The Bastard

April 1413

A few weeks' time before our May Day celebrations I realise that I have not bled for more than a month. I do not tell anyone but I can not keep the secret from my handmaidens. They will of course never say a word about it but they know. The strange thing is that after the King and I began to share a bed, I stopped praying for a child for the first time since I was married. What am I supposed to do with a bastard child? My husband would beat me beyond recognition if he found out. But the thought of a child, a child I had conceived with Charles, fills me with pure bliss and for the first time in a long time, even hope.

I start wearing a broad grin on my face more often and my husband gives me strange looks but do still not speak to me in private and only a few civilised words in public. Since the night he had come to the King's bedchamber, he had not laid a hand on me or visited my bed and I prayed often for it to stay that way.

The following day I had noticed a deep wound on his right cheek, like he had been cut by a sharp blade, and in secret I rejoiced. It was not proper behaviour for a dutiful wife but I couldn't help myself. The thought of Charles himself, or even if he had sent someone to do the work for him, branding my husband in my defence filled me with a new sense of delight. That night I had showed him how much the gesture meant to me and he had once more made me tremble to my core.

For a week I walk around thinking about names. When I am fitted for new gowns, as I eat supper in the great hall and as I am walking through the halls and the gardens with the other Ladies, it is all that occupies my mind. Even studying can not take my mind of the fact that a new life is rapidly evolving inside of me, growing bigger and stronger for each day that pass. During a dull conversation with the Duchess of Somerset about her new jewelleries from France, I come to the conclusion that I prefer Richard or Edward after my brother. If it would turn out to be a girl I had always wished for a Sophie. I did however pray in the palace chapel for a boy and for God to give me the strength to spend a few nights with my husband.

Charles still sent for me but not as often since a new French beauty arrived at court earlier that month. She is four years my senior but has a grace and looks I can never measure up to. With ebony black hair, fair skin and a subtle but strong confidence no other woman at court could exceed, she has all men on their knees. Of course as soon as the King laid eyes on her she was his and his alone. It is strange because when I think of them together, wrapped up in the expensive sheets I had spent countless nights in, I am not jealous. Perhaps envious because I also want him, but strangely enough never jealous.

One late evening I gather the courage to knock on my husband's door. I have only seen him twice in the last week and it takes a while before he lets me in.

"The whore has returned", he greets me.

I partly regret my decision because I can see his staggering steps and red eyes which are all too familiar. The fate of my unborn child's future depend on me now and I have no choice but to continue with my plan of seduction, however unnatural and stomach wrenching it is.

"I have merely been doing my duty to the King."

He gives no answer as he pours himself more wine. This will have to demand the performance of a lifetime from me and hopefully my husband is not in one of his moods.

"Please dear husband", I say and go down on my knees. "All I want is to give you a son. I pray for it every day. Please."

I keep my eyes on the floor and do not move. For a minute I think I forget how to breathe.

"Get up child."

I walk over to the bed and lay down. Soon after my husband climbs on top of me and looks at me with empty eyes as he rips my gown. He can not get his manhood up until he buries his face in my breasts. His grip around my wrists tightens and I have to fight the urge to scream, both out of pain and loathing.

The coming fortnight I spend four more violent nights with him, doing everything in my power to remind myself that all the pain will be worth it when my child is born. But a week before May Day I wake up in bloody sheets. I remain in my chambers, not eating nor sleeping for days. All I can bear myself to do is sit in front of the fireplace, even if it is not lit, while rubbing my empty belly. My body do not feel any different, the miscarriage had been all but two sharp pains and then it was over, but my mind is as dark as it had ever been. Has God finally decided to punish me for being a sinner? Did this mean I will never have a child as long as I visited Charles' chamber? These questions circulated in my mind constantly and give me no rest. I wish I was be able to force the darkness away but for each day that pass it overwhelms me. Despite my situation, I had never before felt this powerless.

When the Duke of Somerset comes to my chambers on the fourth day it is the first time I'm not pleased to see him.

"Forgive me Your Grace but you do not look well."

I try to smile but it comes out as a look of pain.

"I have caught a stubborn cold but hopefully I shall be well for the celebrations."

The Duke looks down at his feet.

"Your Majesty needs you Your Grace. He sends his love."

The thought of Charles does not fill me with the happiness or lust like it had only a few days ago even though I know the loss of my poor child had nothing to do with him. If I should blame anyone it should be my husband's hard treatment or my own youthful hope and naiveté.

"Please tell Your Majesty that I would very much like to see him but that I could not risk his health with a clear conscious. Send him my warmest regards and love."

The Duke hesitate but stands up after a few moments.

"Very well. I wish you a quick recovery."

It is the first time I turn down a night with Charles and I have no idea how he will react. My instincts tell me it will not look good in his eyes but I can not endure the thought of going to his chambers and act like everything was alright when I am struggling to get out of bed each morning. Instead, I bury myself in the fictional world and try my best to forget about my own reality.