Paris, France, and St James’ Palace, London

On the 29th May in 1630 Helene Gardien went into labour at daybreak, delivering her child six hours later. Her lover, Simon Gautier, the Marquis de Lonquefort, was in residence at the Parisian townhouse where he’d installed his mistress, and visited Helene two hours after he’d been informed of the safe delivery of their child.

This was his first child, and he was curious, if somewhat apprehensive, and more than a little annoyed. All he’d wanted from Helene was sex, not responsibility.

“Well?” he said as he inched up to the bed.

“A boy,” Helene said, not looking up from the child’s face. “See, he has neither your eyes, nor mine, but those of a poet.”

Neither your eyes nor mine. Lonquefort instantly seized on her words. Could he claim the child wasn’t his? Not his responsibility?

Then he looked at the baby, and was lost. The baby’s eyes were indeed different, for while both Lonquefort and Helene had blue eyes, this infant had the deepest black eyes Lonquefort thought he’d ever seen in a face. But it wasn’t their colour that immediately captivated Lonquefort. The boy’s eyes were indeed those of a poet, Lonquefort decided, for they seemed to contain knowledge and suffering that stretched back aeons, rather than the two hours this boy had lived in this painful world.

“He will be a great man,” Lonquefort pronounced, and Helene smiled.

“I will call him Louis,” she said, then hesitated. Poet or not, the boy was a bastard, and Helene was not sure whether she should name him for his father.

But who was his father, she wondered as the awkward silence stretched out between them. Lonquefort, or that strange beast she’d envisioned riding her in the forest?

“Louis,” Lonquefort said, then he grinned. “Louis de Silva, for the forest where we made him.”

Helene laughed, her doubts gone. The forest had made him, indeed, and so he should be named.

“I shall settle a pension on him, and you,” said Lonquefort. “You shall not want.”

“Thank you,” Helene said softly, and bent her head back to her poet-son.

As Helene relaxed in relief, another woman, far distant, arched her back and cried out in the extremities of her own labour.

Henrietta Maria, Queen of England, lay writhing in the great bed draped with forest green silk within her lying-in chamber off the Colour Court of St James’ Palace. About her hovered midwives and physicians, privy councillors and lords, all there either to ensure a safe delivery or to witness the birth of an heir.

Elsewhere within the palace Charles I paced up and down, praying silently. He was riven with anxiety, more for Henrietta Maria than for concern over the arrival of a healthy heir. Over the course of the past nine months, as his wife’s body had swelled, so also had waxed Charles’ regard and love for her. Now he could not bear the thought that she might suffer in childbed.

As the palace clocks chimed noon, one of the privy councillors hurried towards Charles.

“Well?” demanded Charles.

“You have a healthy son,” the man said. “An heir!”

“And my wife?”

“She is well,” said the councillor, and Charles finally allowed himself to relax, and smile.

“A son,” he said. “He shall be named Charles.”

“Of course,” said the councillor.

Charles went to his wife, assured himself that she was indeed well, then turned to look at the child one of the midwives held.

He studied the baby curiously, then folded back his wrappings.

“By Jesus!” Charles exclaimed, and looked back at Henrietta Maria. “Are you sure you are well, my love?”

She grinned wanly. “He was an effort, my lord. But, yes, I am well. He did not injure me.”

Charles looked back to the baby. By God, look at the size of him! He was a giant, surely, with great strong limbs and a head of long, tight black curls. Charles reached down a hand and, as he did so, the baby reached up his own right hand and snatched at a golden crown embroidered on Charles’ sleeve.

“Observe!” said the midwife. “He was born a king, truly! See how he grasps for what shall be his!”

Then both the midwife and Charles cried out, for the baby’s hand tightened about the crown, and tugged at it, tearing it away from his father’s sleeve.

“I shall have to watch my back, surely,” Charles said with a forced laugh, “in case this son of mine decides to snatch my crown before his time.”

The midwife prised the torn piece of material out of the infant’s fist, and he began to wail.

“You shall surely die abed, an aged and beloved king,” murmured one of the physicians. “This is no omen to be feared.”

“Of course not,” said Charles, but at that moment the room darkened as a cloud covered the sun, and the only one in the chamber who did not shiver in dread was the baby.

Weyland Orr brought his little sister Jane to stand outside the octagonal-towered gatehouse of St James’ Palace among the other crowds awaiting news of the queen’s delivery. Most of the crowd prayed for a prince; Weyland and Jane knew the child would be a prince. A king reborn.

Weyland hoisted Jane in his arms so that she could see through the gates into the Colour Court off which, the crowd was reliably informed, the queen laboured in her chamber.

See, Genvissa. In that tumbled mess of ancient buildings Brutus-reborn draws his first breath, while you sit, caught in the arms of Asterion, knowing you’ll never feel Brutus’ arms about you again. Will he come looking for you, do you think, once he has control of those infant legs of his?

Weyland laughed, softly, tormenting Jane with his thoughts. No, of course not. He’ll want his precious princess, Cornelia. He won’t want you, particularly after what I have planned.

Weyland sent a series of images skidding through Jane’s mind, and the girl began to cry.

Weyland hugged her to him. “There, there,” he whispered, playing the part of the affectionate brother to perfection. “All will be well. I shall look after you.”

Then he lifted his head. A nobleman had walked to the gates, and now shouted to the crowds.

“A son! A son! The queen has been safely delivered of a healthy son!”

The crowd roared, and Weyland cheered with the best of them.

In his arms, the little girl wept.