───── ❝ Chapter Thirteen ❞ ─────

More than a month had passed since Henry's triumphant return to England. The air in the court crackled with an unusual tension as he strode in unannounced, a cold determination emanating from his every step. The flickering torches cast ominous shadows on the stone walls, highlighting the carved figures of stoic ancestors who seemed to watch his every move. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, swept across the room, searching for any subtle sign of betrayal. The name Adieya echoed in his mind, a haunting reminder of a woman's warning that had driven him back to this uneasy realm.

As Henry scanned the court, his gaze fixed on Eleanor, his wife, an unspoken question hanging in the air. He half-expected to catch her in the act of entertaining another man—specifically, the enigmatic Narcisse, a name that had been whispered to him in dark corners and hushed tones. The court, sensing the arrival of the king, fell into an uneasy silence. The anticipation was palpable, and all eyes were on Henry as he made his way to his throne, each footfall echoing through the grand hall.

A hush fell over the court like a heavy veil as Henry took his seat. The shock written on the faces of courtiers was like an open book, their secrets laid bare for the discerning eye. Eleanor, aware of the scrutiny, cast a fleeting glance toward her husband, attempting to gauge his mood. But before a single word could escape her lips, Henry raised a commanding hand, quelling any attempts at conversation.

At Henry's silent command, the court resumed its activities, but the air remained charged with tension. He motioned for a servant to bring him a glass of wine, the amber liquid swirling in the goblet like captured firelight. Eleanor's eyes followed her husband, seeking a connection that seemed elusive. The flickering candlelight cast a play of shadows across her face, leaving it a canvas of unreadable expressions.

The court continued with dinner, a feast of rich meats and exotic fruits, the aromas mingling in the air. The soft strains of a distant lute accompanied the rhythmic dance of the courtiers. Yet, the atmosphere remained tense, a subtle undercurrent of uncertainty weaving through the grand hall.

As the night wore on, the court grew tired of dancing, the laughter and chatter gradually fading into a subdued murmur. The two royals rose, signaling the end and dismissal of the grand feast. They walked arm in arm through the dimly lit corridors, the walls adorned with tapestries that whispered tales of battles and love lost. The flickering candle sconces cast dancing shadows on the stone floor, creating an eerie mosaic of light and darkness.

The antechamber they entered was adorned with opulent furnishings—a room fit for royalty. Heavy drapes, embroidered with intricate patterns, adorned the tall windows, shutting out the night. The door closed behind them with a resounding thud, muffling the distant sounds of the court. As soon as the door closed, they walked off to separate parts of the room, the air heavy with unspoken words.

They stood in silence for a moment, the only sound the distant echo of revelry from the court. Eleanor, eager to break the tension, looked over at Henry, her eyes searching for a connection. He, however, held up a hand, stopping her before a single word could escape. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken accusations and unfulfilled desires. Eleanor turned away, facing the crowd, her face becoming a mask of emotionless composure.

The royal couple left alone in the antechamber, remained in their separate corners, each lost in their thoughts. The air was thick with the scent of perfumed candles, the flickering flames casting a warm glow on the richly embroidered tapestries that adorned the walls. The room seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the storm that lingered on the horizon.

After a lingering silence, Eleanor ventured to break it. "I'm glad you came home. I start my lying in the coming days."

"You think I came home for you," Henry seethed, his voice cutting through the stillness. "No, I came back for my country, to ensure its safety in my absence."

The words hung in the air, a palpable tension between them. Eleanor, wounded by the rejection, retorted, "You don't trust me! Why come unannounced, Henry?"

"So no one could cover anything up before I arrived," Henry replied, his eyes piercing through the dim light. "Russia didn't need my presence any longer either."

The room seemed to close in on them, the heavy drapes and ornate furniture bearing witness to the unraveling tension. Eleanor, determined to confront her husband, pressed on, "Oh, did your queen cast you out?"

"She feared if I stayed, the Ottoman Empire would capture me as a foreign pawn," Henry stated with an air of authority, his words a calculated move to keep his true intentions hidden. In the recesses of his mind, he suspected Narcisse's presence, eyes watching from the shadows.

Eleanor's sigh of apparent relief went unnoticed by Henry, who was already making his way to the door, impatience etched on his face. As he left the room, he failed to see his wife breathe a sigh of relief and motion for something in the shadows.

It was then that Narcisse emerged, his silhouette merging with the darkness. "My love," he said in a heavy accent, his presence filling the room with an almost tangible tension.

He moved with an effortless grace, capturing Eleanor's neck and tilting her head up with his thumb before claiming her lips in a passion-filled kiss. The room, once a witness to their silent confrontation, now bore witness to a different kind of tension—the electricity of forbidden desire.

Their lips parted, but they remained with their foreheads pressed together. "Only a few more weeks, and you can have me again, my love," Eleanor whispered, her voice a breathless murmur in the dimly lit chamber.

"Every day without you is torture," Narcisse confessed, the heavy accent adding an exotic layer to his words. "But soon, it seems both Russia and England will be ours."

As if on cue, Narcisse turned around and retrieved two goblets from behind him. He handed one to Eleanor, and together they raised their glasses in a silent toast.

"To our future and our countries," Narcisse proclaimed, his eyes locking with Eleanor's.

Eleanor smirked, raising her glass in agreement. "To our rule."

Their laughter echoed through the room as they drank their wine, the rich liquid swirling in the goblets like a promise sealed in crimson. The room, once a battleground of unspoken tensions, now seemed to acquiesce to the clandestine alliance forming within its walls.

"I should go before someone becomes suspicious of my whereabouts," Narcisse declared a note of caution in his voice.

He pulled Eleanor in for one last possessive kiss, a lingering connection that left both their hearts pounding. "My love," he purred before vanishing back into the shadows, leaving Eleanor alone in the dimly lit room.

Eleanor sighed as she left the room, her steps echoing in the corridor. The warmth of the encounter lingered on her lips, but the reality of her situation pressed upon her like a weight on her chest. As she made her way back to her room, the grand tapestries on the walls seemed to watch her, their embroidered figures silent witnesses to the secrets concealed within the court.

Once back in the safety of her chamber, Eleanor let out a breath, her chest feeling tight as if she couldn't breathe. The room, adorned with plush furnishings and soft silks, seemed to close in on her. The flickering candles cast dancing shadows on the walls, creating an illusion of movement within the stillness.

Her ladies-in-waiting, clad in elaborate gowns, rushed to her side. The air was filled with the rustle of fabric and whispered conversations as they began the process of undressing her. The room, once witness to political machinations and hidden desires, now became a sanctuary where Eleanor could shed the weight of her public persona.

As the ladies worked, Eleanor felt a sudden, sharp pain that cut through the air like a dagger. "No! Please! It's too early!" she cried out, the room now echoing with her distress.

"My lady, please, we must get you to bed!" one of the ladies implored, urgency in her voice.

"Someone get the physician!" another called, their voices weaving a desperate symphony.

The room, once a haven of secrecy, now became a stage for a more profound drama. Eleanor, in the throes of pain, was guided to the bed, the richly embroidered sheets a stark contrast to the turmoil within her. The physician, a figure in the background, set up his tools with practiced efficiency.

Outside Eleanor's chambers, the news of the impending birth had reached the ears of Henry and the royal family. Anxious thoughts clouded their minds as they rushed to the outer chambers, the grand tapestries and stone walls now silent observers of a family in turmoil.

Would the child survive the birth? The question lingered in the air like a haunting melody. Eleanor's screams, a symphony of agony, filled the chambers as she labored, each cry a note in a composition of pain and uncertainty.

By the twelfth hour, the tension in the outer chambers was palpable. A lady emerged from Eleanor's room, her face grave as she approached Henry. The grandeur of the stone walls seemed to close in on him as he listened to the solemn words that would soon force him into an unimaginable decision. The Queen had lost almost too much blood.

Then, the screams stopped, and everyone held their breath. The room, once filled with the distant echoes of revelry, fell into an unbearable silence. Outside, the flickering torches cast long shadows on the faces of the anxious family.

Eleanor's heartbroken screams shattered the stillness. Inside the chamber, a nurse emerged, her head bowed in sorrow.

"Your Majesty, I am so sorry to tell you this, but the babe did not make it through the birth. I am deeply sorry for the loss of your son," she said, her words a somber requiem in the hallowed halls of the court.

Grief seized Henry, his stoic facade crumbling in the face of tragedy. The room, once witness to political intrigues and clandestine affairs, now bore witness to the raw and unfiltered pain of a king mourning the loss of his heir. The grand tapestries on the walls seemed to darken, their embroidered figures mourning alongside the grieving monarch.

The nurse retreated into Eleanor's chambers, leaving Henry standing in the outer chambers, the weight of grief heavy on his shoulders. The room, with its towering stone walls and silent tapestries, became a mausoleum of lost hopes and shattered dreams.

As the news spread through the court, a heavy silence settled over the once-vibrant halls. The flickering torches cast long shadows on the stone floor, creating a tableau of sorrow within the grand hall. The courtiers, once engaged in lively conversation, now moved with hushed whispers and bowed heads.

Eleanor's ladies emerged from her chambers, their faces a reflection of the grief that permeated the court. The grand tapestries, once vibrant with color, now seemed muted, their stories silenced by the weight of tragedy. Their scenes of love and betrayal watched over them with a silent understanding of the fragility of life. The stone walls, adorned with the symbols of power and lineage, stood as solemn witnesses to the irrevocable loss that had befallen the royal family. The room, once witness to whispered confessions and stolen moments, now stood silent, a testament to the transience of joy and the enduring pain of loss.

The family, now draped in a shroud of grief, watched in somber silence as their king passed. The grand tapestries, with their scenes of triumph and glory, hung as silent witnesses to a king mourning in solitude. The stone walls, once echoing with the grandeur of royal proclamations, now stood silent, bearing witness to the fragility of life and the inevitability of loss.

Eleanor's ladies, their eyes red with tears, moved through the corridors with a solemn grace. The torchlight cast a flickering glow on their gowns, creating an ethereal aura as they made their way to their respective chambers. The grand tapestries, with their scenes of love and betrayal, watched over them with a silent understanding of the fragility of life. As they worked the flickering candles cast a subdued light on the ornate furnishings, creating an intimate yet somber ambiance. The ladies moved with a gentle urgency, their hands working with practiced precision to prepare the room for the grieving queen.

The tumult of emotions played out on Henry's countenance like a tempest stirring beneath a calm exterior. His typically stoic gaze faltered, and in the dim light, the glassiness in his eyes betrayed the tears he fought to suppress. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed hard, a visible tremor coursing through his frame. A subtle nod of his head was the only acknowledgment he gave before he rose from his seat.

His departure from the room was marked by a palpable silence as if the weight of the news lingered in the air. Henry's gaze remained fixed forward, avoiding the inner chamber doors as he walked away. The quiet steps echoed the heaviness in his heart, the burden of grief settling over him like a shroud.

As Henry, his face etched with sorrow, made his way back through the grand hall, he felt the weight of every step. The echoes of his boots on the cold stone floor seemed to reverberate through the air, a mournful dirge for the future that would never be. Only when he sought the solitude of his own chambers did the dam of restraint finally break? The door closed behind him, sealing off the world and its expectations. In the privacy of his personal sanctuary, the façade crumbled, and raw emotions erupted.

His trembling hands sought solace in the closest object within reach—a jar of ink. With a violent release of anguish, he hurled it across the room, the shattering impact against the wall a cathartic release. The echoes of the crash lingered in the air, a chaotic symphony mirroring the tumult within his soul.

Tears, long held back, flowed freely down his face, tracing the contours of grief etched on his features. A guttural scream tore from his throat, an amalgamation of rage and pain that reverberated within the confines of his chambers. It was a primal outcry, a release of the emotions he could no longer contain.

Turning toward the window, just a few feet away, he unleashed another surge of emotion. His fist collided with the glass, a desperate attempt to break free from the suffocating reality. The window yielded to his onslaught, the glass shattering against his hand and arm. Sleeves tore, and small yet deep cuts marred his skin up to his elbow.

Henry crumpled to the floor, the physical pain of the broken glass a distant echo compared to the wrenching ache in his heart. The room bore witness to his descent into anguish, the shards of shattered ink jar and broken window framing a portrait of shattered resilience. He lay there, vulnerable and broken, the weight of grief pressing him into the cold embrace of the floor.

The pieces of glass embedded in his arm and hand seemed inconsequential, mere reflections of the fractured state of his soul. The room, now a silent witness to his torment, held the remnants of his outburst—ink stains, shattered glass, and the lingering echoes of a scream that spoke of a grief too profound for words.

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When Henry didn't summon his groomsmen the morning after his son's stillbirth, one took it upon himself to alert Charles. They knew their king would be devastated by the loss of his heir apparent. Word of the tragedy had already begun to spread, like a choking fog, through the castle halls. The vibrant decorations hung in preparation for the new prince were quickly replaced with funereal black drapes and flickering candles of remembrance.

Charles approached the king's chambers cautiously, each footstep echoing ominously in the hushed corridors. He turned to the servants trailing behind, speaking in a muted tone, "I think it best if I go in alone. But please ready a basin with warm water and towels in the outer chambers." With a solemn nod, they hurried off to fulfill his command.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Charles entered the outer chambers. A blast of icy air assaulted him as the heavy door swung open. He rushed inside and swiftly bolted the door, ensuring no one else would witness the remnants of the king's anguish.

The inky aftermath of Henry's rage dripped down the walls and curtains like macabre tears. Shards of glass littered the floor beneath the shattered window pane. Spilled liquor pooled around empty bottles, at least six by Charles' quick count. But most alarming was the large splash of crimson on the floor near the broken glass, trailing blood drops leading to the inner chamber.

Charles' heart pounded as he ran to the inner doors and threw them open. He frantically scanned the dim room until his eyes landed on the king's limp form, and collapsed on the floor beside his desk. The glint of a spilled whiskey glass lay near Henry's outstretched hand. Dried blood and embedded glass fragments covered his arms.

"Quickly, fetch the physician and Lady Mary, but do so discreetly," Charles urgently called to the groomsmen. Moments later, the requested parties hurried into the bedchamber, breaths catching at the sight of their fallen monarch.

"Your Grace, my lady, help me get him into bed, gently now. We mustn't drive those shards in deeper," instructed the physician. Together, they lifted the unconscious king onto his four-poster bed, taking care not to rouse him.

The physician hurriedly unpacked his medical bag, pulling out vials of clear spirits, linen bandages, and a metal kit containing thin tongs and scalpels.

"I will need water and fresh linens to clean the wounds properly," he requested. Mary rushed to fetch a bowl and cloths.

The doctor tilted Henry's head and peeled back his eyelids, checking his responsiveness. "His pupils are dilated but reactive. That's a good sign." He lifted the bloody sleeves to expose the king's forearms, lacerated with cuts of varying depths.

Taking the bowl from Mary, the physician gingerly cleaned away the dried blood to survey the damage. He noted at least a dozen gashes, many with glass shards still deeply embedded. The largest wound on Henry's left arm continued oozing fresh blood.

With a pair of tongs, the doctor delicately removed the smaller pieces of glass and dropped them in a metal dish with a sharp clink. Henry flinched at the sensations. The physician then took a scalpel and gently widened the larger slices to tweeze out the bigger shards.

Mary turned away, covering her mouth as the doctor worked methodically and kept vigil at her father's bedside. She clasped his limp hand in her own, rosary beads woven through her fingers, soft prayers and tears flowing freely. Charles paced rapidly, wincing at every groan Henry made as they waited with bated breath for the physician to finish his ministrations.

Once the glass was fully removed, the doctor thoroughly cleaned each cut with spirits, causing them to bleed anew. "The blood flow will help prevent festering," he explained. He applied a poultice of yarrow, plantain, and chamomile to the deepest gashes before tightly bandaging Henry's forearms.

"Given his intake I expect the king will remain unconscious for a few hours, perhaps days. Keep the wounds dressed and check for any redness, swelling, or discharge which could indicate infection," the physician instructed. Charles and Mary nodded gratefully at his expertise, hoping the king would recover, both physically and emotionally.

"Thank you. You are dismissed," Charles replied briskly, the commanding facade returning.

After the physician took his leave, Charles sank wearily into a chair with a heavy sigh, the exhausting events weighing down his shoulders.

"I've never seen him so broken. She's destroying him, Charles," Mary choked out between sobs.

"He knew the child was not his. Dieya showed him evidence and told him of Narcisse's arrival. I believe that was the purpose of Henry's abrupt return, to catch them together. Losing the babe was the final confirmation he needed to accept the truth in her words," Charles sighed.

Mary stared at her father's ashen face. "He's falling for her, isn't he?" she asked softly.

Charles gave a solemn nod. "And she for him, it seems. Her heart is opening because of your father's affection. But does Henry know of Dieya's full history?"

"I don't believe she's told him everything yet. I think she is waiting–"

Henry's gravelly voice cut her off as he blinked awake, "Waiting for what, Lady Mary?"

Mary tensed at his accusatory tone before noticing his reddened, weary eyes held no malice, only profound sorrow.

"There are some things that cannot wait, Father. Narcisse's own father was involved in Dieya's kidnapping. She was sold to a man who abused her before passing her to the ones who truly haunt her," Mary explained gently. "Go to your wife. Narcisse still resides here, likely with her now."

Charles helped Henry to his feet. As the king shuffled slowly to the door, Charles swore he heard Henry whisper under his breath, "I will free you from this darkness, my love."

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The flickering firelight cast an intimate glow across Eleanor's chambers. She sat pensively in a high-backed chair, a goblet of wine dangling from her slender fingers. This was the calm before the storm - the heavy silence that preceded her treasonous lover's arrival.

A shadow crossed the threshold. Eleanor rose, her silken gown swishing softly.

"You're lucky none of my ladies or the physician asked many questions, my love," said Narcisse, his voice low and smooth as velvet.

He crossed the room in long strides and pulled Eleanor into an embrace. She melted against him, inhaling his familiar scent of cloves and sandalwood. This was worth the web of lies she had spun, the phantom grief she had feigned. For him, she would withstand any scrutiny.

Narcisse accepted the glass, his piercing gaze fixed on her. "I know the babe meant nothing to you, my ruthless Eleanor. She was merely an unfortunate complication."

Eleanor turned her face away, eyes downcast. In truth, she had not cared for the loss of the son in her belly - the product of her political marriage to the English king. The child had been a necessary sacrifice, a stepping stone to gaining power. Now, with the babe dead, Eleanor felt only cool relief washing over her.

Narcisse stroked her hair, his fingers tangling in her chestnut curls. "Now I can truly have you," he murmured. His warm breath against her ear sent a shiver down her spine.

Eleanor let out a throaty laugh. "Not yet, not here." She trailed a hand down his doublet teasingly. "Once we are free, you can consume my being."

Narcisse seized her wrist, his breath quickening. "Stop tempting me so, you sly enchantress." Unable to resist, he pulled her into a fierce, passionate kiss. Eleanor melted against him with a soft gasp as he guided her backward onto the lounge. Their lips met hungrily, pent-up passion igniting like tinder. Narcisse steered Eleanor backward until her legs met the lounge. She collapsed onto the velvet cushions, gasping in surprise and desire. Narcisse prowled over her, never breaking their feverish kiss.

Eleanor's mind swirled with euphoria. She had dreamed of this, planned for this. No more clinging to a loveless marriage for power. She and Narcisse would either find freedom together or fall together. Just as his hands began to roam her curves, the doors suddenly burst open. Guards flooded the room, followed by Henry's hulking silhouette. Eleanor and Narcisse flew apart, flushed and wide-eyed.

Henry stood framed in the doorway, flanked by armed guards. His face was like stone, but Eleanor detected the rage simmering beneath the surface. His stare bored into them, sharp and accusing. "It was being told to me a million different ways and I still could not believe it, but I do now." His voice was cold steel.

Eleanor's tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She had no excuses, no way to erase Henry's pain and outrage. She had chosen Narcisse long ago.

"I can see why you would choose him," Henry continued, eerily calm. Was this the eye of the storm?

Narcisse smoothly disentangled himself from Eleanor and stood. "King Henry, we finally meet. Well, what will you do now? Arrest me for treason?" He let out a derisive laugh. "I assure you, I will be long gone before you can enact your revenge."

Henry's expression darkened. "Guards! Take them to the Tower." He paused, lip curling. "On charges of treason and adultery. And Narcisse..." His eyes flashed with violent intent. "I'm half inclined to send you over to Russia to face the Empress's wrath. She would surely wish to exact her own vengeance upon a traitor."

Narcisse called out as the guards seized them, "I don't regret anything, King Henry! She never loved you!" His bravado rang hollow. Fear flickered in his eyes.

The heavy doors closed, leaving Henry alone with his demons. He sank into a chair, head in hand. Though no tears fell, his heart fractured within his chest.

Charles materialized behind the man he saw as his brother, squeezing his shoulder. No words could salve this betrayal, but Charles hoped his presence could offer some small comfort. "Come, do not let them see you crumble, Henry," Charles murmured.

Henry stiffened, dashing the wetness from his eyes angrily. A king could never be seen to weep, no matter how profound the betrayal. He was still but a man underneath the heavy crown, a man with a broken heart.

Henry stared into the fire, its flames now seeming to mock him with their passion. His queen, his supposed love, had played him for a fool. Perhaps kings were never meant to know real love - only fleeting passion and companionship bound by duty and broken by betrayal. A human being with feelings.

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Only a few more chapters for part one, I love feedback on anything and everything.

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