Young Writers Society

In 1442, King Charles VII met Agnès Sorel, a lovely woman who was smart, beautiful, and interesting. He quickly made her his mistress and for the rest of her life, he loved her greatly, a relationship which produced three children. In 1450 at the age of 28, pregnant with their fourth child, Agnès followed King Charles VII on one of his campaigns, to provide moral support for him, but she grew sick and suddenly died. At the time, it was speculated to be dysentery, but recent scientific methods have proven that she was poisoned by mercury. It is not known who poisoned her, although there are many speculations. This story was meant to portray one of her last days.

Pretty Poisoned Lady

He had wanted her and she had wanted him. It had been years since he first met her, eight years to be exact, and he remembered the exact moment he saw her, her pale face and voluptuous figure staring at him. But that wasn’t all. She was a smart lady and, as she curtsied to him, her eyes flashed just barely, twinkling of such playfulness and admiration that he couldn’t resist her.

He loved her.

So then the madness started. The lies to Marie, the affairs, the appearances in court… but he needed her. If he didn’t have her, he would be lost, uncertain of what to do. No, she inspired him. She inspired him to do better, to lead with a strong heart. But it was not his heart, he thought sadly. It was hers. It had always been about her, her loveliness and fierce fiery passions. If he didn’t have her then…

…then she wouldn’t be where she was now.

He winced and stared down where she lay dying, surrounded by pillows and finery, the best he could afford. She always did like pretty things, and he was more than happy to give her anything she wanted. But she couldn’t have wanted this – to lie in an unfamiliar place, alone and dying.

“Agnès?” he whispered. “Are you awake?”

Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled. “Charles. You’re here.”

He walked to her and sat beside her. “How are you feeling?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“How’s the child?”

“Charles…”

He pulled away the rich silk covers to reveal her body, which looked so strange and graceless. He frowned and let his fingers slip underneath her wool dress and stroked her belly, smooth and lovely, even after three children. And, through his fingers, he could feel another heartbeat pulse in her body. But the child would die. “Agnès?” he murmured softly to her. “I’m sorry.”

She laughed, her laughter pained and forced. “For what?”

“For everything.”

“No, it’s all right. At least we’re together.” She smiled again and let her smooth white hands touch his. She was still beautiful, even now, Charles thought. He felt his throat seize up.

But Agnès saw this too, and she was quick to console him. “No, it’s all right. You know it is.” She let her head settle on the pillows more comfortably, her thin hair spreading out, like shimmering gold threads. “You know our love will never die.”

“I know.” He smiled once and bent down to kiss her head. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Yes you do,” she said. “I don’t feel like myself anyway.”

“No, of course not,” Charles said. A sense of helplessness hit him, and for a second, he thought he would cry, but he held back – he didn’t want to disturb her. No, that would be bad. He wanted to talk to her, to tell her much he loved her, to say everything, just in case she…

His advisor came to the open doorway and stopped, looking over the room before giving a large swooping bow. “Your Majesty,” he said. “The court requests your presence.”

He sighed and looked over Agnès once more before turning around to his advisor. “Lead me on,” he said.