Just as she reached the periphery of the crowd, she saw him. He was not looking for her; he was waiting. A statue of contained fury amidst the swirl of silk and laughter. She knew, with a cold certainty that sank to her bones, that he was angry. Not a hot, blustering rage, but something far more dangerous: a deep, icy disappointment in a possession that had proven flawed.
He began to walk towards her, his stride measured. A smile was fixed upon his face, a flawless performance for the watching court, but it did not reach his eyes. They were chips of winter granite.
He closed the distance and, still wearing that false smile, leaned in as if to share an intimacy. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, his breath a cold caress. "You are giving our guests cause to question our unity," he murmured, the velvet voice laced with venom. "What urgent matter detained you for so long?"
His hand found her wrist, hidden by the fall of her sleeve. His grip was a vise, his fingernails digging mercilessly into her tender flesh. A sharp gasp escaped her before she could stop it, and she shifted involuntarily, the pain a bright, shocking counterpoint to the music. Tears welled, hot and shaming, threatening to betray her completely.
"Please," she whispered, the word fraying at the edges. "I am sincerely sorry, my lord."
He released her wrist as abruptly as he had seized it. The smile never wavered. "I am going to make a toast now," he stated, his voice still low, still for her alone. "You will stand beside me. And you will smile, little one. Do not make me repeat myself."
He took her hand again, his grasp firm and inescapable, and led her back to the center of the hall. A crystal glass was pressed into her free hand. He raised his own, and a servant's bell chimed softly for attention. The murmur of the crowd subsided into an expectant hush.
"My lords and ladies," his voice rang out, clear and commanding. "If I may have your attention."
He paused, a king perfectly at ease in his dominion. "I wish to raise a glass." He turned his head slowly, deliberately, to look at her. The smile he gave her was a masterpiece of fond artifice. Her own lips felt numb as she mirrored it, her throat working in a hard swallow.
"To this union," he proclaimed, his gaze still pinning her. Then he shifted, looking out to encompass the room, his eyes finding his mother, who watched with a serene, approving smile. "A union that shall forge unbreakable bonds of unity," his voice swelled, "and herald a new era of enduring peace for our kingdom."
He raised his glass higher. "A toast!"
The word rippled through the hall like a wave. "A toast!" the assembly echoed, a hundred glasses catching the light as they were lifted.
"To the King and Queen!" a voice cried from the throng.
The echo became a roar. "To the King and Queen!"
Gisela stood frozen, her smile a brittle mask, the ghost of his grip still burning around her wrist, as the cheers of the court washed over them.
***
The castle settled into a hushed calm. The last echoes of laughter bled away into the night air, chased by the distant clatter of carriage wheels on the courtyard stone. The feast, that glittering public spectacle, was over. Something else, quieter and far darker, was beginning.
In a small, sparsely furnished chamber tucked away in the west wing, a young servant named Emily sat motionless on the edge of a narrow cot. The silence was broken by the soft, deliberate creak of the door. It swung inward to reveal King Henry, his royal finery a stark, imposing contrast to the humble room.
"It would be a lie," Emily spoke into the stillness, her voice a fragile thread, "if I told you I was happy. Happy for you."
"Emily," he said, and the name was a gentle sigh, a stolen piece of the man he could never be in the light.
"I should be the one there. By your side, taking vows before God and kingdom. But I…" She shook her head, a bitter smile touching her lips. "I am not of royal blood. And you, Henry… you can only love me in shadows. Touch me behind closed doors. Whisper promises that taste like lies in the daylight. It is a poison, and it hurts me more with every breath."
Tears, silent and gleaming, traced paths down her cheeks. She made no move to wipe them away, her hands clenched in the rough fabric of her skirts.
"I love you, Emily." He crossed the room, his boots soundless on the stone. He knelt before her, a king brought low, and took her cold hands in his. The gesture was one of desperate homage. "I have loved you from the first moment my eyes found you in the garden. My heart, my soul—they have wanted no other."
"But we cannot be together. You cannot have me. You know this. Why do you keep coming?" Her voice broke, the composure shattering into a raw, bitter anguish. "You only carve the wound deeper."
"No, Emily. Listen." His grip tightened, his eyes burning with a fervent, dangerous light. "Once you bear me a son, everything will change. Yes, I am wed to Gisela. The crown sits upon my head. But my heart? It will never leave this room. It will never leave you. I would burn every building in England to ash for you. I would fight the very heavens to hold you."
He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears, his own gaze fierce with a promise that bordered on madness. He leaned close, his forehead nearly touching hers.
"Then do it, Henry!" The cry was torn from her, a scream of agony and furious want that shattered the chamber's quiet. "Stop promising me the heavens and simply make me yours."
The plea hung in the air between them, a stark and dangerous truth in the castle's deepening dark.