Chapter 7
Though reluctant, Edmund was led away by his family elders, compelled to wed Eleanor in a solemn ceremony.
As unrest stirred along the borders, 1 accompanied Godfrey to the front lines.
Godfrey, ever mindful of my comfort, settled me in a well–guarded pavilion, assigning ten of his trusted knights to ensure my safety. Yet I yearned to contribute, so I tended to the wounded in the Hospitaller’s Tent, finding purpose in the care of injured soldiers.
The days were arduous but fulfilling. Six months passed swiftly, and the time came to return to Silvermire.
As I bandaged the last soldier, a familiar figure stumbled into the pavilion. “Princess Isolde, I have sought you out at last,” he rasped.
I started at the sight of Edmund. In mere months, he had withered beyond recognition–his garments tattered, his face unshaven, dark circles bruising his eyes, his voice a hollow croak.
“Isolde,” he murmured, “I had a dream, long and tormenting… you married me, yet I scorned you, mocked your affliction…”
Unable to continue, he struck his own cheek with a trembling hand. “You foresaw such misery, didn’t you? That’s why you spurned me, gave me to another. But it was only a dream, Isolde. I love you–how could I ever harm you?”
I stood speechless. That he dreamt of my past life’s sorrows was beyond comprehension, yet answering him now held no purpose.
His voice broke as he recounted the past half–year. After I left Silvermire, he secluded himself, drowning in wine and neglecting his duties at court. Though bound by royal decree to wed Eleanor, he kept her at a distance, refusing her presence.
Eleanor, a noblewoman of Grantham, could not endure such rejection. Unable to fathom why her once–devoted betrothed now shunned her, she blamed me, spreading tales that I had ensnared Edmund’s heart with sorcery, clouding his mind.
Yet her loneliness and jealousy grew unchecked, leading her to a reckless liaison with a squire in the manor’s secluded gardens.
A night watchman caught them, and the scandal shook the Blackthorn household, a family renowned for its honor. To preserve their name, they sent Eleanor to a convent, claiming she had chosen a life of prayer to atone for her devotion to Edmund.
Edmund, lost in his visions, relived the dream endlessly. At last, convinced his end was near, he slipped past his family’s watch and journeyed alone to the front, seeking me.
“Princess Isolde, I love you,” he whispered. “When you were afflicted, I loved you; now, in your strength, I love you more. Should heaven grant another life, I beseech you, do not pledge me to another.”
His eyes fluttered shut, and he collapsed, senseless.
The camp surgeon, after examining him, shook his head. “This man is frail, his body broken by grievous wounds. Worse still, his spirit is weighed by melancholy. Even if he clings to life, he will be confined to his bed henceforth.”
I sat by Edmund’s bedside, chin in hands, lost in thought. Never could I have imagined that he and I would come to such a pass.
“Isolde,” Godfrey’s voice broke my reverie, lightly teasing, “does he still hold your gaze? More so than your wedded lord?”
