Prologue

17 September 1716, Warwick (England)

Lightning struck the black night sky. It was cold, perhaps the coldest night that the whole England had ever seen during the year.

An open mouth, thin chapped lips could feel that cold in a particular way. The crisp winter air entered that fine, half-open mouth, there was just enough time to pinch the lungs and managed to get out through thick whitish clouds. Ah! How cruel the night was, could not know anyone other than the people who that time had lived.

A scream of pain rose in the cold and large room and for a second time the cruel winter air managed to penetrate the depths of that woman's essence. There was only one factor that on that stormy night she was able to counteract all that evil cold, the physical presence of people.

The room was packed with attendants, servants, people of every way and every aspect trying to relieve all that pain. -Soon it will all be over ... - sometimes words of comfort would come out of the mouths of those poor people -please push Lady Katherine, it will all be over soon-.

In the great wooden bed lay a young woman. She was relatively young, in her mid-thirties but in any case already old enough for motherhood. She was a fairly short woman, but in every way of good looks, her long golden brown hair had been braided behind her head not to complicate the childbirth further.

The extremely peculiar detail was, that even now that the woman was in the midst of pain from labor and she was writhing in the big wooden bed, she was perfect. Not a single hair out of place, not a wrinkle on her face, and not just a drop of her blood had stained her white nightgown.

The labor had been going on for a few hours and in that narrow environment full of unknown faces the queen began to feel quite oppressed. She was placed white patches of the finest French cloth on her forehead trying to wipe away the sweat, or some of her attendants even performed roles of much lesser significance such as dipping her fingers in water mixed with lemon juice.

The woman did everything to turn her face towards the corridor, looking for a particular figure. There some candles had been lit inside the dark lamps and barely illuminated the corridors. A cold gust of wind burst into the room, enough to blow out a few candles and cause chills even to the pregnant woman.

- Where is he? - she took the strength to support her back on the headboard of her bed -Where is your majesty? - she almost hissed from her lips.

A young courtesan next to her spoke up. The girl was not particularly beautiful, but it can be said that she was of an acceptable beauty for one of the lower middle classes of society, in any case she had long hair of a black color, blacker than the night.

-My lady- began the young courtesan -His majesty cannot attend the birth, this is not allowed-. "All nonsense" thought the woman in her head, the truth was that all those people, all those unknown faces were not needed at that moment. She wanted to feel, she wanted her eyes to meet that man, the same man who had chosen her as his wife, the man who had kissed on the first day of their wedding, the man who had brought life into her even in the middle of her life, the man she had always been faithful to.

Another pain made the woman scream again, she clung both her hands to the soft mattress, pushed further. -The head! I start seeing the head! -

One of the servants exulted as the most beautiful thing about her seen in her whole life. -My lady...- repeated the same young black-haired girl -we all hope he will be a boy, an handsome young prince-

It was a strange sensation that woman felt at that moment, she turned her face towards the door one more time, something had changed, a new presence was there. The two exchanged a look.

Prince Henry was leaning with his body against the open door, his figure was not well defined inside his nightgown, the only thing that attracted the woman was not his beautiful noble face or his shining blond hair that went down to the shoulders, but the boy's deep grey eyes full of terror.

Seeing him, the woman felt a sense of repudiation towards that little boy, that presence, he was not her son, that boy who was now in front of her eyes was the product of another woman's womb.

He was the offspring of the king's first marriage with one of the noblest and most beautiful women of the French aristocracy, a woman with shining and long hair and two eyes as big as a fawn and blue like the sea.

Lady Katherine knew the appearance of that woman almost by heart, through her paintings which, despite her death, continued to remain intact and hung together with the huge family oil paintings.

This in itself did not bother her, the factor that offended the woman's sensitivity was that the young boy, that young prince was handsome, he was more beautiful than her, most likely more beautiful than the child that was being born of her.

If a girl had been born, then she would have had no hope in the aristocratic society of the time other than a sad arranged marriage. She knew it was not a boy, the baby that was being born of her had a hunch of her, one of those strong connections that only a mother can have with her baby.

She felt partially guilty, her role was to give a male heir to her husband, another prince of royal blood, claimant to the throne, but she felt, and partially desired a girl.

She wanted a sweet little princess, sensitive and adorable, like those found only in children's stories. A last flash in the night, a last scream, it was happening, that moment, a desperate cry broke the silence of that cold night.

The woman suddenly felt that life slip out of her, become a small independent body, an autonomous life form, she felt for the first time the cry of the creature she had just given birth, it was sweet, it was melodic, it was the most beautiful sound that she had ever heard.

The servants came even closer to her this time, they all focused on the baby, wrapped the little weeping body in a precious silk cloth with golden edges and placed it in the woman's arms. The queen smiled, the little creature they had placed in her arms was simply tiny, her face all red and full of folds due to her crying.

This did not interest the woman, all she thought at that moment was that what she was now holding in her arms was her flesh and blood, she did not care the beauty in that moment, but only that she could finally hold on to what he had waited so long.

-Our Lord blessed you, my queen- an older woman began to speak in the crowd -a little girl, oh my Lord, a princess- the woman must have had an indefinable age around fifty, she was not really fit and not many teeth remained in her mouth.

She smelled incredibly of onions and grease. The queen immediately recognized that unpleasant woman, her name was Berta or something like that, she was not a noble woman as she could well see.

However she had sometimes seen her peeling potatoes in the inner courtyard of the castle or making an awkward comeback from the courtyard to the kitchen with vegetables or sometimes skinned rabbits or plucked chickens.

Her role, as she had already heard about it among the attendants was to carry the large kitchen knife that she usually used for culinary purposes, to cut fish it was suspected, since in any case that knife carried the stench of rottenness, typical of the case.

The footsteps of the heavy hard leather soles began to make themselves felt in the corridor. The flames of the candles swayed faintly in the darkness.

-Father- almost a hissing sound quickly came from the lips of the little prince, who, still leaning against the frame of the large solid wooden door, was about to bow in a composed and royal way for the king's arrival.

All the attendants took a well-composed bow.

A few minutes had passed and the woman, lying on the bed, curled up in herself, began to feel the cold of the night again, and in a few moments she realized how pleasant the presence of all the attendants around her was.

The incessant clatter of the soles of his shoes got closer and closer and closer until it came more or less towards the door. Lady Katherine turned her face to the door.

He was there, her husband, her man, had finally come, to their child.

The man slowly entered the overcrowded room avoiding the prince with almost supernatural accuracy.

The young prince's face was almost surprised and saddened at the same time. Within the royal family there was in any way no room for particular affections, or hugs or even supportive smiles, not in public places and not with strangers present.

All this would have made the royal family feel weak and a little less perfect, the prince seemed to know all this, but somehow his face took a turn of sadness.

The king approached definitively and with firm steps in front of the bed, so as to be able to observe his wife and his newborn child in the face.

That little creature with a reddened face full of wrinkles was there, wrapped in white bands with embroidered golden edges, there, lying on the lap of her mother and seemed to be staring into space with her immense and moist black eyes.

A wave of the king's hand, a single gesture was enough to promptly send out of the room the thirty people who crowded it from the beginning.

Young Prince Henry swiftly moved away from the door as he saw all these persons approach him.

He didn't want to leave the room, he didn't want anyone to take him away from there, it was cold, very cold, he had to admit that, but in all that situation, a curiosity covered him, it planted itself in his young head, he too wanted, like his father.

See what kind of little beast could make all that noise just from the first cry.

The door closed and the four were left alone in the room.

The circumstance was quite subtle, never in the same distant royal family had such tension been felt. Each looked at the other with different eyes, with eyes of contempt or sometimes of curiosity.

-She is a girl- Lady Katherine deigned to say after a few minutes of silence, hoping that this would ease the tension. The man stretched out his hands to the woman, not for her hug so long awaited by her, not even for a whisper or a word of comfort.

The sire's arms were outstretched towards the little girl who, still scanning the void with her languid curious eyes, lay on her mother's lap.

Her baby passed from her mother's womb to her father's arms in seconds. The man seemed quite reluctant to the idea that his daughter, his second child was born a girl. He hoped, that he was praised by the birth of a second son, a prince of a worthy heir to the throne and crown. But as soon as the little girl was placed in his arms a feeling of joy and pride began to rise in his body.

At the same time, the young Prince Henry seemed unable to bear the cold of that winter night. White clouds of steam came out of his tight lips and his feet began to ache from holding on. The boy slumped on the floor clutching his fragile body in the white nightgown and rubbing his hands looking for a bit of warmth and comfort, waiting for someone to notice him.

The prince was only eleven at the time, but he was a bright and perceptive young man and he knew immediately from the moment his father took that little girl in his arms that it was time to grow up.

-What name could we give her? the queen asked, adjusting her back on the heavy wooden back of the bed.

-She looks like a smart and witty little girl, we will give her the name of my mother, Isabelle- the man looked with a more intense and full of admiration look at the little creature that had been placed in her arms.

-Father ... -the prince began to speak, his voice was trembling and choked with cold -may I see her? May I please see Princess Isabelle? -.

The king said nothing, motioned to the son to come closer.

Henry first got up on his knees and then pushed his hands and the floor to get back on his feet and try to keep a straight posture. He slowly and sleepily approached the large oak bed but remained at a slight distance, just enough to be able to hold the baby in his arms but not enough to draw all attention to him.

As soon as the little princess was placed in his arms a curious feeling arose in him. It was not a normal feeling, not one he had felt before him in his young life, it was a strange feeling, a mixture of complacency and contempt mixed with envy.

That ugly little red face and those blond hairs on her head, as well as the languid eyes too big for her little face, made the young prince come to a sense of disgust towards the little one.

He smelled her hair, her little face, from a distance, that little girl still smelled of blood and sweat, but from a certain point he couldn't help but love her, she was his younger half-sister. He had to love her, it was what his father would have wanted.

That night the ten cannon shots were fired right next to the big Avon River, as planned to celebrate the princess's birth (twenty would have been fired in case of the birth of a prince instead).