Francis held my arms out and took no qualms at subtlety as he let his eyes roam over my face and down my body. “Jacques, you may leave us now.”

“Your Majesty?”

Francis dropped my hands and turned to his courtier. His voice came out in a vicious snap. “I said leave us!”

Jacques retreated a few steps like a whipped pup before slinking out the still-open door. Pain was evident in his words. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

“Merci beaucoup, Your Majesty,” I started as Jacques pulled the door shut behind him. “I beg you, tell me. What has become of my husband, Jean? He didn’t return with the others this morning.”

Francis paced in a slow circle around me, like a predator circling his prey. The niggling thought intensified. Danger.

Again, I find myself the hare. Now, I have stupidly walked into the den of the most dangerous of all the bloodhounds in France. And he’s hungry.

“The men who didn’t come back on our one remaining ship are presumed dead, Bridget. But fear not, I’ve made a secret peace with the Holy Roman Emperor. Now, we two have joined forces against our common enemy and yours, King Henry VIII of England.”

His hand swept my hair over my shoulder as he stopped behind me.

Run, Bridget.

“Rest assured, that my beautiful Bridget is safe here in France. Your husband’s ultimate sacrifice has ensured your citizenship shall never be questioned.”

I took a step backward as he circled around in front of me.

“And you have found yourself a widow.”

Something in my face must have given away my plan of escape. Before I could bolt for the door, Francis slammed me into the stone wall. He forced his knee between my legs, and a grunt escaped his lips.

“There now,” he growled as he smoothed at my hair in rough swats. “You came here for a reason. You knew your husband was dead.”

“No,” I managed.

“Shhhh,” he warned. He squeezed the sides of my face with one hand and pressed his lips to mine. “You knew I was powerless to your charms.”

I tried to shake my head, but he tightened his grip on my face. The back of my head met the wall with a sickening crack.

King Francis dragged his free hand down my face and circled my throat. Slowly, his fingers began to tighten. “Tell me you want me, Bridget.”

This is it. This is the day I die.

His hand tightened further around my throat until my lungs burned for air. With no warning, Francis released my neck from his death grasp. A breath of welcome air whooshed into my chest and ensured that I would continue to live. At least for this moment.

His death-dealing hand traveled down and cupped my tender breast. I squeaked as shocks of pain sparked through my chest when he squeezed.

No, I thought. No, no, no!

His hand continued down my body as he removed his knee from between my legs. The exploring stopped at my belly. All his pressing and grunting stopped cold as he felt the tell-tale curve with poking, prodding fingers.

“You are—you are in a family way.” He stepped back as though he’d just learned that I carried the plague. Or syphilis. “Pray tell me you are not?”

“I am.” These words could be the ones that cost me my head. And my life. My thoughts drifted back to the executions of Queen Catherine Howard and Lady Jane Rochford. There, on her scaffold where nothing awaited her but death and jeers from an unpleasant crowd, Queen Catherine had the wherewithal to confess her true feelings about the King, and the man she loved, Thomas Culpepper. If she could do it, so could I—damn the consequences.

I drew in a shuddering breath. “I am happy to report that I am indeed pregnant with my husband’s child.”

Frances spat at me. “Your child is a bastard, Bridget.”

Without further fanfare, the King of France turned his back on me, his would-be-could-be mistress, and marched across his study and out the hidden door. His cape trailed him like smoke from a fire.

Jacques, the plumed courtier, appeared a moment later. “Miss, I’m to escort you from the premises. At once.”

Thankfully I’m to be guided off the premises and not to the scaffold or the dungeon.

“Sir, I accept your terms.” I hoped my words weren’t too jolly.

He guided me almost gently to the castle gate. “Goodbye, Bridget. And good luck.” With that, the castle gate closed in my face. I knew my days of being welcome in France were numbered, but I as to what that number was? I had no way to tell.

†††

The path from the castle seemed rockier than usual and more unforgiving against my bare feet. Still, I picked my way along until Calais rose up before me. I wanted to cry, but everything inside me was numb and dry. The fresh memory of the lecherous king’s hands on my body and the gleam in his eye made my skin crawl. I sank down onto a patch of grass and hugged my arms across my chest.

What to do now, Bridget? Where can I go?

Not back home, the emptiness of our quaint cottage would be too much to bear today.

Jean. My sweet Jean.

I swiped the back of my hand across my nose and got to my feet. There was only one place in the entire of France I wanted to be.

†††

The cobblestone street was eerily quiet as I stepped into the Catholic chapel. With all the upheaval between the Catholics and Protestants, there was usually some noise buzzing around the chapel, and I had come to expect it. However, the wind through the streets was the only sound.

The sanctuary was as empty as a waiting tomb. After I dipped my fingers into the Holy Water and made the sign of the cross, I waited at the back, but no old priest appeared.

Perhaps he is in the confessional.

My footsteps, as I took the few steps across the stone floor, seemed to echo in the deafening silence.

I knotted my hands over my swollen stomach. How will I explain the reason I am without the rosary?

The door to the confessional was cracked a bit. I peered into the darkness inside, but nobody was there. I stepped in and pulled the door closed behind me.

Hmm. That’s odd.

“Good morning, Father, I’m here for a confession,” I began.

No answer.

I slid open the little screen. “Father? Are you there?”