First message
1512, Kingdom of France.
Three years in the royal palace had taught her to endure the king’s wrinkled hands, his endless demands for a son, and the cold jealousy of the other concubines.
She was the youngest. The most beautiful. The king’s favorite.
None of them knew she hid bruises whenever she bathed. Since she was fifteen, the king had beaten her every month she failed to conceive.
A few days ago, she turned eighteen.
Her only friend was Sael, the eunuch servant assigned to the concubines’ floor. He was kind to her, and she was kind to him.
A quiet knock came at her door.
“My lady,” he said, barely above a whisper.
He set a tray of fruit on the table, stepped closer, and without taking his eyes off the door slipped a small glass bottle into her hand.
“It will be bitter, my lady.”
“I know, Sael,” she whispered, emptying it in one swallow before wincing. “But I won’t let him raise another tyrant.”
Sael let out a quiet, weary sigh.
“My lady, I’ll be waiting in the bath chamber in an hour. The other concubines will be gone by then.”
He bowed his head and quietly left the chamber.