediately capture Louis’ attentions. Even with a court teaming with eligible ladies—my sister Petra included—he’d been unable to resist me. Versailles is a splendid palace, and Louis is even more charming and handsome than I’d heard. Mother is ecstatic at the prospect of joining our nations, and I am more than eager to begin my life as queen.

  “I don’t know,” I say, circling the young king. “I hear there’s a certain Polish princess who has been sending you letters.”

  Louis laughs again. “Already you have your spies on me? I should be flattered. You truly do have the heart of a French woman.”

  I have to force myself not to bristle at the remark. It’s intended as a compliment, but it feels more like a slight. French women, at least the ladies I’ve met in my weeks here, are delicate things, content to sing and sew and let the men around them speak. Only behind closed doors do they reveal their true natures—conniving, backstabbing harlots, the lot.

  “My king, you flatter me. But I should need more than pretty words to soothe my aching heart,” I offer coyly, batting my lashes and gazing toward the chestnut mare two stables over.

  “My lady requires a token? Jewels, perhaps? I would lay the crown jewels at your feet this moment if I could,” he swears, reaching out and claiming my hand.

  I shrug. “Rocks.”

  When he chuckles, the sound rolls along my skin. “Then tell me, what does your heart desire?”

  Moving into him, I press the bodice of my nightdress to his chest and draw a deep breath. “I want only to sit by your side. Tomorrow, at supper. Have them bring me a chair. Allow me the honor of supping at your right hand.”

  He blinks his blue eyes, taking my chin in one warm hand. “My love, such things must wait until we are wed. Court protocol…”

  I pull away roughly. “Court protocol. Do not speak to me of these things. You are the king, the ordained of God. Who dictates such things to you? Who would dare?”

  He reaches out, and I allow him to capture me once more. Raising my hand, I touch his face with just the tips of my fingers, a gesture I’ve seen my mother employ on my father more than once.

  “My king, my love…” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Show me that I am your queen. Show everyone I will rule at your side, and I shall give myself to you.”

  The rise and fall of his chest halts, his eyes widening. “Whatever your heart desires, I will give you. You will be my queen. You will sit at my side tomorrow and every night after, I swear it.”

  With that, he seizes the back of my neck, pulling me into a deep kiss. Releasing myself to his embrace, I let the cloak fall from my shoulders. With slow, skilled fingers, he pulls the ribbons from my hair, freeing it into soft waves that roll down my back. The night air is crisp, his touch is hot, and I shudder.

  Faintly, in the back of my mind, my sister’s voice echoes words of caution. It whispers doubts, reminding me I’m not Louis’ first conquest. Tells me that my virtue is all I have to give—the only weapon I have to wield.

  But in that moment, I can’t bring myself to heed her words. My own heart is beating too loudly, every touch sending tingles along my flesh. Strong hands lift me from my feet, gently lowering me into the hay.

  “My Elizabeth,” he moans. “My wild, fiery princess. Give yourself to me this night, and I will lay all of France open before you.”

  “I am yours,” I swear, drawing him down onto me. “And you are mine.”

  I’m able to slip back to my chamber just before dawn breaks, still picking straw off my cloak as I make my way through the kitchen and into the damp passage that empties into my antechamber. Opening the door as quietly as possible, I bundle the cloak and stuff it into the chest at the foot of my bed. Glancing at my shift, I examine it for any sign of my sacrifice—all sacrifices require blood, do they not?—but there’s nothing. I tug it over my head anyway, tossing it in the basket of soiled linens waiting for the maids to launder. Replacing it with a fresh gown from my wardrobe, I climb into bed, my skin still warm from my lover’s touch, my body aching from the exquisite pleasure.

  It’s my sister who first bursts into the room, and I grumble, too exhausted to put on a display of normalcy.

  Opening one eye, I see Petra give me a shocked glance before slamming my door closed behind her.

  “Lizzy,” she chastises as I sit up. “What on earth did you get up to last night?”

  I open my mouth, but only a tired whimper escapes my lips.

  Rushing into bed beside me, she takes my head in her hands and plucks.

  “Were you in the stables?” she demands, holding out a crumpled piece of hay.

  Flushing, I clamp my mouth shut.

  “Honestly, Lizzie,” she says as she continues to preen me. “You simply must stop these antics.”

  I toss the bedsheets back, brushing her off. “Calm down, Petra. The engagement will be announced today, I’m sure of it. After that, nothing else will matter.”

  A nervous expression crosses her thin face, her doe eyes lowering even as her lips press into a thin line. “Are you so certain?”

  I nod, taking her hand. “I am. He swore it to me only tonight. And we have consummated our bond.”

  The shock on her face is plain, but she does not chastise me as I fear she might. She hesitates briefly, then lifts her chin to offer me a half-hearted smile. “Then I am glad for you, sister.”

  “Be glad for us both. I will ask Father to allow you to stay with me, I will find you a wonderful suitor here, and you can remain at court with me for as long as you wish,” I promise.

  “Father has been ill,” she whispers, and I lunge forward, covering her mouth with my palm.

  “Don’t,” I warn. “Do not speak of it. It would not do for whispers to circulate here, to cast doubts on the future of the monarchy.”

  She frowns behind my hand, and I release her. “Is that your concern? Not that we might lose our father?”

  I glare. “My concern for our nation will always come first, sister. As should yours. But Father is strong, and his illness will pass soon enough.”

  Petra slides off the bed, brushing the skit of her gown. “The maids will be here soon with breakfast. We should prepare. Perhaps a prayer?” Her brown eyes glint in the warm morning light streaming into my window.

  “Of course,” I offer, kneeling beside my bed and inviting her to join me.

  I watch from the corner of my eye as her lids close, her lips moving in a silent prayer. No doubt she’s praying for Father, for his health and probably for my own as well. She is good in that way, much closer to God than I am. Her heart is gentle. Meekness is her gift.

  Closing my own eyes, I lay a hand on my belly, offering a prayer of my own.

  A few minutes later, a gentle tap comes at the door before it is opened.

  Closing our prayers, we rise.

  “Your Grace…” The first lady, Marjory Du Beaumont, addresses me. “His Majesty, your father, would speak with you immediately.” Her Russian is ne
arly flawless, much better than many others at court. It’s why Mother chose her—that and her familial relation to Prince Alexander Menshikov, Father’s closest friend and one of our few allies in this foreign land.

  Petra and I exchange a glance, and I cannot hide my smug grin. “Of course.”

  The maid rushes to my wardrobe and selects a dress, offering it to Lady Du Beaumont for approval. The woman nods curtly, her hair curled and powdered into a tower at the top of her head, as is the fashion here. Turning to her other ladies, she begins barking orders in French. Only once the others have gone about their tasks does she come to me, working to fasten the ties of my panniers.

  Lady Du Beaumont speaks again, her voice hardly a whisper. “Your mother bid me to give you a message, Your Grace. She says you must not speak to anyone—that you confide in no one—until she is able to come to you.”

  My stomach churns. Does Mother know what transpired last night? How could she? I feel the color drain from my face, prompting the lady to pinch my cheeks roughly. No matter, once the engagement is official, none of that will matter.

  Dressing quickly, Petra helps me tie my hair into a simple twist at the top of my head, two long curls descending from the base of my neck and draping over my shoulders. The maid powders my face, adding a strand of pearls around my neck.

  “Come,” Lady Du Beaumont says, leading me to the great hall.

  We stand in line outside the doors, which open periodically, just wide enough to allow me a glimpse of my father as he meets with his advisors. A plate of meats, cheese, and bread is ushered into his chamber, making my mouth water. A few minutes later, my mother approaches, her own ladies in tow, her billowing gown rustling as she glides down the hall toward me. When I curtsy as she approaches, she meets my eyes, but says nothing. The valet announces her at the door, and she vanishes inside.

  I stand, fidgeting from foot to foot, as the others around me chat mindlessly about various affairs of state, both here and at home. Wheat blight has affected the farmers and serifs north of St. Petersburg, an outbreak of smallpox has been discovered in the northern provinces, and closer to Paris, the mistress of the previous cardinal is threatening to go to the pope if she’s not given lands she claims to have been promised before his passing, and a banking crisis is thought to be a conspiracy by the Orleans family—a bid to force the king into bringing the Duke of Anju back into the royal court.

  I listen to these murmurs, silently planning how they should be dealt with, quietly strategizing how I might offer counsel to not just my father, but also my future husband. Pleasure and politics, the lifeblood of royal court.

  Raised voices echo in the chamber, drawing the gaze of the assembly. Lady Du Beaumont stiffens beside me, and the first wave of doubt beats against me. When the doors finally open, my mother approaches, leveling a gaze at me when she passes. Though she does not speak, her expression says enough. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips pressed into a thin line. She’s holding her tongue, a feat I’ve witnessed more than once at our own court. Sucking in a breath, I straighten my shoulders and force my expression to an emotionless mask.

  The valet announces me and I glide into the room, offering a curtsy to my father and Louis, who sit opposite each other at the head of the chamber. Father has often doted on Louis, visiting his court often when the king was just a boy, even embracing him as a son—an act shocking in itself. There is a rift between them now, silent but deep. It is cut into the lines around Father’s eyes, in the tick working in his jaw. Shifting my attention, I notice Louis does not meet my gaze, opting instead to fiddle with the gold signet around his finger. The air between us is icy, a far cry from how warmly he’d held me only hours before. His silence is a contrast to his whispered promises and declarations of affection. Though the first quakings of anger ripple through me, I hold firm, even as my insides long to weep with the news I fear is coming.

  The Duke of Bourbon stands, not reaching his full height due to a slight hump at the back of his neck, his frame thin but his face fair.

  “Your Imperial Highness Princess Elizabeth, it is lovely to see you again. I hope your visit has been amenable?”

  “His Majesty has been most kind,” I say softly, forcing a smile to my lips. “The whole of court has been so delightful I dare say I have felt quite at home.”

  He nods, offering a sad smile. “I am glad to hear it. Unfortunately, it is with deep regret I must inform you that no contract of marriage can be offered from His Majesty at this time.”

  The words are like knives in my heart, but I hide the pain. Instead, I nod. “I hope I have not offended His Majesty in some way. Though if I have, I must beg his forgiveness.”

  Louis speaks, his head snapping up as if unable to contain himself. “Of course not. Never.”

  The Duke of Bourbon clears his throat. “No offense has been noted. Other matters, however, must be considered.”

  Staying silent for a moment, I blink back the tears of rage threatening to spill down my cheeks. I can only hope they mistake it for grief as I struggle to speak without a tremor in my voice.

  “My Lord, it has been my dearest wish that our nations might be joined in matrimony. Might I at least know the reason I am so disappointed?” I ask.

  The duke fumbles for a moment, his gaze drifting to my father.

  “She is owed that, at least,” he mutters.

  “Simply put, it is a matter of law. There have been some concerns raised from the other council members about the lack of royal lineage of Her Majesty, your mother, the queen.”

  There it is. My mother’s status as a commoner comes to haunt us once again.

  “And, of course, the issue of legitimacy must also be considered,” he continues.

  “Surely French court is not subject to such idle gossip,” I offer gently. “My father himself has attested that he was wed to my mother before my birth.”

  “But not publicly wed, I believe,” he stammers.

  “And my sister and I have been legitimized besides,” I press.

  “Yes, well…” He holds out his hands, opening his mouth to speak again, but I cut him off before he’s able.

  “Unless you doubt the word of the Tsar of Russia? I wonder, is it his law or his word in which you find fault?”

  The duke’s mouth clamps shut. I know I should stop, but I’m unable—my anger, my betrayal, it burns inside me now, a righteous flame too hot to extinguish.

  “Are you, yourself, not the son of Louise Françoise de Bourbon? She was the product of the previous king and his mistress, if memory serves. It occurs to me that if a king’s ability to legitimize his offspring despite his council’s reluctance might be of import to the both of us.”

  His cheeks flush and his eyes narrow, but I hold his gaze, waiting for his response.

  “Your passion is a credit to your heritage,” he decides after a moment. “His Majesty offered similar concerns. But alas, the council has decided. Unless there is some reason we might reconsider?”

  It’s a trick, my mind warns. He is baiting me. Dishonor my father by admitting I’ve been had by the king, confess my lack of virtue, and they might let me stay—not as queen, of course. Mistress at best.

  I glance at Louis, who eagerly leans forward.

  Do I love him enough to destroy my reputation? Enough to abandon my rank and accept this meager offer of his companionship, but not the title that goes along with it?

  I cannot help but wonder if this was his plan all along. To make me his without having to sacrifice the demands of his council.

  To make me his whore.

  The thought stabs at my heart.

  How little he must think of me.

  “Of course not, my lord,” I offer quickly. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  With that, I turn and walk from the room with my head high.

  It’s not until the doors close behind me that I break into a run toward my mother’s chamber.

  Petra catches me just outside her door.


  “Sister, are you unwell?” she asks, putting her cool hands on either side of my face.

  I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

  “I only just heard. The maids have been whispering. Oh, but what will you do? Surely Father will demand a wedding once he knows how the king has dishonored you.”

  I brush her hands away. “Don’t be silly, and lower your voice.”

  When the door opens, Mother sees me through the crack as her maid leaves with a tray of tea.

  “Elizabeth, come in here,” she demands, lowering herself onto the settee in the outer chamber.

  “Keep silent,” I order Petra, abandoning her to the hall.

  “Ladies, leave us,” Mother demands. With a quick dip, the maids and ladies exit, closing the door behind them.

  “Daughter, you must speak plainly here. What has transpired between you and King Louis?”

  I want to deny everything, to keep my shame secret from her, but her eyes pierce me, her gaze calculating and comforting at the same time. She already knows. Nothing happens at court without her knowledge.

  Holding out my hands, I have to force my words around my hitched breaths. “I thought if I could convince him, if I could make him love me—the way you did with Father—that he’d keep me,” I admit, falling to my knees at her feet. “But it was not enough. I was not enough.”

  She pats my hair. “My sweet daughter. It is a difficult lesson to learn, but the power does not always reside with the head who wears the crown. Even if Louis wants you, his advisors have too much influence. They would never let him choose his own queen. He has been their puppet since he was a child.”

  “But now I have done something so foolish,” I admit, unable to say more. The shame is gnawing at me, biting into my belly.

  She moves so suddenly it startles me, and I fall back. Kneeling beside me, she grabs my chin in one hand, her grip painful.

  “Did you give yourself to him? Have you abandoned your maidenhood? You must tell me.”

  I nod, her grip too tight for me to speak.

  She groans, releasing me with a push. “Stupid child. I thought you had been taught better.”