To Be Queen by Christy English

contract that the king did not like, a position from which my father was immovable: the lands of the Aquitaine and Poitou would not pass directly to my husband at our marriage, but to our son once he was of age. The king would gain the wealth of the Aquitaine. He would be able to draw on our gold, and call upon my vassals in time of war. But the Aquitaine and Poitou would become the property of the throne of France only after my son was crowned.
    The King of France bided his time, saying that his heir was still too young to marry, all the while hoping to frighten us into making his son the sole ruler of Aquitaine. My father would not agree to this; only I or my son would rule these lands after him. Though in the end we were sure to win, as the Aquitaine was a prize too sweet to be let go of, the king was slow to admit defeat. I was only fifteen; I had time to wait. But my father would leave for Spain to face his enemies with my marriage contract still unsigned.
    The whole situation rankled, filling my throat with bile. I swallowed, the sour taste lingering on the back of my tongue. If it was this bitter for me, how much worse must this defeat be for him? I knew how much it pained him to leave me and my sister undefended, while he went to make amends with the Church. But as always, my father hid his pain behind a mask of stone.
    â€œI must go alone, and you must stay here,” Papa said.
    He did not speak just of his travels to Compostela. He feared a different journey, that death would meet him there, in the form of poison, or an assassin’s knife. Our enemies in the Church had taken one slight too many from his hands, and we knew they might now work to be rid of him completely.
    I clung to one hope: perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps his fears of assassination were unfounded.
    Papa’s hand was warm over mine; the wind in our faces was bitter. The sun did little to warm it. I could feel the hunger of the cold wind on my skin. I shivered, drawing my furlined cloak close around me.
    â€œIf I am lost, you will turn to the king in Paris,” he said.
    â€œI know, Papa. We spoke of this already.”
    â€œYou may also turn to Geoffrey of Anjou. I fought with him in Normandy. I sought to help him win his duchy back.”
    â€œHe failed,” I said. I knew the story of Geoffrey of Anjou well. His wife, the Empress Maude, had been heir to the throne of England, but her barons had rebelled, not wanting to swear fealty to a woman. The usurper Stephen had tried to take her throne, but he had been too weak to hold her lands, either in England or in Normandy. So Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, fought for his wife, both in Normandy and in England, but he had never been able to defeat Stephen completely, and take his wife’s lands back. Though my father honored the count as friend and ally, I would turn to my own barons in time of need long before I ever sought help from Geoffrey of Anjou.
    â€œGeoffrey fights still,” my father said. “The Angevins never give up, as you do not.” Papa raised my chin, and looked into my eyes. “I tell you this, because you must hear it. If you are ever in dire need, turn to Geoffrey. He will help you, if he can.”
    I did not mention to my father that a man who could not hold his own duchy, a man who could not enforce his wife’s claims to the throne of England, surely could do little to help me. The plan we had in place among our trusted barons and bishops would serve me far better than reaching out to the Angevins. It showed my father’s fear for me that he spoke not of our carefully laid plans but his friend Geoffrey, far away in Normandy.
    â€œI promise you, Papa. I will remember. The Angevins are our allies.”
    He kissed me and held me close. Papa thought to draw his enemies away from us by going to Compostela alone. He hoped to leave me and Petra safe behind the walls of Ombrière.
    I knew well the depths we swam in, and the razor-sharp teeth in