Chapter 4
Istare at my bare feet peeking out from beneath the nightgown.
My toes move restlessly, just as they always do when I am anxious.
One of my toenails is half black; it has been for months now, ever since a heavy mirror slipped from my grasp while I was rearranging my bedchamber back home last autumn.
I remember the sharp pain, the curse that escaped my lips, the way the maids had fussed over me afterward.
A small thing, hardly worth remembering, yet now it feels distant.
I never considered myself particularly attached to my home. Now that I have been severed from everything that once brought me quiet comfort, I can feel the absence like a hollow ache beneath my ribs.
There, I had known who I was meant to be.
Here, I am Queen, wrapped in silk and expectations I do not yet understand. I am adored, desired, praised beyond reason…and still, some small, stubborn part of me curls inward, clutching memories of cold stone floors, familiar voices, and a life that did not demand so much of my heart all at once.
The air in these chambers feels too close, too warm. I draw my feet back beneath me and fold my hands in my lap, willing the restless feeling to subside. This is nothing more than nerves, the remnants of a long day and a longer night.
The door to the bedchamber opens sharply, and a small procession of servants sweeps inside, their movements swift and practiced. No one speaks, they do not need to. Each seems to know their role instinctively, as though this ritual has been performed a hundred times before.
The bed is stripped and remade with fresh linens. Heavy curtains are drawn closed, muting the sounds of the celebration beyond the walls. A servant passes me with a bucket of water, filling up the wash basin. Clothes are being laid out, not for me though.
For him.
A priest enters.
He murmurs a blessing I barely hear, swinging a censer through the air in slow arcs.
Incense blooms thick and sweet, clinging to my throat and eyes.
Under other circumstances, I might have found the scent comforting.
Tonight, mixed with the heat of the summer and the press of too many bodies in too small a space, it becomes almost unbearable.
My eyes sting. I try to suppress a cough, but to no avail.
The priest pauses just long enough to raise an eyebrow in mild reproach, as though my body’s protest is an inconvenience. He resumes his chanting without another glance at me, smoke curling around his robes, around the bed, around my future.
I sit very still, hands folded in my lap, waiting for…what exactly?
A few minutes later, the room is empty again and I am alone once more.
Earlier, Aileen had come to my room with a maid in tow to help me get washed and dressed.
It had been a strange feeling, stripping down in front of people I barely know, letting them take care of me in a way that only my mother had done so far.
I bite the inside of my lip, another nervous tick.
How long will it be before they come to fetch me for the bedding ceremony?
I press my hand to my heart.
It will be alright, you know what you need to do.
The door opens without warning. Two women I do not recognize step inside, brisk and smiling, followed by a pair of men whose faces are already flushed with wine.
“There you are,” one of the women says, as though she has been searching for misplaced gloves rather than the Queen. “It is time.”
Before I can even stand on my own, hands are on my arms, pulling at me. I rise unsteadily. The thin nightgown clings to me in the heat, translucent where it was never meant to be. I reach instinctively for a shawl, for anything, but one of the men laughs.
“No need for that,” he says. “All is as it should be.”
They usher me into the corridor, moving faster than my thoughts can keep up with. My bare feet slap softly against the stone. I try to pull the fabric closer around myself, crossing my arms over my chest, but there is only so much the gown can conceal.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, my voice shaky.
“To the bedding,” someone answers cheerfully.
The others cackle.
The word makes my stomach drop.
The corridors grow louder as we descend, music swelling, voices rising, the thick roar of celebration drawing nearer. When the doors to the King’s hall are thrown open, sound crashes over me like a wave.
The hall is still crowded, packed shoulder to shoulder with wedding guests, courtiers, soldiers, people whose faces blur together in the flickering candlelight. Many are drunk. All are watching.
A cheer goes up the moment they see me.
Heat floods my face. My heart pounds so hard I fear I might faint. I feel hands at my back, urging me forward, and I have no choice but to walk.
And then I see him.
Charles lounges on the throne as though it were carved for his ease alone, one arm draped over the armrest, a cup of wine in his hand. He is laughing at something a lord says—until his gaze lifts and finds me.
The change is instantaneous.
He is on his feet before I have taken another step.
“What is this?” His voice cuts through the hall, sharp as a blade. The laughter falters, then dies entirely. “Who thought this was acceptable?”
No one answers.
Charles strides toward me, fury radiating from him in palpable waves. He stops just short of where I stand, his eyes sweeping over me—not with hunger, not with amusement, but with unmistakable anger.
“She should have been allowed to cover herself,” he bellows. “Who ordered her brought here like this?”
The silence stretches.
I turn, dazed, searching for a familiar face—and my eyes find Aileen.
She has gone pale, her mouth slightly open, her hands clenched in her skirts. Had this been her doing? Had she thought it a jest, or a lesson, or a way to remind me of my place?
“Aileen?” I whisper, though the word never leaves my lips.
She shakes her head frantically, eyes shining with panic. Then, almost imperceptibly, her gaze flicks past me, to the side of the hall.
To Aynhard.
He stands half in shadow, arms folded loosely, his expression composed. And then, slowly, his mouth curves into something like a smile.
Understanding settles over me like cold water.
Charles follows my line of sight. His jaw tightens.
“Enough,” he snaps, turning back to me. His voice softens—only for me. “This ends now.”
He shrugs off his cloak and wraps it around my shoulders, cocooning me in heavy fabric, in heat and protection. His hand presses briefly at my back.
“We will speak of this,” he says, loudly enough for the hall to hear.
As he leads me away, the murmurs rise again behind us. The court loves a good scandal. I walk beside him, cloaked and shaken, my trust cracked in more than one direction.
* * *
After taking me back to the bedchamber, Charles disappears once more.
For a while, I sit on the bed motionless, replaying the events of the evening in my head over and over again.
The celebration on the streets has quietened down, and a soft wind blows the curtains open, allowing me a small peak out at the moon.
My body aches from sitting still for so long and yet I can’t get myself to relax.
He will come back. And I need to be ready.
There is a soft noise, a wooden chair being dragged over stone floors.
My eyes flutter open, it’s already getting light outside.
For a second I wonder where I am, but as soon as I turn my head, I see him.
Charles is standing beside the wash basin, his shirt is off and he is making quick work of washing himself.
His back is broad, marked with scars from battles long won.
I watch in awe as the muscles in his back work, drawing tight and releasing with his movements.
As if he can feel me staring, he slowly turns around.
“I am sorry for waking you, my Queen. I tried to be as silent as possible.”
My Queen.
My Queen.
Butterflies take flight in my stomach.
Suddenly, I am not tired anymore.
Charles dries himself off and runs a hand through his hair. He has beautiful hair for a man in his early 40s, most men I know have lost at least some of it at this point. But not Charles.
I don’t know what to say to him, the sight of the King half-undressed in my bedchamber is not something the nuns have prepared me for. I can hold a conversation about the weather, I am trained in stitching, and can name the kingdoms on the map, but bedroom talk is not something that was taught.
“Where have you been?” I ask, trying to sound light and sitting up in the bed.
Charles growls. “I have been out in the woods, hunting. After that display tonight I had to…get in control of my emotions,” he responds.
“Oh,” I say quietly and look down at my hands. How embarrassed he must have been to see me like that.
“I am sorry the wedding guests seem to have gotten my instructions wrong,” Charles says diplomatically. His anger is still palpable, but instead of scaring me, it makes me feel alive. He is protective of me, having to go hunting to calm his emotions.
Charles sinks down heavily, planting his elbows on his knees. His hands thread through his hair, fingers gripping at the roots as he stares at the floor.
“This is not how this night was supposed to go,” he sighs.
I can see that he is exhausted. He looks back up at me, and our eyes meet.
It should be an uncomfortable moment. We both know what is expected of us; the reality of what we are about to do hangs between us unspoken, and yet all I feel is excitement.
My mother has told me what to expect. Aileen reiterated the same while she helped me get dressed tonight, and yet none of their clinical explanations can describe the hunger I feel for him.
Something in his eyes changes. Tiredness gives way to heat, as if he can hear my thoughts. He leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out before him.
“Come here, Fastrada,” he says quietly.
I remove the blanket from my legs and swing them over the edge of the bed. The floor is cool underneath my feet, and the soft breeze from the window makes my hair flutter gently.
One foot in front of the other, just a few steps and I’m in front of him.
He grabs me by the waist and pulls me closer, burying his face in my lower stomach. He inhales, as if he is trying to fill his lungs with my essence.
His hands on my waist grip tighter as he breathes in deeply, over and over again.
As if on their own accord, my fingers go to his hair, thick and dark. I weave them in, gently at first. He groans, his hold tightening even more, one hand moving to my ass.
His moans embolden me and I pull his hair, weaving my hands through in a steady rhythm, left, right, left, right.
With his face still buried deep in my lower stomach, I can feel the warmth of his breath down at my center. Heat coils between my legs, if he would only move his head a little lower…
Charles pulls back and looks up at me, eyes hazy and half closed. He takes my hand and moves it to his mouth. He kisses the palm of my hand, then turns it to look at the ring he gave me. Placing a soft kiss on it, his tongue starts moving in slow circles along my fingers.
I gasp.
If he is eliciting these kinds of emotions from me by merely kissing my hand, I can only imagine the delicious things he can do with the rest of my body.
Charles moves again, letting my hand drop to my side. He places his palms on the outside of my thighs and starts pushing my nightgown up. I’m only wearing a small slip underneath.
“Sit down,” he orders in a raspy voice.
For a second I hesitate; what does he want from me?
He senses my hesitation and chuckles. “Here, let me guide you.”
He pulls me forward so my arms rest on his shoulders and my legs are encircling his on the chair.
“Sit.”
My legs feel unsteady as I slowly lower myself down, my eyes never leaving his. My breasts are only inches away from his face, and as I sit down, I can feel his erection through his trousers.
“Have you been kissed before?” he asks while raising a hand and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
I shake my head. “Not in the way that I want to be kissed,” I nearly whisper.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
“I see. And in what way do you want to be kissed, my Queen?” he murmurs and leans forward. His mouth connects with my throat, tender at first. His lips and tongue move across my neck, exploring, smelling, licking and kissing their way down to my collarbone.
“I…uh…I can’t think when you’re doing that,” I say breathlessly.
Charles chuckles. “Forgive me, I shall only listen.”
He leans back in the chair again, but keeps his hands on my thighs, his fingers drawing lazy circles.
I look down at his chest; I cannot look him in the eyes for this.
“I want to be kissed like the women in my books. The ones that no one knows I’ve read, the ones the housemaids kept stashed away at the back of the library.”
Charles doesn’t react, and the silence stretches on until I look up at his face. He is smiling.
“Show me. I am all yours.”