"Time," he breathed, the word a sacred vow in the hushed darkness. "That is all I require. Can you grant me that?"
She had no words left, only the raw currency of her heart. She answered with a slow, tremulous nod, a surrender to the fragile hope he offered.
"Thank you." The gratitude was whispered against her lips before he claimed them in a kiss that was not gentle, but passionate, desperate—a seal upon their silent pact. It was a kiss that sought to memorize, to fortify, to borrow strength from her very soul.
"But now, I must go." He pulled away, the separation a physical ache. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, a final, lingering caress. "Remember this," he commanded, his voice low and fervent. "My heart holds a throne for one alone. It is yours, now and always."
He pressed his lips to her forehead, a benediction and a brand. Then, with a last look that held the heat of his promise and the shadow of his crown, he was gone. The door clicked shut, leaving her alone in the silent chamber, the ghost of his touch and the weight of his words her only companions.
***
"Gisela, my dear," Queen Caroline's voice was a honeyed murmur in the corridor's quiet. "It is time. Come."
She took Gisela's icy, trembling hands in her own, leading her not as a guide, but as a warden. They stopped before a heavy oak door, which swung open to reveal a chamber hushed and dim, save for the soft glow of a single fire.
The room was dominated by a vast bed, swathed in layers of pristine white linen. The air hung thick with the cloying sweetness of beeswax candles and dried rose petals—a scent meant to be seductive, but which felt suffocating.
"Change her into the nightdress. Immediately," Queen Caroline instructed the waiting maids. A small, knowing smile touched her lips as she turned back to Gisela. "After tonight, my dear, your duty will be complete. You will be a true consort to Henry."
The words, meant to reassure, sent a fresh tremor through Gisela's frame.
Efficient and impersonal, the maids began their work. They removed the heavy wedding gown, layer by layer, until Gisela stood exposed. The chill of the room kissed her bare, pale skin, raising gooseflesh. Then they dressed her in the garment left for this moment: a nightgown of white silk, so fine it was nearly translucent. Instinctively, Gisela crossed her arms over her chest, a futile shield.
"I was just as you are now," Caroline confided, her smile unwavering. "All nerves and ice. But after that first, wonderful night… one learns to crave a king's touch. You will come to enjoy it. So, be bold. Remember, the sweetest fruits are rarely plucked without first feeling the thorn. There may be a slight pain, at first. Then…" She let the implication hang, fragrant and heavy as the room's perfume. "I shall leave you to discover the rest."
Gisela remained motionless, a statue of dread, offering no reaction.
Caroline's eyes swept over her with clinical appraisal. "My son prefers a woman's hair unbound. Go on, dear. Let it down."
With fingers that felt numb and clumsy, Gisela reached up. She pulled the delicate band from her hair, letting the intricate braids unravel. A river of coppery fire, vibrant as autumn leaves, tumbled over her shoulders and down her back—a final, vivid veil removed.
"Beautiful," Queen Caroline exhaled, her gaze fixed on the fiery cascade. "A crown of flames. Very beautiful indeed."
She gave a final, satisfied nod to the maids, then turned and glided from the room. The door closed with a soft, definitive click, sealing Gisela inside. Now, the only vivid color in the dim, perfumed chamber was the blaze of her own unbound hair, a stark and silent warning against the white linen and the terrifying promise of what was to come.
Then, a faint knock sounded at the door—a soft, solemn tap that nonetheless made Gisela's heart hammer against her ribs.
"C-Come in," she managed, her voice a threadbare whisper.
The door opened to reveal the castle chaplain. He was a man of lean, stooped frame, his posture bent not with frailty but with the weight of years and solemnity. His face was a landscape of gentle creases, and his eyes, the pale grey of weathered stone, held a profound, weary kindness. In his simple, dark robes, he was a figure of quiet sanctuary, a stark contrast to the perfumed tension of the room.
A fragile wave of relief washed over Gisela, so potent it near weakened her knees.
"My child," he said, his voice a dry rustle of parchment. He stepped inside, the door sighing shut behind him. "This path is now yours. It is the destiny God and crown have woven for you."
He extended a hand, gnarled and spotted with age. "Come. Kneel. Let us seek grace for what is to come."
Gisela obeyed, sinking slowly to the cold stone floor before him, the thin silk of her gown offering no protection. She bowed her head, the vibrant cascade of her hair pooling around her like spilled wine.
The chaplain placed a light, trembling hand upon her crown. "Almighty Father," he began, his prayer a soft, steady stream in the quiet. "Look upon this daughter now. Make her fertile, like the apple tree by living waters, that she may bring forth strong and righteous heirs to secure this realm. Sow in her and in her husband the seeds of harmony. Let a bond of respect, if not affection, take root between them. And above all, grant them Your divine protection. Shelter them in the covenant they have made this day."
He paused, the silence deepening. "Amen."
With a final, gentle pressure of his hand, he withdrew. "Be at peace, daughter," he murmured, though his eyes held a sorrow that belied the words. Then he turned and departed as quietly as he had come, leaving her alone once more—blessed, and utterly forsaken.