Chapter 4: The Thorns Beneath the Rose
The crimson silk was a cage. Each breath Kate took was a shallow, defeated thing, a faint expansion against the brutal embrace of the stays. Isobel’s final, vindictive tug at the laces had stolen the air from her lungs long before she reached the chapel, leaving her lightheaded as she knelt beside the stoic, unfamiliar man who was now her husband. The scent of cold stone and beeswax candles swam in her vision. James’s voice, reciting his vows, was a low, steady rumble she felt through the marble floor. Her own responses were thin whispers, snatched by the vast, echoing space.
The celebrations were a blur of noise and color, a relentless tide she had to navigate without the capacity for a full breath. In the great hall, roaring with firelight and ale, she sat beside James on a raised dais. The weight of her elaborate headdress, a net of pearls and rubies, felt like an anvil pressing her into the chair.
“You look pale,” James said, his first words to her since the priest had declared them one. He wasn’t looking at her, but at a troupe of acrobats tumbling across the rushes. His tone was neutral, observational.
“I look married,” Kate replied, the words sharp out of necessity, each one costing precious air. “It’s a draining color.”
A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossed his face. He finally glanced at her, his brown eyes assessing. “The dress or the deed?”
“Both are uncomfortably tight.”
He leaned back, lifting his tankard. “You should eat. You’ll need your strength.” The comment hung between them, laden with implication. She felt a hot flush that had nothing to do with the fire.
Down the table, Lord Thomas Howard watched them like a hawk observing a mousefield. He raised his own cup in a toast, his smile not reaching his eyes. “To the union of our great kingdoms! May it be as fruitful as it is fortuitous!” The hall erupted in cheers. James drank, his expression unreadable. Kate merely wet her lips with wine, the taste metallic against her fear.
As the night wore on, the music grew louder, the laughter more raucous. A group of clansmen began a complex, stomping dance, their roars shaking the timbered ceiling. James was drawn into conversations with his lords, a wall of plaids and beards. For a moment, Kate was alone on her island of velvet.
Then Isobel was there, materializing at her shoulder with a cup of spiced wine. “Your Highness requires refreshment?” she asked, her voice syrup-sweet.
“What I require,” Kate hissed, low enough that only Isobel could hear, “is to be able to breathe. Unlace this damned thing. Now.”
Isobel’s smile was a knife. “And ruin the silhouette? The people cheer for a queen, not a sack of potatoes. You’ll have it off soon enough, I’m sure.” Her gaze slid meaningfully toward James. “Though some prefer to keep their armor on.”
The humiliation was a live coal in Kate’s chest. She turned away, her eyes stinging. She would not cry. She would not.
A hand, large and calloused, covered hers on the armrest. James had returned, his conversation finished. He didn’t look at her, but his thumb moved once, slowly, across her knuckles. It was not a caress. It was a signal. A claim.
“You’re trembling,” he said, still watching his celebrating people.
“I’m cold.”
“Liar.” He said it without malice. “The hall is an oven.” He stood then, pulling her up with him. The sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness through her. She swayed, and his arm was around her waist, solid as an oak trunk, holding her upright against the crushing pressure of the gown. To the room, it looked like an intimate, protective gesture. The crowd whooed and banged their cups.
“My wife is weary,” James announced, his voice carrying. “The day has been long.”
Lord Thomas stood quickly. “Perhaps I might escort Her Highness to her chambers? A familiar face—”
“I will see my wife to our chambers,” James interrupted, the finality in his tone leaving no room for argument. “You enjoy the hospitality, Howard. Drink. Celebrate our peace.”
Our chambers. The words echoed in Kate’s head, drowning out everything else.
He led her from the dais, his grip firm, guiding her through the throng. She walked beside him, every step a battle against the constricting silk and the roaring in her ears.