Chapter 8
Godfrey drew me into his arms, a playful glint in his eyes tempering his gentle embrace. I swatted lightly at his chest, a smile tugging at my lips.
With the war concluded, Father had issued three royal missives urging my return to Silvermire, professing his longing for his daughter’s presence. Edmund’s frail condition could not withstand the journey south, so I left him in the desolate northern marches, knowing we would likely never meet again.
I clasped Godfrey’s hand tightly, my heart now wholly bound to him.
Edmund drifted in a tormented slumber, where the same dream replayed ceaselessly, each vision a blade carving into his soul.
In this dream, the king’s cherished daughter, Princess Isolde, remained afflicted, her mind as innocent as a child’s. By royal command, he served as her tutor, guiding her studies.
Though her wits were clouded, her beauty shone brightly–her face aglow with gentle grace, her eyes pure as a saint’s well. She would look upon him with open warmth, her laughter clear, her words artless and free.
“Sir, you are most comely,” she would say, or, “Isolde loves you best. I shall wed you and we’ll have many children.” Once, she asked, “Does Sir love
Isolde?”
His heart stirred, yet he cloaked his feelings in decorum, offering lofty precepts to silence her innocent declarations. When she professed her love before the court, his composure faltered.
He realized he, too, had come to love her, this guileless maiden, but the world’s judgment was a sharpened quill, poised to condemn. He dared not confess, lest he be branded a fool or madman in the eyes of Silvermire.
Even when King Alaric named him Royal Consort, he masked his joy, fearing the scorn of his peers.
On their wedding day, when they should have shared the bridal night, her purity stayed his hand–he could not bring himself to touch her.
That night, Eleanor Grantham, his childhood companion, came to him, weeping, vowing she sought no title, only his heart. In a moment of weakness, he faltered, committing a grave indiscretion.
Thereafter, he deemed himself unworthy, tainted by his actions, and distanced himself from Isolde. Yet he never imagined the cruelty of his household servants, who, swayed by Eleanor’s whispered commands, would torment Isolde until her life was extinguished.
Each time the dream reached this point, Edmund’s heart writhed in agony. He longed to wake, but the visions dragged him back, a relentless cycle of remorse. In fleeting moments of clarity, he wondered–if he had cast aside fear that day in court, boldly returning her love, would their fate have been different?
But the world offered no reprieve for such musings. A single misstep had unraveled all, leaving only ruin in its wake.
