The cold footsteps of the prince's leather boots echoed in the wide corridor of the castle. They were hard footsteps, full of hatred and without any feeling, they were footsteps of pure and deep hate. Henry had always felt a particular aversion and hostility towards his half-sister, since he held her in his hands for the first time after birth. That was not a controllable feeling, over time it had clung to the heart of the prince and had not allowed him to love.
He could not love or feel any emotion, for a long time now, from that fateful day, November 2, 1713. That unfortunate and troublesome day echoed every day in the young man's head, almost like an annoying buzz, and continued to destroy his heart and his feelings day after day.
The prince continued at a steady pace his journey towards his goal and following him were two royal guards. The corridor incredibly long and humid, one of those dampness that lurks in the flesh straight into the bones. Henry immediately noticed how huge that place was for the royal family, which, was made up of only four members.
Yet taking a look away from there, outside the huge windows of the castle he could see how many guards were there, in front of the gates, peacefully keeping watch, day and night, to take care of the health of the royals. How come their lives counted more than those of other people who at that moment, in the most squalid and deprived conditions, were crying hunger and were forced to eat rats and pigeons when the opportunity arose.
Were they not all humans?
The prince immediately realised what made them, the royal family, so important. Partially the money they had, but what made their custody and their life so important in the eyes of the army and the people was the blood that ran in their veins from generation to generation.
His pace continued steadfastly, without stopping, without any hesitation, while in his head a disturbing mixture of ideas and regrets was mixed. He finally arrived in front of the huge door of massive chestnut wood. A feeling of warmth began to run through his body, almost as if hugging and cuddling him.
According to it, that door had nothing particularly different from all the others in the castle, of course, there were smaller or wider ones, but that massive door brought to Prince Henry a particular feeling of pleasure and contentment. Both guards positioned themselves composedly and without command on both sides of the door. The man took a deep breath, put his hand on the cold silver knob of the large door and with a single and resolute movement opened it. He entered, and found himself alone in a large room.
As the door closed behind him, that was the moment when he felt truly alone and helpless, and he loved this feeling. He felt, at that moment, in the full of his twenty-five years, helpless and weak, like a small child. At first glance they might have seemed silly emotions or sensations that lack meaning, but every time, since November 2, 1713, he always felt the same sensation invest him, every time he entered that room. He began to move lightly through the large hall. The high walls of the chamber were entirely covered with oil portraits.
Looking at them with a careful look, those portraits were painted mostly with sober and quite dull colours, while in another small part with decidedly majestic colours. But not so much the colours interested in the search of the prince, but the subjects that were represented in those paintings on canvas. In fact, all those people represented there had once been part of the English royal family and had given the British nation a piece of history, in every particular way. He stared at a quick glance one by one at all of his ancestors.
Henry had always felt a great respect for each of his ancestors, most of them had been wise and noble kings and emperors. He began to look at the eldest of the ancestors painted in that huge room, he passed from the elderly Edward III to the golden-haired son Richard II and so continuing to pass his gaze to the last portrait hanging on the large walls, that of his late father. Next to the enormous gilded frame that adorned the majestic portrait was another painting of the same size, with the only difference that the last had been covered with a black curtain flavoured with hyacinth water.
The prince knew well what that heavy black curtain was hiding, he knew very well why that portrait was hidden and why it was constantly covered. He took courage and pulled the black curtain off the oil painting with a firm flick of his hand. The canvas that the dark curtain was hiding was full of dust and covered with its grey stench many of the colours of the painting. He lightly touched the canvas with the tips of his fingers so that much of the dirt that the canvas had accumulated over the years fell down.
A cold shiver ran behind his back and stopped his every movement for a few minutes along with his breathing. His smooth and thin lips remained half closed, while, without even realising it, his grey eyes had begun to redden and fill the prince's cheeks with transparent and cold tears.
-Mother ... - came out of Henry's lips like an innate stimulus that comes from the depths of the heart and rises to the brain. The man began to caress the majestic portrait of his mother with his fingers, started from her womb, then moved on to her delicate face, her red cheeks, continuing to the eyes, light-blue, which almost like a cat at night, gave the woman an even more majestic appearance. He ended up stroking her soft dark brown hair.
Under the portrait of the woman was engraved, in a thin and dusty golden plate, her name: Eleanor, a noble name, which hid love and fidelity, but also a horrible end. The prince wiped the tears from his cheeks, he knew that his mother would never want it, she would certainly have wanted her only son to be happy.
-I miss you mother ... - Henry whispered again, dropping his tall and slender body to the wall next to the portrait, crushing his back and his angelic golden hair against the wall. The man slowly closed his eyelids, relaxed, and it happened, almost innately, that his entire life began to pass through his mind, almost like a man who, embraced by death, yields to them, leaving this world. It was very cold, and it was like the prince could, like a ghost, look at the scene like a curious spectator in the theatre of his own mind. He was looking at himself in the past, he was little, he was innocent, and definitely a child, a young angel with a beautiful appearance.
He was unaware of what was about to happen and stood silently near his father. His young legs trembled restlessly, almost as if he knew at first what was going to happen. His mother was not there as she used to be at any public event, he could not see her anywhere and this made the young prince very restless and nervous. He knew that as a prince he had to show all the people his indifference to emotions and make his father proud, showing what a young and emotionally strong individual was born of him. As an obedient child Henry did as he had always been taught, even if he felt immensely afraid and cold.
So many people, who could not be counted, were all crowded in the square, all in front of the large wooden platform. It had been adorned with the frightening figure of a log of wood and a scary individual covered by a black hood, who in his arms held firmly a mighty axe, the kind used to cut wood. The crowd began to cheer and at that moment the young prince's eyes widened, as he understood that that execution was not a normal one but the purpose of that execution was always to execute a "traitor".
He saw the figure of his mother trembling and climbing the old wooden ladders positioned next to the wooden platform. Henry could no longer bear that uncomfortable memory and violently shook his head. "Wake up Henry! Damn it! Wake up! " came out like a cry for help from his mouth. He kept seeing vividly what was happening in the memory, his wounded mother being pushed to the foot of the big stump, her head pressed to the thick piece of wood. Little Henry was afraid, he wanted to scream something, to cry, or beg the king, his father, to stop everything, but he did none of this. He knew very well indeed that none of his crying or prayers would stop the pride of his father.
He looked at the sweet face of his mother hurled by the beating, he looked into her eyes. In her tears he perceived the sadness and from her chapped lips the cold that that woman was feeling. The woman's eyes joined in a look at those of her young son, he saw her thin lips transform into a smile full of love, a warm smile. He noticed the sharp blade of the mighty axe chopping his mother's neck until her head fell inside the basket. Not a cry, not a sound to break that tense moment, a deep and sad silence was created in the crowd, and in a short time it was no longer necessary to think, also because there was no time. The only audible sound was the silent and quiet noise of a tear, which after streaking the face of the young prince, red from the cold, had silently fallen to the ground.
Henry slowly opened his grey eyes and started staring out the window, somewhere. Perhaps the thick forest, perhaps the blue sky, not even he knew exactly. His was a worried look, a look full of fear. The words his younger half-sister had told him over breakfast that morning never left his head. And now he was there, slumped against a rough wall staring at the nothingness and thinking. The prince knew that in such situations it hurt to think, it was harmful to do it too much.
If Isabelle seriously, in the near future had planned to question the war against France, there would have been no future for the prince, not at the castle, nor in the whole kingdom, as a half-French, he would never have been welcomed by an enemy. He wondered what he should do in such a case. In his future the man was planning, certainly to marry and generate sons and daughters: young princes and princesses. He imagined him, instead of his mother, bleeding with his head ready to receive the kiss of the death, with perhaps one of his children watching the scene.
What was he ever supposed to do? The previous English-French war was just unleashed by his mother's family, the royal and noble royal family of the Bourbons. Should he do like his mother? Continuing to correspond through secret letters with his French family and then ending up being brutally called a "traitor to the land" and being put to death. Should he disown his family and declaring allegiance to his younger half-sister, Crown Princess Isabelle and possibly being pushed by that same in the first front in battle to die against the French?
It was complicated to understand or even just to explain, being part of two opposite worlds, possessing the blood of two enemy families and warring nations was not at all simple, because while being an ally of one people you have no choice but to swear fidelity to it until death. Being part of two completely different realities, one had the choice of dying for or against the homeland.
But which land? Henry had no homeland to rely on. Now on the royal throne of France, to continue the dynasty, sat his grandfather: Louis XV. He hoped that his reign was wiser than before, he loved to believe it and he wished it heartily, because his future and his life itself depended on this.