Just then, the door opened with a soft, deliberate sound. She turned, expecting the silent pool of maids.
It was him.
"You like it, don't you?" Henry's voice was a firm, knowing statement.
He stood framed in the doorway, transformed. He wore a suit of polished silver armor that caught the morning light in cold, sharp glints. His brown hair fell freely to his shoulders, and in one hand he carried a helmet, in the other, the worn hilt of a broadsword rested easily at his side. He looked like a king carved from a war monument—powerful, remote, and terrifyingly different.
Her lips parted slightly, a silent intake of breath as she watched him cross the room. His stride was slow, measured, closing the distance until there was no space left between them. He did not stop in front of her. Instead, he turned her firmly by the shoulders until her back was pressed against the cold, hard plane of his chestplate. His arms, clad in steel and mail, wrapped around her waist, locking her in place.
He lowered his head, his lips almost touching the shell of her ear, his voice a low, intimate whisper that vibrated through her. "Be good, little one."
She stood utterly still, a statue in his grasp, her eyes wide and fixed on the drawing he had hung—the drawing that now witnessed this new captivity.
"Do not mistake my absence for an opportunity," he continued, the whisper hardening into a blade of sound. "I have eyes in every shadow of this castle. Remember that."
He released her as suddenly as he had taken hold, leaving the ghost of the armor's chill on her back and the weight of his threat hanging, more permanent than the dagger on the wall.
"I wish you success, my lord," Gisela said, her voice soft and carefully measured. "Return safely."
A wide, cynical smile touched his lips, devoid of warmth. "I know my absence will make you the happiest woman in England. Spare me the performance."
She offered no reply, only a silence that seemed to absorb his words and sharpen them.
She watched as he turned and walked toward the door, his armored form moving with a slow, composed certainty. The door closed behind him with a soft, final sound, leaving her alone in the heavy quiet.
When the silence had settled, her amber eyes hardened. She turned from the door, her gaze falling once more upon the drawing on the wall.
"No matter how terrifying you believe yourself to be, Henry," she whispered, the words a vow spoken to the empty room, "I will have you. And the woman you took in the library, on the very day you pledged yourself to me… when I discover her name, I will see her head on a spike."
The oath hung in the air, colder and more permanent than the dagger pinning the parchment to the stone.
***
A cold, metallic dawn bathed the castle courtyard in a pale, unforgiving light. The air, once still, now vibrated with the chaotic symphony of departure: the clatter of hooves on cobblestone, the jangle of harnesses, the shouted orders of sergeants, and the low, anxious murmur of gathered townsfolk pressed against the outer gates.
From her balcony, Gisela watched it all unfold like a silent play.
Below, the army was a living, breathing entity of steel and wool. Men tightened girths, checked blades, and secured shields painted with crude sigils. Horses stamped and snorted plumes of frost into the air. And at the heart of the churning mass was Henry.
He sat astride a massive black destrier, a figure of grim authority. The silver armor he had worn in her chamber was now layered over with a surcoat of deep crimson, the royal lion snarling in gold thread upon his chest. His helmet was tucked under his arm, revealing a face set in lines of severe focus. He conferred briefly with his grizzled captains, his gestures short and decisive, before turning his gaze upward.
It was then that she emerged.
The doors to the high balcony swept open. First came the maids, a silent, somber flank in grey wool. Then, Gisela.
She was a vision of calculated regality. Gowned in deep blue velvet edged with silver, her copper hair was braided and coiled into a severe, elegant crown, a delicate circlet of silver resting upon her brow. Her face was a mask of serene composure, pale and flawless. She moved to the stone balustrade and placed her hands upon it, the very picture of a queen seeing her lord to war.
A hush began to ripple out from those nearest the keep, rolling over the crowd like a wave until the courtyard fell into a watchful, breathless silence. All eyes were on the two figures—the king on his warhorse, the queen on her stone perch.
Henry inclined his head to her, a single, stiff nod of acknowledgment. It held no warmth, no private sentiment. It was a public gesture, a piece of statecraft.
Gisela dipped into a slow, graceful curtsy, her eyes lowered demurely before rising to meet the crowd.
Then, from the throats of the hundreds gathered, it swelled. It started with a few voices, then dozens, then hundreds—a deep, roaring chant that shook the very stones of the castle.
"LONG LIVE THE KING! LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!"
The sound was a physical force, thrumming through the air. Women waved scarves, men raised their children to see. For them, in this moment, the cold foreign bride and their stern king were symbols of hope, of protection, of a future worth fighting for.
Henry raised a gauntleted fist in salute, and the roar intensified. He cast one last, unreadable glance up at the balcony—a glance that seemed to say remember your role—before turning his horse sharply. With a final shouted command that cut through the din, he dug his heels into his stallion's sides.
The great gates groaned open. The king rode out first, a sliver of steel leading a river of men. The army began to flow after him, a torrent of determined humanity, the rhythmic thunder of their march soon replacing the chaotic noise of assembly.
On the balcony, Gisela remained perfectly still, her serene smile fixed in place as she waved a slow, graceful hand. The maids behind her beamed with pride at the adoration of the crowd.
But as the last soldiers vanished through the gate and the portcullis began its deafening descent, the chant finally died away. The crowd, their excitement spent, began to disperse.
The smile faded from Gisela's lips as if it had never been there. The hand that had waved so gracefully now gripped the cold stone of the balustrade, her knuckles white.
She was alone. The performance was over. The kingdom's shield was riding to war, and the kingdom's heart, her prison, was now truly hers to hold. The only sound was the sigh of the wind and the distant, fading echo of a chant that felt more like a sentence.
Long live the Queen.