Chapter 13
SIX YEARS LATER
I awake with a start.
A child is crying, and hurried footsteps trot down the hallway.
I look toward the window, and sunlight is already streaming in.
We arrived at Passberg in the South two nights ago, and Ella has had a hard time adapting to her new surroundings.
There is a soft knock on the door, and I get out of bed as silently as possible so as not to wake Charles.
The moment Ella sees me, she stops sniffling.
“Mama!” she coos and stretches her arms out toward me. I smile at the nursemaid.
“Go back to bed, Mildred. I’ve got her.”
Mildred curtsies and disappears down the hallway.
Ella wraps her tiny arms around me and buries her face in the crook of my neck.
“Shall we go back to bed and cuddle?” I ask her, kissing the top of her head. Her tiny dark curls are tickling my nose, and I inhale deeply. The smell of my babes just after they have woken up is something I will never get tired of.
We slip back into bed when I hear the door opening anew.
An apologetic Mildred appears in the doorway, guiding Thea into the room.
“Apologies, Your Majesty. But once she noticed the little one was gone, she insisted on following.”
I place Ella on the mattress next to me and open my arms toward Thea.
“Alright, little lady, jump in.”
Mildred curtsies and closes the door.
Thea looks just like me in the morning: her long, dark, unruly hair is matted around her head like a bird’s nest. She runs over and jumps into my arms, letting me guide her up to the bed.
Charles stirs next to us, and without a word, he disappears underneath the blankets, only to rise up on his knees a second later, growling like a lion. “WHO DARES TO INTERRUPT MY SLEEP?” he bellows.
I flinch, but when the girls start giggling, he pushes the blanket over his head and starts tickling Ella, her joyous laugh echoing across the room. Thea, the older one, jumps up and climbs onto her father’s back.
“No, Papa, let her go. You evil monster, take me instead.”
In pretend agony, Charles surrenders and plops back down on the mattress, both kids now on top of him, hitting him with a pillow and trying to tickle him back.
There are moments when this life feels almost normal, as if the abuse never happened. But when I look down at my wrist, down to where he broke it out of anger over something trivial, I know it wasn’t just a bad dream.
It reminds me of his brute strength, his ruthlessness, and his hatred for me, for the parts of the world he cannot control.
In public, he is much the same. Stoic, commanding, strong.
He plays his cards right; he uses his God-given talents to charm when it is required and to intimidate when his other talents aren’t working.
At home, he is a changed man. He reminds me of the version of himself he had shown me in the beginning, when everything had been new and exciting.
He is considerate and attentive, never leaving me alone for longer than necessary.
He showers me with gifts and affection, entrusts me with important decisions when it comes to the ruling of the kingdom and values my opinion.
But there is a darker side to the ring’s magic, too.
His obsession with me has only grown, sometimes taking on concerning facets.
He worships me with his body every chance he gets.
As if the magic inside of him is building up and needs release.
Sometimes, when he has been gone longer than he had wanted to, he isn’t able to stop talking.
The words flow out of him relentlessly, as if he wants to make sure that I am aware of every thought going through his head.
He is burying me under compliments, vowing his love, and making sure everyone knows about his devotion.
It has not stopped him from taking lovers, though.
And the resulting guilt he feels makes him even more obsessive.
As if he simply can’t stop himself, and wants to punish himself for his transgressions.
I hid my lover from him.
We had agreed upon an open marriage, yes.
But nevertheless I was worried about what would happen if he ever found out details about my short-lived affair with a messenger.
Short-lived because I realized that I do not enjoy intimacy without feelings.
But there is another truth, one that is not easily admitted.
What Charles and I have in the confines of our bedroom is exhilarating.
My attraction to him in that matter has not diminished over the years.
I know I should not enjoy what we have, that it is based more on hate than love, that I should not want him for the ways he hurt me.
But my body does not follow my heart. I tried fighting it, tried to put a stop to it, but every night when he came to our bed, the attraction flared anew.
I tell myself I should refuse him. I tell myself that hate should have extinguished want.
But my body remembers the pattern even when my heart rebels against it.
The rise, the fall, the momentary stillness afterward—like standing in the quiet eye of a storm.
That is the lie of it. Not pleasure, but relief. Not love, but release.
And I hate myself most for knowing this and still wanting him every night.
* * *
The council meeting starts without Charles being present.
He did not come to our bedroom last night, which means he is probably in the chapel right now, praying to God to erase his sins.
It is always the same pattern: he visits one of his many mistresses, because that is his right.
But the spell that has been put on the ring holds him accountable.
His mind cannot comprehend why he feels the way he feels; it drives him insane.
Guilt and shame devastate him, and so he goes to pray.
He will return today and overwhelm me with his love.
Love.
I don’t even know what love feels like anymore.
Not for him, at least. I love my daughters, and I love the new role I have taken on in the council. But loving him, or any other man for that matter, seems impossible.
Aynhard enters the room and looks over to me, slowly shaking his head. I give a curt nod and signal to the court master to proceed with the meeting.
We hear complaints from two carpenters who have been fighting about a parcel of land for the best part of the year. Today, Charles is expected to give a ruling. But Charles is not here. So the matter is postponed until the King has returned from his ‘urgent business.’
Next on the agenda are the new mining locations for coins.
In order to ensure the value of our silver coins, I had suggested reducing the number of locations where the valuable metal coins would be produced.
My days are now shaped by numbers—columns of revenue, harvest yields, tolls, and debts.
I discovered, to my own surprise, that I have a great mind for such things.
Where others see only sums, I see patterns and consequences.
I follow the flow of the royal income as one might follow a river, learning where it swells, where it leaks away, and where it may be guided to serve the realm better.
The work fulfills me. It is useful, and because it is useful, it is respected. Those who sit with me at the table have learned that I listen carefully and speak only when I am certain. In this, at least, I know my place—and I hold onto it.
Charles and I have spent the past couple of years putting a new currency system in place.
The realm once traded in too many measures to count—gold here, silver there, coins so small they vanished between fingers, each region clinging to its own weight and name.
Charles and I set ourselves against that confusion.
We replaced it with one standard coin, struck in silver alone: broad, thin, and unmistakable.
Its weight fixed, its number known—two hundred and forty to the pound—so that a merchant in the South and a toll keeper in the North speak the same language without words.
Silver serves us better than gold. It moves more freely, reaches further, and answers to trade rather than ceremony.
Each coin bears his name, rendered the same in every mint, so that authority travels with the money itself.
Wherever the coin passes—from port to market, from mine to monastery—it carries order with it.
The door to the meeting room opens suddenly, and a messenger enters.
“Your highness, please excuse the interruption. But there is a gentleman here who wishes to speak to the King.”
I look toward Aynhard, and he simply nods.
“Who is the gentleman who thinks he can simply walk in here and demand an audition with the King?” I ask.
“That would be me, the King’s beloved cousin,” a smooth voice echoes through the hall.
A murmur erupts in the crowd.
As if the palace belongs to him, a man walks into the King’s hall, his steps slow and sure.
Aynhard gets up from his seat and quickly walks over to me.
“Tassilo, Lord Bavria. Humor him for a while, I will get the King.”
I nod, and Aynhard withdraws through the ceremonial door behind the thrones.
I have heard of Tassilo before, he and the King have long been at odds.
If he notices my unease, he does not show it. He turns around in a circle, pretending to take in the architecture, as if he doesn’t notice the stir he has caused.
“Welcome, Lord Bavria,” I say with as much grace as I can muster. “We were not informed of your arrival, or my husband would have been here to welcome you himself.”
He turns and takes me in from head to toe. His assessment is slow, as if he is weighing my worth with his eyes alone. A smile spreads across his lips.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, for not introducing myself properly. Lord Tassilo, Duke of Bavria. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” he says smoothly and bows.
“What brings you here, my Lord?” I ask, my voice only shaking slightly.
Tassilo smiles. “Straight to the point, I appreciate that.”
His hand reaches down to his waist, where a small pouch is dangling. He grabs the pouch, opens it, and throws its contents on the ground in front of the steps leading up to the dais.
Bile rises up my throat.
It takes me a moment to recognize what it is I am looking at, blood and gore staining the wooden floors red. A pair of eyeballs is staring up at me.
I want to throw up, the sight of the lifeless organs making my insides churn. But I keep my eyes on them until I can trust my face to remain neutral when I look back up at him.
Breathe.
I lift my eyes and incline my head.
“It seems,” I say evenly, “that someone has gone to great lengths to make their point. One might even say they were eager to…catch my eye.”
Silence.
A laugh booms from the Duke’s chest, loud enough to fill the hall, echoing off stone and pillar alike.
I can’t help but smile too; his laugh is infectious. I see several council men trying to hide their own smiles behind their hands.
Tassilo is still chuckling when he dabs at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Oh, I already like you. I did not plan on doing so, but I do. My cousin chose his wife wisely.”
“Indeed, I did.” A low voice cuts through the air, and the easy temper of the hall snaps taut with the King’s arrival.
He does not enter by the door behind the dais, but through the great doors instead, placing himself at the Duke’s back. The intent is plain enough—hardly subtle, but effective all the same. Tassilo turns with deliberate ease, as if the hall were his own and the King no more than kin.
“Cousin!” he exclaims while bowing so deeply that it could be taken as mockery. “I heard you had taken up residence in Passberg for the spring. I had to come and see for myself.”
Charles stalks past him, effectively forcing Tassilo to turn around again, a pup following round it’s mother. The Duke doesn’t seem to mind.
Charles takes a measured step, passing over the grisly offering on the ground without so much as a glance. His eyes are on me, and for a second, I see the familiar shame wash over his face. He catches himself before settling down on the throne and taking Tassilo in from head to toe.
“How kind of you to welcome us, cousin,” he drawls. “If that is all, you may be excused and allow us to continue with the council.”
It is a dismissal, plain enough.
Tassilo, however, shows no haste. He carries himself in a manner I have seen before in men of his rank.
At ease to the point of arrogance, untroubled by authority, and comfortably, infuriatingly smug.
I find myself envying it. To move through the world so certain of one’s place, never fearing to speak one’s mind…
I straighten my back almost instinctively and unclench my hands. Change must begin somewhere, and where better to learn the ways of men than at a council table surrounded by them?
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Tassilo says at last, smooth as oil.
“I shall leave you to your meeting. Pray accept my apologies for the state of your floor—I thought you might wish to have your spy returned to you. Or what remains of him.” Charles purses his lips and narrows his eyes, but doesn’t say anything.
Tassilo ascends the dais and bows deeply before Charles, then turns to me. Taking my hand, he presses a light kiss to its back.
“I have my eyes on you,” he murmurs with a low chuckle.
Before Charles can thunder another command, the Duke turns and makes his unhurried way down the steps, the sound of his boots echoing as he leaves the hall.