The bedding ceremony had disappeared, but everything went according to tradition.

At dawn, the bridal chamber was filled with the Archbishop of Chamfera, who had presided over the wedding, and the nobles who had come to examine the evidence.

Even if the night had been filled with nothing but resentment, it had still belonged to Isabelle and Arnaud – yet somehow it felt as if the roles had been reversed.

“Hey, move aside, will you?”

“Bring me some wine!”

The bed where Arnaud had once pointed a sword at her became the centre of attention, like a newly unveiled sculpture, and Isabelle stood at a distance from the crowd, simply clasping her hands together.

When a young priest who had come with the archbishop lifted the covers, the nobles rushed in as if it were a chest full of jewels.

“Oh my God, what is this…?” 

“Does that much blood usually come out?”

Murmurs rippled through the room, quiet but sharp. 

The bloodstains on the bed were clearly excessive – too much to ignore. 

And so suspicion spread like wildfire.

The noblewomen, as if they’d been waiting for this moment, began to whisper behind their fans, their voices laced with venom.

“Who would have thought she was really a virgin?” 

“Didn’t she go to His Majesty willingly? If she had any real virtue, the Queen wouldn’t have been *so* angry, would she?”

As usual, Isabelle said nothing. 

She sat in silence, absorbing every word like a blow to the chest.

The sheets were soaked – unnaturally so. 

Anyone with eyes could see that with that much blood loss, the bride must have been barely conscious. 

And there, beside her, was Arnaud. 

His right hand was bandaged. 

The archbishop’s piercing gaze was fixed on him.

There wasn’t a noble present who hadn’t seen the blood that stained that hand.

“Your Excellency, this is…”

“That’s enough. Cover it up.”

Even the Archbishop seemed to realise that the stains had been made deliberately. But regardless, the king’s mistress would remain a nominal figure at best.

The only one who had ever officially spent the night with Henri was Queen Louise – so no one dared to question her further.

Only one of his subordinates, who understood the true situation, sighed deeply and raised his voice.

“The marriage between the Duke of Latvién and the Duchess is hereby declared consummated!”

It was a much more distinguished title than that of Madame de Chateaur.

Certainly much better than being the wife of that wrinkled, unsightly old Marquis de Chateaur.

And yet, why did she not enjoy it?

Surely Arnaud felt the same.

Isabelle lifted her eyelids to look at her motionless husband.

“……”

As expected, his crimson lips were pressed together so tightly they looked ready to burst.

A Monsieur of his rank usually came with numerous titles and estates.

His official title should have been much longer than this.

And yet the archbishop referred to Arnaud by only one title – Duke of Latvién.

For someone who had hoped to be crowned, no title could have been more humiliating.

His anger was clear, unmistakable.

Isabelle wanted nothing more than to take his hand, but knowing she couldn’t only deepened her grief.

The half-hearted applause of the nobles soon died away and, led by the Archbishop, they all made the sign of the cross in unison.

A gesture of prayer for the couple’s well-being.

“Ah, ah…”

Isabelle also tried to make the sign of the cross, but the national religion of Imanoria differed slightly from that of Châtevienne, making it easy for her movements to go awry.

Again she hesitated for a long moment.

Fortunately, the nobles had closed their eyes for a moment, so none of them seemed to notice.

Except Arnaud, who stood beside her.

He didn’t look away.

He took her hand and guided it, helping her to trace the sign of the cross step by step.

Isabelle stared at him in a daze the whole time he held her hand.

Arnaud was also looking at his wife – but the expression on his face couldn’t be described as indifference or anger.

“Th-thank you…”

At her soft words, Arnaud nodded slowly.

Even then, his gaze remained unsteady, as if caught in a tangle of emotions.

Complicated.

Yes, complicated was the word.

That was how Isabelle chose to describe Arnaud’s expression.

‘Why…’

Still holding her hand, Arnaud parted his lips as if to speak.

But as soon as the Archbishop’s final Amen rang out, he turned away.

He looked like a child who had something to say.

Isabelle stared at him blankly as he returned to his seat –

Until a familiar voice snapped her out of it.

“A happy occasion, indeed.”

A man with ash-brown hair pulled back in a single ribbon, and irises of a similar shade that glowed faintly.

A face that bore a strong resemblance to the late King Charles XI.

It was Henri, King of Châtevienne.

The moment he appeared, Isabelle heard the sound of teeth grinding.

It had to be Arnaud’s.

Despite the obvious provocation, Henri showed no concern as he approached the couple.

And instead of looking at his own younger brother, his gaze fell first on Arnaud’s wife.

Isabelle immediately lowered her eyes.

That disgusting man – what nonsense was he going to spew this time?

“Arnaud.”

But despite where his eyes had landed, the name he called out was not Isabelle’s, but her husband’s.

Swallowing hard, Isabelle looked at Arnaud’s face beside her.

He looked like an enraged lion, ready to pounce at any moment.

Eyes blazing, Arnaud glared at the king as if he might lose control.

Then he stepped in front of Isabelle, shielding her with his back, and finally spoke.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“How touching.”

Henri sneered, craning his neck as if to catch a glimpse of Isabelle behind his younger brother’s broad back.

A breathy, mocking laugh escaped him.

‘How can someone make you want to kill them so much?’

Isabelle lowered her head, her hands shaking as she clasped them together.

She didn’t want to meet his eyes – not even for a second.

Henri, who continued to look between Isabelle and Arnaud, finally closed his eyes and nodded, pretending to be a magnanimous king.

“Well then, try to live happily.”

A faint chuckle of derision rippled through the crowd of nobles behind him.

It was humiliating, but there was nothing the couple could do about it.

Never one for patience, Arnaud didn’t even bow.

He simply took Isabelle’s hand and stormed out of the bridal chamber.

“Ah, Arnaud…”

“Follow me.”

Flustered, Isabelle didn’t even have time to gather her skirts as she was dragged through the crowd of nobles.

Arnaud’s pace was so fast that Isabelle almost had to run to keep up.

It was only when they crossed the threshold that she could finally ask him why.

“Arnaud, where are we…”

But this question was mercilessly trampled on by the presence of other nobles lingering just outside the chamber.

They held titles too low to be allowed into the bridal chamber and had gathered near the entrance instead.

As they watched Arnaud and Isabelle walk out hand in hand, they stared in silence – and then burst into laughter.

“Ha ha! What a loving couple you are!”

“Oh, how enviable! A perfect match, really!”

A strong grip tightened around her hand.

But neither of them could utter a word of rebuke – they could only grimace in silence.

Yes, this was the limit.

A status so low that she no longer had to force a polite smile at such laughter.

Once again Isabelle was reminded of her place – and his.

She felt like she could cry.

***

The Ourethique convent – both its palace and its prison – was a crumbling ruin hidden away in a region called Antmaren in southern Châtevienne.

And in Antmaren, this ruin was all there was.

Henri had the audacity to call such a place a fiefdom.

It had once been a prosperous land, but she had long heard the stories –

that two-thirds of the monastery had been stained with blood during the massacre of the Old Faith by Protestant forces only a few years ago.

She also knew that Arnaud’s sister, Princess Marie-Thérèse de Jalbert, had died here.

To think he’d been imprisoned for over three years in the very place where hundreds of the believers – and his own sister – had died.

Isabelle frowned at her husband’s miserable circumstances, only to realise soon enough that her own situation wasn’t so different.

She drew the curtains.

Sleep seemed impossible, but this place was at least five days’ journey from Chamféra in the north.

So, with no other choice, she rested her head on Alathea’s lap and tried to sleep.

It was not until the sun had fully risen that Isabelle finally awoke to a hand gently shaking her shoulder.

“Are you awake, my lady?”

“Where are we now?”

Looking outside, she saw that it was already midday.

Tall rubber trees lined the road – it seemed they still hadn’t made it out of Lantéonne’s forest.

Since Lantéonne was on the edge of Chamféra, the road to the south only began once they had passed through it.

Isabelle asked in a husky voice.

“We haven’t left Lantéonne yet, have we?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then why did you wake me?”

Just as she said that, the carriage stopped.

Isabelle, now looking even more confused, turned to Alathea who explained.

“You said the journey was too long, so we’ll rest today at Calvador Castle. That woman… I heard her suggest it before we boarded the carriage.”

Although her name was Camille, it seemed that Théa had decided to call her by that name.

Isabelle immediately understood who the woman was referring to.

He was the one who had taken her from the bridal chamber –

The one who had looked at her with such strange eyes –

And yet Arnaud refused to ride in the same carriage with her.

Next to him was Camille, clinging to her husband with a beaming smile.

Isabelle’s face hardened.

There were countless things she would have to face in the coming days.

But that woman – she didn’t want to see her for a second.

“So he’s still by her side.”

“Yes.”

She wanted to ask.

If this was how it was going to end, why had he ever treated her with such tenderness? 

At that moment, Isabelle hated him so much that she wanted nothing more than to grab him by the collar and scream.

She sat in the carriage for a long time, unmoving, unwilling to face the world outside. 

Then Alathea gently put an arm around her shoulders and spoke softly.

“My lady, please come down. You said the food was being prepared.”

“How am I supposed to face them… looking like this?”

Isabelle whispered, her voice barely holding together.

“Still… I’m here with you.”

Théa replied with quiet assurance. 

As always, Théa – who never missed a meal – wouldn’t be swayed. 

And knowing that she could not be stopped, Isabelle reluctantly got out of the carriage. 

Then she saw it – a towering spire piercing the canopy of dense trees. 

Just as she’d been told, the castle was breathtaking. 

Even in her grief, she couldn’t deny its beauty.

‘So this is Arnaud’s first prison…’

Of course, she was thinking of the one who had described its appearance to her.

Looking at the deep navy blue roofs contrasting with the white outer walls, Isabelle imagined her husband locked up in this place at the age of fourteen.

It was said that he had been imprisoned here for rebelling against his older brother Henri, who had been recognised as the Dauphin of Châtevienne.

Arnaud had never told her the full story, but having seen Henri at first hand, Isabelle was certain that something deeply unjust had happened.

And even now, after being neglected by Arnaud, that belief hadn’t changed.

“My Lady Isabelle.”

She had been looking up at the spire with narrowed eyes, but lowered her head at the sound of someone calling her.

Of course – it was her husband’s mistress, smiling as sweetly as ever.

Camille approached her with the same expression.

Author’s note:

1) Dauphin – A title once given to the heir apparent of the Kingdom of France, commonly translated as Crown Prince. The full formal title is Dauphin de Viennois.