Chapter 7: The Ghost in the Bed

The words of Lord Thomas echoed through Arthur’s mind like a recurring nightmare. If you go after her, you sign Mary's death warrant, and your child's as well. For three agonizing days of wedding celebrations, Arthur stared into the crowds, his heart screaming at him to abandon his crown, steal a horse, and ride north to Hayden Barry. Yet, every time he reached for his sword or looked toward the castle gates, the image of Mary facing his mother’s executioners paralyzed him. To keep her safe, he had to stay. He had to become a ghost in his own life.

By the final night of the wedding festivities, the grand halls grew quiet, and the reality of his new life loomed. Arthur stood by the window of the royal bedchamber, staring out into the dark, moonlit horizon where Mary was out there somewhere, alone.

The rustle of silk broke his trance. Isabella stepped out from behind the changing screen, her eyes fixed on her new husband. She crossed the room, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. Arthur went rigid.

"You have been miles away all week, Arthur," Isabella whispered, her voice a mix of frustration and desire. She pulled him around to face her, her hands sliding up his chest. "The pageantry is over. We are husband and wife now. Look at me."

"I am tired, Isabella," Arthur said softly, his voice devoid of life as he gently tried to remove her hands. "It has been a long three days. We should rest."

"Rest?" Isabella scoffed gently, pressing her body closer against his, refusing to let him step back. "It is our wedding night, Arthur. The kingdom expects an heir, and I expect my husband. I will not be ignored in my own marriage bed."

"Please, not tonight," he pleaded, turning his face away.

Isabella caught his chin, forcing him to look at her. Her grip was unyielding, fueled by a princess’s pride. "I am your Queen now, Arthur. And you are my King. You will not humiliate me by turning your back on me tonight."

She pulled him down into a kiss, heavy and demanding. Arthur didn't fight her, but he didn't lean in either. Yet, Isabella persisted, her hands moving over him, forcing the issue until, out of sheer exhaustion and the crushing weight of his duty, Arthur finally yielded.

When it was over, Isabella slept soundly beside him. Arthur lay awake in the dark, staring at the canopy above. The guilt tasted like ash in his mouth. It ate at him from the inside out, a sickening betrayal to the woman he actually loved.

A week's journey to the north, the air in Hayden Barry was biting and cold. The smell of cheap ale and stale tobacco filled the crowded tavern where Mary now spent her nights.

"Another ale, girl! And make it quick!" a burly patron shouted, slamming his wooden mug onto the sticky counter.

"Right away, sir," Mary said, wiping her brow with the back of her sleeve.

Her back ached terribly, and her feet throbbed from standing for hours, but she forced a polite smile. She filled the mug, her hands shaking slightly from exhaustion. She had to be careful. She was carrying Arthur’s child, and this grueling job was the only thing keeping a roof over her head.

The tavern owner, a gruff man named Garrick, tossed a few meager coins onto the counter at the end of her shift. "You're slowing down, Mary. Keep up the pace or I'll find someone else."

"I will, Garrick. I'm just adjusting to the night shifts," Mary replied, quietly gathering the coins.

"Don't care about your adjustments. Just care about the customers," he muttered, turning his back.

Mary swallowed her pride and tucked the money into her apron. She didn't just need this money for food and a crib; she needed it for her dream. Every night, after the tavern closed, she would sit by a single candle in her small, drafty room and read through old, borrowed law books. She wanted to be a lawyer. She wanted to understand the rules of the world so thoroughly that no lord or queen could ever strip her rights away again.

But tonight, the books stayed closed.

Mary collapsed onto her small cot, pulling a crumpled, hidden photograph from beneath her pillow. It was a picture of Arthur, smiling brightly before the world tore them apart. Tears blurred her vision as she pressed the photograph to her chest.

"I miss you," she whispered into the empty room. "Every single second."

Miles away, in the quiet luxury of the palace, Arthur quietly slid out of the marriage bed. He walked to his private desk, unlocking a hidden drawer to pull out a small sketch of Mary. He looked at her eyes, feeling utterly lost.

And there they were, trapped in two completely different worlds. They held so much love for each other, their minds consumed by the other's memory with every tick of the clock. They stared at their pictures in the dark, hating the cruel reality of their lives, but knowing they had absolutely no choice.