1
As most people with brains know, labour is a painful, excruciating and traumatizing event. Most people with their heads screwed on tight are aware of this fact.
They are also aware of my temper.
“Majesty, please!” The condemned apothecary screams as my guards drag him away. The midwives studiously ignore the noise and go about their duties.
My maids keep coming in and out of my chambers. Some of them carry bowls of water and rags. Some carrying incense to burn away the foul odors of blood and bodily fluids expelled from my body—
And coating the squealing, squirming mass the midwives are cleaning in a corner. A mass a man who will be dead before sundown had had the nerve to whisper ‘looks like a pale rat.’
“Your daughter, Your Grace,” one of the midwives says with a bow as they present me with a swaddled bundle. Gently, they place her in my outstretched arms and I cradle her, rocking from side to side.
She looks different. Expelled from my body, she had been bloody. Unremarkable. Like any other baby born in the kingdom. Cleaned, she was different and my eyes counted the ways in which she was.
Hair as black as ebony.
Lips as red as the rose.
Skin as white as the pure snow falling outside the window.
She looked just like someone I used to know. That someone was at the moment lying on the castle roof with a wooden stake driven through his heart pinning him in place and raw garlic stuffed in every orifice.
“I will call you Blanche,” I crooned to my baby. Blanche only yawned in response and attempted to blink. I smiled at her actions, already in love with her.
Yes, she would be my shining heir.
My Blanche.
My beautiful unusual Blanche.
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