The Throne of Broken Hearts

CHAPTER THREE

Henri.

Henri woke to a sky pale and cold, the faint light of morning cutting through the tall windows of his study. He sat on the mahogany stool directly in front of the window, shivering slightly from the early morning wind. A tight feeling sat heavy in his chest, a dull throb from memories of her,her sharp eyes that seemed to hold swords in them,he remembers the soft hands that seem to always work wonders on him. She was now lost to circumstance and court politics. The thought made him tighten his fists, his head buzzing with guilt and shame as he could not save her,though there was little he could do, nothing he could change.

A knock came, soft, deliberate. Lord Chancellor Charles, his tutor, stepped inside. Charles was the person he trusted the most after his father, especially his mother passed away years ago. He moved towards him with the measured calm of someone who had seen a dozen young men crumble under similar pressures. Old enough to be his father, Charles had never raised his voice to Henry— never needed to.

“Sit,” Charles said, nodding toward a chair near the desk, his face sharp and straight — though it did nothing but betray the age of the man. “We have much to discuss Henri, and little time.”

He laid out the court’s state with practiced precision.

“As you know son, the king your father is sick and of everyone else, you the most must understand that the council is divided on the issue of his successor” Charles spoke with strength but urgency laced his voice.

“But the king is barely dead, how dare they convert his throne”, Henri spoke through gnashed teeth. “ The court has listed marriage as a requirement to fight for the throne Henri and Francóis is already married”.Each word weighed like stone, leaving no space for argument.

“The only path that strengthens your position… is marriage,” Charles concluded. Henri felt himself breaking from within and without a thought he went on his knees, his knees hitting the stone ground with thud “ Charles!!, please I… I can marry her right,... right Charles”. Tears had begun to pour out of his eyes — alas Charles did not care.

“I have sent proposals. One seems fitting. Lady Éloise de Valnoir.” His gaze lingered just long enough for Henry to understand: choice is an illusion here. Charles stood up and headed towards the door “ think of your father and who you are — Prince Henri de Montreval, Son of Duke, House of Montreval. Walk with me, the court procession is about to start”.

The council chamber smelled of incense and old parchment. Henri stood among men twice his age, his posture straight, his expression carefully neutral. The King’s seat at the head of the chamber remained empty—its absence louder than any argument. Word had spread quietly that His Majesty’s illness had worsened overnight. He had caught the buboes La Peste, it was not fatal… Not yet. But enough to keep him from court. Power, Henri knew, never waited for recovery.

The Marquis spoke first, his voice sharp with urgency. “The northern fields cannot remain leaderless. The levies are delayed. The men grow restless. Paris question our commitments to the treaties between us”.

“A temporary steward will suffice,” a Countess countered. “Until the King regains strength.”They all knew that was nothing but a white lie and in the next moments, murmurs began sweeping through the chamber, names followed, votes and alliances disguised as concern. Henri’s name was spoken—not loudly, but often enough.

“He has the Duke’s blood.”

“He lacks experience.”

“He commands loyalty.”

“He commands pity.”

The words passed over him like wind over stone. His vote counted—high enough to matter, not high enough to decide. Another son stood opposite him across the chamber, similar in age, similar in standing. A rival not by hatred, but by arithmetic, at least on his own part.

Henri barely listened, his thoughts were elsewhere. With her.

When the session adjourned, he left without ceremony, leaving the council to argue issues that meant nothing to him at this point. “ Take a look at the ‘choice’ of the people, he does not even concern himself to ask after us and the land he is supposed to be overseeing” the Marquis spoke, dissatisfaction detected from his tone. “Leave him alone, he has things to do too, his father is sick” the countess countered. Alas that had nothing to do with Henri who was on his way to her chambers.

The chambers she occupied were quiet, far from the noise of court and ambition. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains, pale and fragile. Henri paused at the doorway, as though entering might disturb something already broken.

She lay propped against pillows, her eyes sparkling at the sight of him, but her face composed. He looked at her his eyes overflowing with guilt. She propped herself up, her face the same he loves, her body forever changed.

“You missed the council,” she said softly.

“So did the King,” Henri replied.

A ghost of a smile passed her lips. He sat beside her, hands clasped tightly, as though still bracing for impact. Guilt sat heavy in his chest,not loud, not dramatic, but constant. Unrelenting.

“I dreamt of the forest again,” she said. “Before the bear. Before everything”. Her voice seemed strong

Henri closed his eyes.

The court argued over power. Over fields and titles and futures. But here, in this quiet room, he felt the true weight of what he could not undo.

And for the first time, he wondered whether ambition was worth the cost of survival.