"Stay still. Do not move."
His voice was distant, his attention consumed by the parchment before him. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze a pendulum swinging between her nakedness and the emerging lines of ink.
"Consider this a favor, not a punishment," he said, his tone conversational yet gelid. "I am, after all, devoting considerable attention to rendering this faithfully." A faint, devilish shadow of a smile touched his lips as his eyes lifted to hers.
Gisela flinched under his scrutiny, a wave of scalding heat flooding her cheeks. She was too bare, too seen. Her gaze dropped to the floor in defeat.
"I said," his voice flattened, slicing through her motion, "do not move."
Her eyes snapped back to his. He was watching her with an unnerving intensity, his own gaze strangely soft, his eyelids lowering and rising in a slow, measured blink.
Why is he looking at me like that?
The thought screamed in her head, more destabilizing than his anger.
Just as suddenly, his focus returned to the page. The soft scratch of the brush resumed. "Your eyes are… singular," he remarked, as if noting a peculiar shade of pigment. "Achieving their likeness requires particular patience."
Was it meant to be a compliment? The words echoed, hollow and alien.
"I… I am growing tired," she whispered, the ache in her muscles a welcome distraction from the exposure. "Standing so long…"
"It is only the finer details of your brow that remain," he stated, his attention still on his work. His next words were delivered with calm, absolute authority. "You may sit. Here. On my lap. It will afford me a clearer vantage."
He did not gesture. He did not look up. He simply issued the new condition of her captivity, leaving her to navigate the fresh, intimate horror of it.
"No, I would rather st— stand," she said, the words rushed, clinging to the last shred of distance between them.
For a moment, he said nothing, the only sound the soft scratch of his brush. Then, "Very well. I am nearly satisfied. Only a final touch."
He did not look up. "You may dress now." The permission was curt, dismissive. "And before you lose yourself in relief, remember: you will dine with me publicly tonight. You will perform the role of a devoted wife, eager for her lord's return to battle. Should you fail…" He let the threat hang, unfinished, his focus still ostensibly on his work.
A cold, sharp clarity cut through her shame. "You seem to be a master of performance, my lord," she said, her voice low and deliberate as she watched him. "You are teaching me by example."
The scratching stopped. He finally lifted his gaze, and it was like being doused in icy water. "Do you think so?" he asked, his head tilting. "Well, you appear to be a rather quick study in indecency, my lady." His eyes traveled over her with a brutal, impersonal slowness—from her slender legs, over the plane of her stomach, the curves of her breasts, the column of her throat, finally meeting her burning eyes. "I recall telling you to get dressed. Yet you linger, as if your intention is to solicit your king's attention with this… unremarkable little form."
The violation was complete. It was not a look of desire, but of cold, degrading appraisal. A sharp gasp escaped her. Her hands flew to the heap of fabric, snatching up her chemise and holding it before her like a shield. The heat in her cheeks was a conflagration of humiliation.
He watched her frantic movement, that detached, cruel smile returning. "Finally, some sense. Now dress. Your performance tonight begins the moment you leave this room."
---
She stood clutching the thin fabric to her chest, the fire of humiliation searing her from within. His words echoed in the silence. Unremarkable little form.
Yet, she had seen his eyes linger.
Had it been disgust? Or something else—some cold, clinical interest? Her mind raced, sifting through the fragments: the blade on her palm, the staged consummation, his revulsion at her touch. A man who could not bear to truly claim his wife, who built their union on a lie of blood and a pantomime of passion.
The answer settled over her, colder and heavier than any gown. It was disgust. Pure and simple. She was a political object, flawed and unwilling, and her very presence was an affront to him.
Henry rose from the edge of the bed, his movements fluid and devoid of any emotion that might betray a crack in his armor. He did not look at her again. He simply walked past, the space around him chilling as he moved, and left the chamber. The door closed with a soft, definitive click, a sound more isolating than any lock.
She was left alone in the terrible silence, the ghost of his gaze upon her skin, the echo of his judgment her only company.
---
Dusk bled across the sky, and with it surged the raucous, desperate energy of the pre-war feast. Gisela sat in the shadow of Henry's high chair, a silent ornament to his dominance. The great hall throbbed with the coarse laughter of armed men and the thick, cloying scent of roasted meat, spilled ale, and sweat.
Gisela held herself in a state of perfect, frozen composure. She took her fork, cut a precise, small piece of pork, and brought it to her lips. The flavor was ash; her stomach was a knot of dread. She ate only because not eating would be noted. From the benches below, dozens of male eyes, glazed with drink and a hunger for violence, lingered on her—the foreign queen, the living treaty.
Then, Henry moved. He raised his goblet and struck its side with the pommel of his dagger.
Clang.
The sharp, metallic chime cut through the din like a blade.
The sound raced through the hall. Conversations died. Tankards thumped onto tables. All faces turned toward the high table, a field of expectant, fire-lit faces.
Henry stood, a figure of carved authority against the swirling torch smoke.
"Tomorrow!"his voice boomed, clear and absolute, "we ride for Whitby! Tomorrow, we meet the sea-wolves on our cliffs! And tomorrow, we shall carve our victory in their flesh!"
For one suspended breath, there was silence. Then the hall erupted.
A roaring, thunderous wave of approval crashed against the stone walls—a visceral, screaming "AYE!" followed by the deafening hammer of fists and cups upon oak. The sound was a physical force, vibrating in Gisela's chest, shaking the very air. In the midst of the frenzy, she sat like an island of quiet terror, the king's commanded performance her only shield against the chaotic tide he had unleashed.