Chapter 5: The price of the crown

The next day arrived with a cruel clarity. Mary woke up to a house filled with a heavy, suffocating silence. Every corner felt completely empty. Moving like a ghost through the rooms they had once shared, she went to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. She stood in the middle of the living room, holding the warm mug, as flashbacks of every memory they had built together washed over her.

Her mind drifted back to the fateful night she had left her mother, choosing a path she thought would lead to happiness. Now, looking at her uncertain future, she could barely process the harsh reality: she had been left completely alone, carrying a hidden pregnancy and a broken heart.

Meanwhile, across the kingdom in Camelot, the castle was a hive of activity, preparing for the royal wedding just a few days away. Arthur woke up in his king-sized bed, the grand room feeling vast and cold. His first thoughts flew to Mary. He imagined her loneliness and thought of the baby—their baby—growing inside her. He missed her with a fierce ache. Reaching over, he picked up the ring that held her hidden picture, staring into her painted eyes as a wave of emptiness washed over him.

The heavy silence of his chambers was shattered by the sharp click of heels. His mother, Queen Margaret, stepped inside.

"May I ask why you are still buried beneath your sheets, Arthur?" she asked, her voice clipped.

"Good morning to you too, mother," Arthur muttered, keeping his back to her.

"You know, Arthur, you can be angry all you want, but this marriage is happening," Margaret said firmly.

Arthur bolted upright, glaring at her. "You always get things done your way, mother!"

"Because it is the right way, Arthur," Margaret replied smoothly. She stepped closer to his bed, reaching out a hand to stroke his cheek comfortingly. "I know what is best for you, and what is best for Camelot."

Arthur flinched, quickly turning his face away from her touch. "Well, why does it always have to come at my expense, mother? Why?!"

Margaret sighed, throwing her hands up. "I don’t understand why you are so furious about this. Isabella is a lovely young woman."

"Well, I don't love her, mother! I don't!" Arthur shouted, his voice cracking with raw emotion. "I never have, and I never will! Because of this crown, I had to leave the woman I truly love all alone!"

Margaret froze, her eyes widening in shock. "What?... What are you talking about, Arthur? What do you mean, 'someone you love'?"

Realising he had said too much, Arthur looked away. "Nothing."

"Who did you fall in love with, Arthur?" Margaret pressed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"No one," he lied poorly.

"You know what? I just heard the truth, Arthur," Margaret said, her eyes narrowing. "You went to Kingston, and you fell in love with someone. No wonder you have been so miserable about this marriage. Who is he? Who is this person?"

"It does not matter, mother," Arthur said quietly, deflating.

"Does Isabella know about this?"

"No," Arthur sighed. "But they met once."

Margaret crossed her arms. "Well, she shouldn't know. We will keep it that way."

"The woman I am truly in love with is with child, mother," Arthur confessed, the words slipping out like a desperate plea.

Margaret gasped, her hand flying to her chest. "Oh my goodness, Arthur..."

"And I left her all alone, mother! In a city she doesn't even know! All alone, for what?!" Arthur’s voice shook with rage and grief.

"Calm down, Arthur," Margaret demanded, trying to regain her composure.

"No! You are ruining my life!"

"Camelot is more important, Arthur!" Margaret snapped back, her royal mask hardening.

Arthur looked at her, utterly defeated. "What?"

"Don't you see? You are not like the others, Arthur," Margaret said, stepping closer to the door. "Your brothers drink every single day. They never care about anything. They are just a bunch of drunkards who would never take the lead. Camelot needs a king. You are their king."

Arthur stared at his mother in silence, but in his mind, his thoughts remained anchored to his deepest love, Mary.

Margaret turned her back to him, opening the heavy door. "Please get ready for breakfast. I invited Isabella, and she is already waiting downstairs."

Arthur forced himself to get dressed and headed down to the grand dining hall. He found his mother and Isabella already seated at the long table, bathed in the morning light.

Isabella looked up, offering a tight smile. "Arthur. Good to see you've come to your senses."

Arthur sat down heavily, staring at his plate. "Have I?"

"Arthur," Margaret warned under her breath, a sharp edge to her voice.

The breakfast continued in an uncomfortable, freezing silence. Arthur was completely dry, barely speaking a word to his future bride. He couldn't even stomach his food. Pushing his plate away, he stood up abruptly, left the table, and retreated to his chambers. Desperate for any kind of distraction to keep his mind off his misery, he called the royal servants to begin fitting his wedding outfits.

A few moments later, the door opened, and Isabella walked in. Seeing the tailors surrounding him, she stepped forward. "I can help you with that."

"You don't have to, Isa," Arthur said flatly, not looking at her. "That is why I have servants."

Isabella's expression hardened slightly. She turned a cold gaze toward the staff. "You can leave. I'll take it from here."

"Isa..." Arthur protested.

"Shhhh," Isabella whispered, stepping into his personal space. "I'm only helping you, Arthur."

She reached up, wrapping the silk tie slowly around his neck, her sharp eyes locked onto his, searching for the man who had vanished in Kingston.

The room grew entirely still as the door clicked shut behind the servants. Arthur stood rigid, his chest tightening as Isabella stepped closer, her fingers deftly smoothing the silk of the tie against his collar.

"You look tense, Arthur," Isabella murmured, her eyes searching his. She offered a soft, practiced smile—the kind expected of a future queen. "It’s just a wedding. We are supposed to be happy."

Arthur looked down at her, his face an unreadable mask. He could still feel the heavy imprint of the ring against his palm, the hidden picture of Mary burned into his mind. "Happiness is a luxury not all of us can afford, Isabella."

"Is that what this is?" She paused, her hands resting flat against his chest, right over his racing heartbeat. Her smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of quiet scrutiny. "Ever since you came back from Kingston, you’ve been a ghost. You're here, but you're not really here. What happened out there?"

Arthur pulled back gently but firmly, breaking her hold. He turned toward the full-length mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket just to give his hands something to do. "Nothing happened. The pressure of the crown is simply heavy this week."

Isabella watched him, her expression shifting from curiosity to a faint, lingering doubt. She remembered the girl she had briefly crossed paths with—the quiet, protective aura Arthur had carried around her. But before she could press further, the heavy oak door of the bedroom creaked open again.

Queen Margaret stood in the doorway, her sharp eyes scanning the room, instantly noting the distance between the engaged couple.

"Everything looks exquisite," Margaret said, her tone carrying its usual commanding warmth. "But do wrap it up, children. The lords from the Eastern Provinces have just arrived, and they are eager to toast to the future King and Queen of Camelot."

Arthur didn't look at his mother. He merely nodded, his jaw clenched. "I will be down shortly."

Meanwhile, miles away in the quiet, echoing kitchen in Kingston, Mary’s coffee had grown cold.

She sat at the small wooden table, her hand resting instinctively over her stomach. The silence of the house was deafening, a sharp contrast to the laughter and promises that had filled it just days before. Every corner held a phantom thread of Arthur—his jacket draped over a chair, the specific way he smiled when he looked at her, the whispered vows of a future they would never have.

A sudden, sharp knock at the front door shattered the quiet.

Mary started, her heart leaping into her throat. For a wild, desperate second, her mind whispered his name. Arthur.

She hurried to the door, her hands trembling as she unlocked it and pulled it open. But it wasn't the man she loved standing on the porch.

Standing there was a tall, stern-looking man in a dark travel cloak. His horse was tied to the post behind him, kicking up dust in the morning light. He looked Mary up and down with a cold, calculating gaze before pulling a sealed parchment document from his vest.

"Are you Mary?" the man asked, his voice clipped and formal.

"I am," Mary said, her voice barely a whisper, a sudden dread settling deep in her chest. "Who are you?"

"I am Lord Thomas," the man replied, stepping forward and extending the letter. He was a ruthless fixer for the Camelot crown, sent secretly by Queen Margaret after Arthur’s shocking confession of the pregnancy. Margaret feared a royal bastard would ruin the wedding, and Thomas was here to make the problem disappear.

Mary opened the letter with trembling hands. It was a forced exile order, permanently banishing her from Kingston and stripping her of the house.

"You have one hour to pack a single bag," Thomas said coldly, stepping into the house and cutting off her air. "After that, you are leaving this city, and you are never to look back."

Back at Camelot, Arthur stood in the grand hall hosting the lords, but guilt was eating him alive. As he glanced across the room, he noticed his mother whispering urgently to her captain of the guard. Catching a few muttered words—"Kingston" and "ensure it is handled"—Arthur's blood ran cold.

He realized with absolute horror that his mother knew exactly where Mary was, and that she was in grave danger.