The corridors outside the royal bedchamber were silent, too silent for a palace that had once thrummed with music and laughter. Queen Mary sat at the foot of the bed, her hands wrapped around her husband’s cold feet as if she could anchor him, as if she could keep him here.

“How is he today?” Queen Mary asked, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“Your Grace, please sit,” the physician said. 

“I am sitting,” she said, though her spine was rigid, her eyes fixed on the King’s shallow breaths.

“Tell me quickly,” she said.

“There is nothing more I can do for him, I’m afraid. We must prepare for a new King,” the doctor said. 

Mary’s breath caught. “But… the King and I have no heirs. The only successor is his brother.”

The doctor bowed his head and said, “Though I understand the loss this will be for you, you must prepare yourself. I am truly sorry, Ma’am.”

“No!” her voice cracked, her grief spilling into sobs. “You must do something!”

“There is nothing more to be done. The King will soon die.”

He left her there, collapsed over her husband’s bed, her tears soaking the sheets, and he delivered news to the Lords standing outside.

“I am sorry to be the one to deliver this grave tidings,” he announced, “The King will not recover.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered men.

“What is to be done?” one asked.

“There is nothing to be done,” the doctor replied. Prepare the kingdom for a new King.” 

***

“Prince Henry?” Lord Chancellor Scott knocked sharply on the Prince’s chambers.

A muffled voice answered. “Who is it? What do you want?”

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but it’s about the King.”

The door swung open. Henry stood shirtless, breathless, and annoyed. “What about him?”

“He has died… Your Majesty,” Lord Chancellor said, bowing to the new King. 

Henry froze.

“Why was I not informed his illness had grown so grave?” he demanded.

“We did not think because of the nature of your relationship that you would…”

“That I would care?” Henry snapped. “You did not think it wise to tell the successor to the throne that the King of France was dying?”

“No, sir.”

Henry’s jaw clenched. “Where is the Queen?”

“At his bedside.”

Prince Henry glanced over his shoulder at Lady Ursula Hillsdale, tangled in his sheets. “I shall be in the throne room momentarily. 

He shut the door and leaned against it, exhaling sharply.

“Henry,” Ursula said softly, slipping into her gown. “What is happening?”

“I’m no longer Henry to you. From this moment on, I’m Majesty, Your Highness, or King.”

She blinked. “What?”

“My brother has died. I’m the king now. Everything must change.”

“But…”

“There is no room for negotiation here, Ursula. I am now the King of France. Please gather your things and leave my chambers.”

Her eyes flashed. “I was good enough for you when you were the prince.”

“That was then.”

“Whom will you marry?” She paused at the door.

“I doubt I will have much choice,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “Kings rarely do.”

When she left, Henry dressed in his ceremonial robes and placed the crown upon his head. He paused before the throne room doors, inhaling deeply. His life as a prince had been easy–wine, women, and the occasional political obligation. But now…now the weight of a kingdom rested on his shoulders. His brother had been born for this. Henry had not. 

ONE

Two Months Later

The screams echoed down the corridor long before Henry reached the Queen’s chambers. He pushed through the doors, breathless, only to find chaos–maids rushing, blood staining the sheets, and Mary was pale as winter frost.

The physician stepped forward, face grim. “Your majesty…the hemorrhaging will not stop.”

Henry’s head snapped up. “Then stop it.”

“We’ve tried everything.”

“Henry,” Mary cried. “Please don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry, not at you,” he said.

He was angry at the Lords who had forced this marriage, at the alliance that had demanded it, at the crown that had taken everything from him. 

Mary’s fingers tightened weakly around his. “I’m sorry…I couldn’t…give you an heir…”

“I know.”

Her hand slipped from his. Mary’s lips parted as if to speak again, but no sound came.

Henry bowed his head over her still body.

Outside the chamber, the physician whispered to the Lords,

“The Queen is dead.”

A Week Later

The council chamber was suffocating. Henry sat at the head of the table.

Lord Chancellor Scott cleared his throat. 

“Majesty, we must discuss the matter of succession.”

Henry’s voice was ice. “The Queen has been dead for one week.”

“And Spain will interpret her death as instability,” Scott said. “We must act swiftly.”

Lord Fenwicke leaned forward, his expression smooth and calculating. “France cannot afford a King without an heir. Because your brother’s…your wife has died, because his child has died, there is no one to succeed the throne after you…your cousin, Lord John, is waiting anxiously for you to die.”

“Say what you mean,” Henry said through a clenched jaw.

“You must remarry at once,” Fenwicke said.

Henry laughed a sharp humorless sound. “Before the ground has even settled.”

“This is not about choice,” Fenwicke replied. “It’s about survival. Don’t pretend that you loved her.”

“I didn’t. But I cared for her as my brother’s wife and for his child…” He paused, shaking his head. “It was a tragedy what happened, and as heartless as I am seen to be, I cared for her as my Queen and as my brother’s wife.”

Lord Chancellor slid a parchment across the table. “Avaleur has offered their princess.”

Henry froze. Avaleur, a wealthy and powerful, but strategically vital country.

Fenwicke interrupted. “She is young, beautiful, and foreign.”

“You say that as if it’s a flaw,” Henry replied, sitting back with his arms crossed,  his eyes scanning the Lords at the table.

“It is,” Fenwicke said. “The people will not accept her.”

Henry stood. “Perhaps, but they do not accept me.”

Lord Scott met his gaze. “Majesty, consider her. The crown is heavy, and it grows heavier when worn alone.”

Henry said nothing and went to the door. He knew he had no choice.