"Mother."
Henry's voice was flat, devoid of welcome or warmth. He stood at the far end of the council chamber's long table, a silhouette against the leaded glass.
He did not approach. After a moment's weighted silence, he walked forward, each step measured. "To what do I owe this… summons?"
"Is this how you greet the woman who bore you?" Queen Caroline's voice was a dry rasp, sharp with displeasure. "So cold. So devoid of grace. It shames me."
Henry's expression did not change. "You did not come for pleasantries."
"No," she spat, her wrinkled face contorted with disgust. "I would have remained at my prayers, content to await God's final call. But rumours have a way of piercing even cloister walls. Your throne shakes, Henry. Your people whisper. You need an heir. A legitimate one, to secure your line and silence the doubters who still look to your brother."
"Mother," Henry said, a dismissive edge in his tone as he turned to gaze out the window. "You worry over shadows."
"Do I?" She rose, her cane tapping sharply on the stone. "Then tell me, how often do you perform your duty? Once a week? Once a month? Or has the marriage bed grown cold entirely?"
"Mother." The word was a lash, his face twisting in genuine revulsion at the crude inquiry.
"You will not silence me on this!" Her voice rose, cracking with a fervor that was both maternal and merciless. "I have taken rooms here. I will stay until the deed is done and her belly swells. I have heard you do not even share a chamber. This ends. You will lie with your wife. You will do so regularly. And I will be here to ensure you remember what is required of a king."
"Mother!" His voice finally broke its cold restraint, rising in furious disgust. His brows knotted, his eyes wide and dilated with a shock that was as much horror as it was anger. The facade of the unflappable monarch shattered, revealing the cornered son beneath.
Queen Caroline watched the fury break across her son's face and, perversely, seemed to find a sliver of relief in it. At least it was feeling. At least it was engagement.
"Alright, Henry. Alright," she said, her tone lowering from its shrill command to something more weary, more calculating. She took a slow step closer, the tap of her cane softer now. "I only wish to see you secure. I do not want that… that Sebastian," she spat the name as if it were poison, "to snatch what is rightfully yours, just as his grasping mother tried to do to me. A bastard's ambition is a quiet, patient poison. It must be neutralized. An heir is the only antidote."
Henry drew a long, controlled breath, mastering the disgust that had contorted his features. The cold mask settled back into place, but his eyes remained hard.
"There is nothing for you to fear on that account," he stated, his voice once more dangerously calm. "The succession will be secured. One way… or another… you will have your heir."
The promise hung in the air, deliberate and ambiguous, leaving unspoken the brutal means by which he might fulfill it.
---
Gisela sat on the ravaged bed, her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them. She was still naked, the cold air of the chamber raising gooseflesh on her skin, but she felt numb to it. The strength to move, to cover herself, had deserted her. Her unbound hair spilled around her shoulders like a fallen curtain, a cascade of copper veiling her shame.
Then, a knock. Not the firm, official rap from before, but a softer, hesitant sound.
She did not move. She could not summon a voice to answer.
The door opened slowly, not with authority, but with gentle caution. A figure stepped inside, and a voice, thick with a familiar accent and aching tenderness, filled the silence.
"My queen… my little Gisela?"
Gisela's head snapped up. Her amber eyes, dull with shock, widened. That voice was a key to a life before this cage.
In an instant, she uncoiled. Her bare feet hit the cold marble with a jarring smack, but she felt no pain. She crossed the room in a rush, throwing herself against the solid, familiar form of the older woman.
"Lady Hilda," she choked out, the words dissolving into a torrent of silent tears as she buried her face in Hilda's worn, travel-stained cloak.
Hilda's arms came around her, firm and sure. She held the trembling queen, her own sharp blue eyes taking in the scene—the disheveled bed, the discarded garments, the utter devastation in the girl's posture. Horror and fierce protectiveness warred in her gaze.
"Child," Hilda murmured, her voice low and steady, a rock in the storm. "A queen is never seen like this. Come now." She pulled back just enough to look into Gisela's face, her hands framing the tear-streaked cheeks. "First, we get you dressed. Then, you will tell me everything."
---
Gisela, now dressed in a simple but finely woven gown of dove-grey wool—a stark, humble contrast to the vibrant velvets of her station—sat perched on a plain wooden chair. The high neck and long sleeves covered her completely, a fabric shield against the memory of exposure. She looked like a penitent, or a ghost of her former self.
Opposite her, Hilda sat, her work-worn hands folded in her lap, her blue eyes missing nothing.
"He is a monster," Gisela whispered, the words raw. A fresh tear escaped, tracing the same path as its predecessors. "He makes my father's coldness seem like gentle neglect."
She drew a shuddering breath, the confession tumbling out. "He has another, Hilda. I saw them… hours before the wedding vows were dry. And I saw them again last night, from my balcony. He has no respect for me. None." A sob broke through, which she hastily swiped away with the heel of her hand, as if angry at her own tears.
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, desperate hush. "But I see a path now. A way out. I will run away. So far from here that the very word 'queen' will lose its meaning. I will live a simple life. A quiet one. A happy one." Her amber eyes, still swimming, locked onto Hilda's with fierce intensity. "This is why I begged for you. I need your help. You are the only one who can make it possible."