Charles’s hand curls into a fist on the armrest. “The Pope does not fight my wars,” he snaps. “Nor does he command my armies.”
I glance at him then and see what I hadn’t wanted to before—the exhaustion etched into his face, the tightness around his eyes. The front has taken its toll on him. While I walked gardens and laughed in the sun, he bled and buried men.
Guilt settles low in my stomach.
“Nevertheless,” the court master says carefully, “his support remains…influential.”
Charles says nothing for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is colder. “We will address the clergy in due time.”
The meeting continues, but something has shifted. I watch him from the corner of my eye—his rigid posture, the way impatience flickers beneath his composure. I wonder just how thin the line between strength and strain truly is.
When the court is dismissed, he rises without looking at me.
I remain seated a moment longer, my earlier excitement dulled by the weight of it all. I had a summer of peace; he had a season of war.
And somehow, that imbalance already feels like a faultline running between us.
* * *
Charles doesn’t come back to our chamber that evening. He returns at some point during the night, but I am too deep in sleep to notice it. I wake before him, the morning sun already breaking through the curtains. I stretch and rub my eyes, wondering what I should be doing with this sunny, late-summer day. I turn and see Charles in bottomless slumber, facing away from me.
I trail my fingers along his back, familiar, affectionate—until I see the marks. Faint bruises, half-healed. Bite marks.
My stomach turns.
Those aren’t marks born of war or battle; these are marks inflicted by humans, marks inflicted in a moment of lust and passion.
I want to throw up.
My brain is trying desperately to find an explanation.
Could I have bitten him last night? Did we make love while I was asleep?
But deep down I know there is only one explanation.
I don’t say anything, I can’t. I dress quietly and flee to Aileen’s chambers, my breath shallow, my hands shaking. She knows something is wrong the moment she sees my face.
I don’t even manage to speak at first. I step inside, close the door behind me, and then the words tumble out in a rush, a desperate edge to my voice.
“There were marks,” I say. “On his back. Bite marks. I didn’t notice them last night, but they were there this morning.” My voice cracks. “There has to be an explanation, right? He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t go to bed with another woman.”
Aileen doesn’t answer immediately.
Her silence is louder than any denial.
I laugh weakly, searching her face. “He wouldn’t do that to me,” I insist. “Not after everything. Not after what he said—”
She reaches for me, and that’s when I know.
Aileen pulls me into her arms, tight and protective, and the dam breaks. I sob against her shoulder, my hands fisting in her dress, my chest aching with every breath. She strokes my hair, murmuring my name over and over, tears slipping freely down her own cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
Hours seem to pass like that—time dissolving into quiet misery. Eventually, I am lying curled against her, spent, hollowed out, my eyes burning and dry. My thoughts feel distant, muffled, as if wrapped in wool.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” Aileen says softly. “I’ve heard things,” she says quietly. “About Charles. About how he’s always been.” She looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. “It’s not…new. Not to the court.”
My stomach tightens.
