THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN
Chapter 26
November 3rd, 1520 – Adelton Hall
Dawn pressed as the procession moved from the castle to the small chapel adjacent. All dressed in their blackest clothes, the women veiled, the men caped.
A train of mourners—come from all corners of Cadherra—walked in the procession in silence. They were not many, for few where those who would now venture anywhere in these difficult times. Alas, they were still a sizeable escort of people.
At the front—one of those carrying the coffin—had his face plastered into a stiff mask. Containing nestled within the mahogany and oak rested a princess of their kingdom. Carrying her on the other side was a man with a black mask.
Edward Cullen and William Fell together with Emmett Saxton, Thomas Athar and Theodor Glovendale supported the weight of the coffin. They had all insisted—insisted on supporting Rosalie on her final journey in life.
Bells tolled heavy in the morning as they entered the murky interior of the chapel, lit up by thousands of wax candles, flickering in the breeze they carried with them. Isabella was close behind the coffin. She had been the queen's confidant and was entitled the prominent position at the front. Alan Moore, Renée Swan, Alice, and Sofia all walked with her. Even Mrs. Hammond was up at the front. The women wore black veils to shield their faces from insight. But many were dried of their tears as they had been shedding them for the past week.
A faint chant of the choir accompanied them on their way in as the incense flowed heavily through the interior of the chapel. They moved through the nave up to the altar where they would place Rosalie's coffin and open it, letting them all see her face one final time.
Friar Nicholas awaited at the altar. For, indeed, the priest who had previously held the chapel had long since faded and no one had taken his place. Nicholas stood in his vestments, a white priest's robe with a stole; a preaching scarf, thrown over his shoulders. He witnessed the procession enter, heard the bells ring, and watched the face of William Fell as he entered, the coffin bearing down on him.
The choir kept singing their slow tune in Latin as the coffin was placed on its supporters with white flowers and red leaves dressing the front. Edward and Carlisle opened up the coffin and he was struck by the strange features of his sister. Rosalie almost looked like a doll—too perfect—made out of wax.
He turned to go and sit at the front, a feeling of fatigue washing over him, a feeling of helplessness as he witnessed Isabella's veiled form in one of the benches.
The funeral began, each moment difficult. Nicholas preached up at the altar. Edward stared emptily ahead, not being able to take his eyes off his sister. Athar walked up at one point to say a few words. As did Glovendale.
Then, the ones present at Rosalie's funeral got up, approaching her coffin and leaving parting flowers, saying a final goodbye. Isabella tried not to look at Edward, for it would be hard to remove her eyes from him once she did so.
The choir chanted a final chant as they all joined in the psalm. The funeral was over, and Rosalie would soon be brought down to the same resting place as her mother, down in the crypt of Adelton Hall.
The chapel started emptying little by little until only a handful of people remained: those who had known Rosalie best.
Isabella sat on her bench, next to her mother, feeling the cold draft of the room. "Will you go with Edward to New London?" her mother asked after a while.
"I go wherever he goes," she responded, tense, stoic.
Renée took her hand in hers. "Do you want to go to New London?" Renée had removed her veil, as had Isabella. For some reason, the funeral had tired her out too much.
"I want to be by Edward," she whispered. "I want to stand by his side and support him." Alas, Renée could never truly know the whole meaning of those words.
"They say William Fell will claim the throne now," Renée murmured after a tense moment. And Isabella saw something in the eyes of her mother which she had not seen for a long time: hope. There was a fire now kindled. And despite the fact that they had just perceived such a tragic moment—that of Rosalie's passing—Renée looked to the future.
"My grandmother always spoke of Philip Fell, of the good he did for Angloa, of the peace he brought upon this land."
"Victoria Fell is his daughter too, as was Rosalie."
Renée looked to William. "There is something about his son which I cannot put my finger on. But I trust him, in his truth, in his way. There is something in his eyes. They are not…fading like Rosalie's were, or dead like Victoria's are. They have something in them that makes me wish for something better. Perhaps a vision…" she trailed off. "Or maybe it is my foolish heart which wishes it were so," she said, almost ashamed.
"I think there is truth in what you say," Isabella smiled. She did not think she would be able to smile on the same day of Rosalie's funeral.
"William Fell and Edward Cullen could make something again out of Angloa," Renée whispered.
"Or at least clean the mess up left behind Victoria's and Magnus' rampage," her daughter answered. She had started coming to a slow realization of what her husband needed to do, part of it tore her in half, another part was mesmerized.
A strange stillness befell the chapel, echoes of whispering voices faded away. Incense and wax were a prominent backdrop mixed with wet stone as the heavens opened up. The rain that had started falling stirred the earth and cleansed the land. Perhaps the heavens were crying for Rosalie's loss: a final goodbye to the princess with a heart of gold.
The coffin was brought down to the crypt and only a few were present as they gathered while night started falling slowly, tediously, the rainwater splattering loudly on the stone, yet not managing to penetrate into the stiff and stale space in which they found themselves.
The crypt was a long room with a vaulted roof in tile, torches lining each side where graves had been etched into the walls. The graves lay atop each other forming three layers. There were many who had been buried there from both her family, but also the Fell line. Even one of the original three kings had found his final resting place there.
Rosalie's tomb was lavish, an effigy had been ordered but not yet ready. Alas, her tombstone—the one which would cover her coffin as it was being placed into the wall—stood ready, leaning against the wall. Polished granite saw delicate letters with gold leaf gilded into them:
Here lies Rosalie Fell. Loved princess of Angloa, protector of the weak and the poor.
May she find peace
It was simple. Ordered there by Athar.
Isabella, Carlisle, Edward, Athar, Saxton, Glovendale, Irias and Lord Billy Black all gathered with Nicholas as four men came down with the coffin, followed by a footman who looked rather nervous.
He rushed up to Lord Athar in hurried steps and handed him a note. In the yellowish light of wax candles, Athar read it at least three times before crumpling it in his hands.
"Victoria is demanding entrance under a flag of truce," he spat.
The mere mention of her name made many faces sour, but not quite as much as Saxton's and Edward's.
"Take her captive and throw her in the dungeons," Saxton growled as he stepped forth.
Lord Athar looked to Edward. "Your Royal Highness," he started. "She is your sister."
Something flashed in his eyes as he stared at the coffin resting on the cold and dusty floor.
"Let her in," he spoke after a moment's pause with such lack of emotion that it made some of them shiver. He rose his eyes and they almost appeared black in the dull light.
He headed toward the entrance. "Let her come, let her see what she has caused." He stopped by the stairs leading up and out of the crypt and turned to them. "Maybe there is some part left in her feeling remorse." His hands turned into knuckles. "Maybe she truly comes here to mourn the sister she had killed."
"You will not stay?" Irias questioned.
The prince turned around. "I have little energy left for that woman, my lord," his hollow words echoed.
They all stood in silence and weighed the severity of his words. His form was only but a shadow as he walked up the stairs. Carlisle did not pause for a moment and stepped away, feeling out of place in the mask, in such company. And he had no wish to be there as Cullen when Victoria came.
Isabella stared after the dark form—only the whisper of a man, a shadow in the night—step outside as well.
"My lady, I suggest you leave as well. It will not be pretty to see Victoria here. We do not know what she is capable of—"
"I will not leave," Isabella said with her head held high. She knitted her eyebrows together stubbornly. "This is my castle, my lands. She treads upon my property and tried to have me killed as well. I will watch as she sees the fruit of her failed labor. And I will not cower. I do not fear her, nor should you," she growled at them.
Athar's face took on a look of confusion. Irias shook his head. "We will not disrespect your wishes, my lady. If you wish to stay, as the lady of this castle, as Countess of Cadherra, then that is your right. But do not provoke her…" he started.
"We do not fear Victoria Fell," someone mumbled in the dark.
"You all avoid speaking of her if you can. You look at the ground whenever we mention her name. You fear what she has turned into, my lords—that such a bright and clever woman should become so evil." Isabella motioned to Rosalie's grave. "I will stand here, next to my friend's grave and show Victoria that she killed the wrong woman," she said, her voice growing stronger and louder. "And I will feel no remorse for it."
Glovendale's mouth dropped at her words. Black shifted where he stood. Saxton, despite it all, could not help but smirk and nod slowly while staring at the grave of his loved one. "And I will rejoice in seeing it as well." He looked up.
Steps sounded in the stairs, drumming as someone descended them in a careless manner. They had not yet seen who it was walking down them, but all knew without seeing. Edward Cullen appeared in the arched doorway and Isabella knew that it was truly him hiding behind that mask. He must have switched with Carlisle momentarily, and the fact confused her. Had he not said he did not wish to see his sister?
"Why did His Royal Highness just leave?" Glovendale asked.
The masked man loomed over them with the presence of his aura. "I think we both know the answer to that question," he muttered in the low and growling voice. His eyes locked with Isabella's as he walked up to her.
Irias watched the couple, for all knew the fact that the two were closer than ever before now. He ignored the others as they turned to give them some solace. Isabella reveled in the faint moment they had in one another's presence. She could not truly be with him when he was William. But now she took the chance and leaned into him, breathing in his scent; leather, pine, and sandalwood.
She buried her face in the nook of his neck and closed her eyes as he embraced her. Saxton watched the scene of the two lovers and something painful tore at his heart, making him shiver.
Black and Irias stood for a moment until they decided to leave. Even Glovendale decided to follow the prince. Mayhap they had thought him smart for deciding not to be in that woman's presence.
Left in the crypts were Edward, Isabella, Athar, Saxton and Rosalie's body. They spoke little, waiting for the self-proclaimed queen to come down and wreck whatever havoc she had intended.
A moment's silence passed until they heard steps once more penetrate down the castle. Her figure appeared like death itself, robed in dark shrouded fabrics, her face covered by a veil, obscuring her features from insight. Glovendale had been tasked to escort her. Victoria was so certain of their honor that she had no doubts that they would not move a finger to silence her. She had ridden in the secrecy of darkness, arrogant enough to not even bring a large escort or her army with her.
She marched up slowly to the coffin, standing elevated, ready to be pushed into the wall. She stopped before Edward and Isabella. The young woman could feel the cold eyes regard her and she could not believe she stood so close to her. Victoria's deeds, her way of behaving, had made her even more infamous amongst them.
"Open it," she uttered in a guttural sound. Her voice revealed nothing about her emotions.
Edward felt her harsh eyes glued to him. Indeed, the demand was truly directed at him.
"I am not your servant to command," he growled back. "You may open it yourself."
Glovendale shifted uncomfortably in place before heading back up the stairs and away from there as soon as possible.
Victoria looked at Saxton who was fighting against every ounce in his body not to charge at her. She strolled over to Athar. "You were always so keen on obeying my family," she snarled at him, a viper waiting to spit its venom at any moment. "You've exchanged one master for the other, one too afraid to even face me. And he is not even a Fell."
"William is the son of Philip," Athar said back. There was no malice to his voice, no judging or condescension, only pity.
"He has tricked you all." When the queen spoke, it sounded like she held true sorrow for them. "Even now he does not step down for a chance to end this war. Would you follow a man like that?" she asked.
"Do not speak of things beyond your comprehension," Emmett Saxton said.
"Open the coffin, Your Highness, and bid farewell to your sister before I have the guards throw you into my dungeons," Isabella stepped forth to say to her.
The veiled creature turned her way and she fought hard not to flinch. What could Victoria say without looking petty? "They will not be your dungeons for long," she said in a calm manner.
Isabella left Edward's side and walked up to the older woman. "Do not test me, Victoria," Isabella countered coldly. The queen arched an eyebrow, this was not the same frightened little girl that she had enjoyed teasing almost a year ago in Wessport. Isabella Swan was, if anything, a true adversary now—defying her proudly and openly.
Victoria was about to open her mouth when Edward stepped between them. "Open the coffin or I will drag you out of here myself," he growled at her.
Victoria ignored him and went to turn her backs on them. "I want you all out," she said nonchalantly.
"I will go nowhere. I will see this with my own eyes—" Isabella started, cut off by Athar.
"If it is Her Highness' wish, I shall do as she pleads," Athar bowed. "I do this favor to you for the love I hold for your father," he spoke as he walked past her. "And I am not siding with Lady Swan in having you brought down in chains for that same love. The mere reason you have been allowed here is because your brother allowed it and because your sister was the saint that she was."
He walked to the stairs and never looked back. The rest of them could not know how Athar's indifference affected the queen. She would have preferred him screaming and condemning her name. Instead, the way he so coolly treated her was worse considering he had taken part in her upbringing; had been a sort of father figure in her life.
Saxton shook his head for a long time. "I loved your sister," he said. "And I know without a doubt that you killed her." The tremor to his voice glazed Isabella's eyes as she heard every ounce of suffering within it. "I do not understand how you are even allowed to stand here, where she lies dead because of you." He shook his head.
Edward walked over to his friend. "Let her say her goodbyes. If we leave, her walls will come undone, I believe she will truly suffer for it. But not when we are around," the masked general whispered.
Saxton's brown hair glistened in the candlelight, his eyes shone like black gems in their yellowish light. "If Edward Cullen asks, then I shall agree," he murmured.
Isabella stared as the broken man left them, only to be met by her husband's stern gaze. "We have to go as well, Isabella," he said to her.
"No," she shook her head. "I refuse."
He took her hands in his, ignoring the affection he displayed before Victoria. She already knew how much they loved one another. His gloved hand brushed her cheek. "Trust me," he whispered in her ear, the warm air tickled her skin.
She turned to look at Victoria who had not even turned around, but only waited for them to leave.
Isabella finally reluctantly took his hand in hers and lead him away to the stairs.
A moment passed where Victoria knew she was not watched anymore. She stared at the coffin in complete and utter fear. She did not wish to see what lay within it, but she had to.
She wafted her gloves and let her fingers trail the glazed mahogany, slipping against the surface, hovering above the iron closing by the side. Maybe it was all some strange dream her mind had conjured. Maybe she would wake up and find that they were all in Wessport, all well, all alive—even father.
The coffin rested mid-height, just above her hips and the lid was heavier than she would have suspected. Victoria fought hard to make it open fully.
She froze once she saw the corpse inside, the woman who was no longer her sister.
Rosalie's skin was grayish, her lips dark, her face had started to sink in. Her skin looked strange, almost as if made of wax. Her little sister had turned into a lifeless doll—so beautiful, even in death. Yes, Victoria had always been elevated as a beauty in Angloa. But Rosalie with her golden locks and eyes, her delicate features and gentle smile, had been overlooked. Yet, Victoria could not ignore them now; could not ignore that her sister had always held the true beauty of the family; a beauty that emerged from the inside and out. A beauty their mother had had as well.
She felt her cheeks stain with her tears as her face twisted in pain, as she leaned over her sister and cried; as she had come there to do.
Victoria, who had lost her capital to the English, stood there in complete defeat, not willing even now to realize she had to give up for the good of Angloa. Standing by the sight of her sister's grave, clutching at her corpse, the queen let her frustrations out in her crying until there was nothing left, only a void.
The minutes passed into hours until she was finally done. There were no tears left to spill. She closed the coffin, overcome by a strange fatigue.
She left the crypts, not even bothering to alert anyone as she slipped away in the darkness to her small escort. But maybe they wanted it that way; acting as if she had never even been there.
She mounted her horse in the courtyard as she saw the shadow of her former general close in on them.
"Has Rosalie's death made you see reason?" came the dark voice.
She sat on her horse for a long while, looking at him, at this man that, for some strange reason people decided to trust in.
"It has made my path clearer," Victoria answered honestly.
"I believed you could change once—as did Rosalie," he stated.
A small, genuine smile trailed across her tired features. "This war must end, one way or another, Cullen," Victoria said. She saw his lips press into a thin line and an unspoken moment passed between them. "She was the only family I had left—"
He did not contest that. Victoria was now alone in the world for to him, she was not his sister anymore. She never had been; only an enemy.
"William Fell has been lenient enough to let you enter Adelton, despite the many protests of the lords that now follow him," he whispered, getting closer to her. She held her breath as he walked up to her where she sat on her horse. Even now he held a spell over her and Victoria could not leave the sight of those enigmatic eyes even for a second. How they captivated her, how they stirred something deep and primal within her, making her shift in her seat.
"He believes that you could lay down your weapons, fight against the English with us—"
"The time for such things has come to an end," the sad queen said. "But I think you know that. Give him my thanks, for having allowed me this. But I will not acknowledge this William Fell as my sovereign. Let him know that he should cast aside any silly ideas of crowning himself. Wessport is lost, New London will fall soon. I will find my way to my rightful place on the throne once more. It is a friendly warning, back down now and I will forgive everyone who followed my sister."
But the masked man before her, who had stoically listened to her words, shook his head. Victoria, despite herself, nodded in acceptance. "I understand." A part of her realized the followers of her sister would never back down. She had gone too far, and she would never regain their love or respect again.
"The next time you appear like this before us, we may not be so lenient."
She chuckled. "You could kill me now and have this war over with," she started. Laughing felt strangely out of place to her. Victoria silenced her unnatural reaction as she leaned forward. "But we both know your damned honor would not let you. It will be your undoing one day, Cullen. Mark my words."
They stood, faces mere inches from one another until she finally enticed her horse into a rapid gallop, eager to put some distance between herself and the masked fiend.
Edward stared after the queen and felt his hands turn into fists, felt the anger and sadness spread across his being.
November 4th – Adelton Hall
All of the united lords south of New London looked to him now, looked to William Fell and Edward Cullen to lead them.
He looked up, piercing green eyes staring at each face as if assessing it. He knew his duty to his country. He wondered what his mother would say if she were still alive. He wondered what Claudine would say. Two women who had given their lives for him in one way or another, and despite it all, his destiny could not be escaped. The very thought that he had no control over his life bore down hard on him.
Alas, he did not let it show.
"We ride to New London, my lords," his strong, smooth voice boomed. He let the words sink in for a moment. They needed more—wanted for him to speak the whole truth. Edward pushed his feet hard into the floor, fighting against showing any weakness. Carlisle sat by his right side, Saxton to his left. "There I take my sister's place," he continued.
In any other circumstance, if it had been anyone else, the situation might indeed have looked dire. For was it not strange for a long-lost prince to suddenly return? Strange to have his sister fall ill so that he could claim the throne in her stead and thus become king and rule? Indeed, maybe that thought had passed through their minds. But the look on William's face the first time he had firmly spoken against takin the crown, the throne, ruling Angloa—it had been the look of a man who spoke the truth and nothing but the truth. They knew, however, that he would fulfill his duty. In that respect, he was so like his father.
"And in New London?" Glovendale dared to ask as he looked to his new leader.
Edward shook his head. "Let us get to New London first." There were no more words to say. He would go there and deal with it as it came. He needed a plan of action, he needed guidance from men that knew him—truly knew who he was.
November 9th – Wessport
The gates opened for her with a loud protest. Victoria Fell wrinkled the nose at the battered city as she entered with her entourage. Some of her lords had refused to come. She had taken care of them, others had escaped in the night. But she would find them. And she would take care of them as well.
Her horse took her through the frozen mud up to the palace—her old home. She saw the cross of Saint George everywhere. The English were truly demonstrating their claim of her city. But she would keep a leash on her temper and deal with them not as a queen, but as a diplomat. For Angloa was still hers.
She had considered at one point to fend off the English once she'd gotten a better grip of her country. Victoria found, however, that it was not meant to be. She would have to sell off her country so that she could remain on her throne, and she started realizing the price she was paying for it.
What was left of her army was outside of the city gates; not allowed to enter. The only loyal lords left were Alistair and a handful of others. Launël had been one of those who had fled.
She got off her horse and walked past the guards into her palace with Alistair by her side. The other lords followed, already knowing what she was about to do.
Wessport Palace had strangely lost its luster. What had once been a grand building with a vast court full of courtiers stood emptier than ever. The nobility had either fled to Adelton Hall, Zafra in the south, New London or their own country estates to take shelter. There were few left in Wessport except for Amalia Rajac, still held captive. Monica Savoie was also there, now a widow.
General Percy Beauchamp waited for her in the Throne Room, standing right next to the throne. He looked around, a big smile splitting his face in two. He had finally achieved what he'd set out to do almost four years prior—take the capital of Angloa. The rest of the road was now paved out for him and his troops to take the rest of the island. That they should've had an internal conflict suited them rather well.
He saw the queen enter and turned to welcome her with open arms. "Finally, we meet in Wessport!" he exclaimed jovially.
Victoria had no smile plastered on her features. "You were not to come with your armies Beauchamp," she growled at him. "Nor take my capital."
He wafted a lazy hand in the air. "Yes, yes, I know the agreement you have with my country." The smile grew sly. "But you were losing, and we had to take action." His head cocked to the side. "Besides, you sent your army to fight us off. Treating us like enemies goes against the agreement we had."
Victoria put up a hand. "I will remind you that you are speaking to the Queen of Angloa and you should show some respect!" Her eyes drilled holes into him and he could not help it as his smile slipped slightly. Say what they wanted about the mad queen, she was still fierce enough to command some respect and silence within him. "Those men who you met up north were a rogue force fighting for my sister. And those men that rode out of Wessport to meet you were headed by a Frenchman by the name Savoie—he did not act upon my command."
The general muttered something under his breath that Victoria did not quite catch.
"So, tell me, general, what justifies your sacking of Wessport? The agreement still stands because I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. Now you have to do yours. I will help you take down the pretender in New London and in turn you allow me to remain as Queen of Angloa."
Alistair kept his eyes on the ground, he knew of this deal since long before. But a part of him still felt shame. He would gain a great many riches and lands form this, not to mention the power. But he felt like he had long since sold his soul to the devil. Alas, the coward did not speak. Not anymore.
"Alright… the deal remains," Percy Beauchamp said with a hesitance lacing his voice. "But when all this is over, we reserve our right as a country to decide which people you may take prisoners, and which you will not—"
"Who I decide to imprison or execute for their treason against me is none of your or your king's business," Victoria spat, ignoring the irony of her words.
"You know what we spoke of when we set this whole ordeal up all those years ago. And you will keep to those words," he smirked.
Victoria rose an eyebrow in distaste. She did not like this man. Hopefully, he would not be the one remaining to watch over her as she governed Angloa. One thing was certain, the queen was not to be a puppet. She would make that clear as soon as the one who said to be her brother was killed as well.
"Let us start by marching on New London, then we may discuss the future," Victoria stated with staccato tones lacing her voice, the venom evident as she spoke. He did not seem as affected when he clearly saw he had touched a nerve.
She was about to head to her old rooms, for now, she was to take residence in Wessport once more when he spoke after her before she left the room. "Terribly sorry about your sister!" the general said her way. Victoria stopped, frozen in her tracks. Could he know? No, impossible.
The queen turned around. "I will meet you in the assembly room in an hour, general, to discuss New London. Do not be late."
She left with haste, Alistair promptly following her, the queen growling for him to find Amalia and Monica. She wanted her court ladies by her side to take the bulk of her anger once more. And Alistair wouldn't have it any other way.
November 12th – New London
He sat by the window that overlooked an inner courtyard. Mosaics in blue, topaz and white lined the floor. Some browned leaves had yet to be swept away by the chilly winds. He had gotten the royal chambers of Aldea, the palace of New London.
Isabella had decided to come with him.
The first day of their arrival, all lords who had remained in the newly conquered city had let him know of their supposed sorrow. Even Thorpe had dared to approach the prince with his false laments. Lord Graham had seemed genuine to him, as had Quinn—even Alan.
Rosalie was gone, one of his pillars, a figure of strength and stability in his life had disappeared forever. The only ones he now confided in were Jacob, Carlisle, and Isabella. And, even to some strange extent, he had sought out Friar Nicholas as well. The day of their departure he had spoken a long time with him, trying to see sense in things. Nicholas was reasonable, not spurred by political thought like the others might be. Edward had been shown what path he should take as it had so clearly been presented before him.
In a few hours, they would all gather at the Throne Room of Aldea where Edward would share his supposed plan with them. He did not yet fully know what that plan was. He knew he'd have to be made king. But they did not hold Wessport where he was supposed to be crowned.
Isabella snuck her way into his rooms with the help of Jacob who stood on the lookout.
"Sulking does not suit a prince," she said as she walked over to him, planting a loving kiss on his cheek and then sitting down on one of the settees in the room.
He ignored her statement and kept looking at the dead leaves on the mosaic courtyard down below. A maid walked past, not knowing the prince was regarding her with pensive eyes.
"You are lost," a voice suddenly whispered in his ear. Edward jumped surprised. Somehow Isabella had soundlessly snuck up on him, just right next to him and leaned over his shoulder.
"You know what I have to do in the Throne Room," he murmured to her.
Isabella went to bite her lip, following his gaze and staring at the rustling leaves. "One year," she whispered to him, never removing her chocolate eyes from the dancing dead leaves.
"What?" he asked, tearing his gaze away from them to meet her.
Isabella smiled, a mixture of sadness and happiness expressed in it. Her chestnut locks were pushed back, her navy-blue gown flowing out behind her as she sat. Jacob stared at the ground keeping silent in their presence.
"It has been more than one year now since we first met."
It surprised him that she would remember. She shifted in her seat, taking his hand lovingly in hers.
"Since the beginning, you have always struck me as someone who knew what he had to do, this strange confidence I could not explain. And it has always made me safe—made me believe in you and your capabilities." Isabella paused, holding his forest green eyes steadfast with her chocolate ones. "I trust in you wholeheartedly, Edward. I trust you beyond anything words could ever explain. That is why I know you will walk to the lords and you will tell them what we both know you have to tell them."
He knew where she was going with her words, yet he did not stop her, only squeezed her hand.
"You will be king, and you will guide us in this conflict to end it. You do not represent yet another player in this war—you are the one who will end it, Edward. That is why you stepped forth. That is why they wish to follow you."
"If I become king, there might be a slight chance we could never be—" He could not bring himself to utter the final words.
Her expression did not falter, her eyes did not lower or shy away from his. To his surprise, another soft smile broke her features. But this one held more impact for he saw hope kindled within it. "We will find a way, Edward. And when the time comes, you and I will deal with it."
He knew what she was doing. She was giving him her permission. Isabella had known the reason for his hesitance. And it was her. Mainly her. Alas, she would not stand in the way for ending such a vast conflict. She refused to be selfish. A part of her knew that coming clean and telling the lords who Edward truly was could be disastrous. And would they truly find such a chance after the war ended? She did not even wish to think of it.
Her eyes trailed over his handsome features. She knew they would follow him if he would only lead. Edward was natural, a true ruler.
"Telling them the truth now might not be such a good idea. Let the war end—tell them who truly fought for them as Edward Cullen if you wish." She still held hopes that they would be together. For, indeed, how strange would it look if Isabella Swan was to suddenly switch Edward Cullen for William Fell after all knew of her love for the first?
He reached out for her, ignoring Jacob's presence altogether and embraced his wife. "I love you," he whispered gently into her ear. He savored the scent of her hair, of her sweet fragrance. He held her longer than was proper. He did not care. "I love you with all my heart," he said again.
"And I you—as William Fell and Edward Cullen. I love the man you have turned into." She held him strongly as well. "I love everything about you, Edward," she sighed into his arms.
Realization dawned on him that Isabella was slowly turning into another pillar of strength, slowly replacing that which Rosalie had been.
Jacob looked at the loving couple with a sad expression on his features. "Edward," he interrupted after a while. "Tis' time," he continued.
Isabella broke away from him before he could. With one look she had said it all. He had her full support, her full trust, and her full love.
Edward had always been pulled in both directions; one of love and another of duty. Yet, now it seemed love pushed him toward duty. And he would do as Isabella had urged him to do.
The prince of Angloa walked to the Throne Room accompanied by Jacob Black and General Cullen.
His lords awaited him in the impressive marble throne room, high in roof with tall windows letting the mid-morning light seep inside. All colors of autumn were fading now, as they awaited the first snowfall: arriving later than usual this year.
The marble seemingly made the room coldly echo. He felt as if he were back in the east, for some strange reason. As if he was sitting in the westernized palace of the sultan of the Ottoman Empire himself.
Edward sat down, noticing Thorpe was there. He would have to take care of the cardinal. His involvement in the coup was obvious, yet with no witnesses nor evidence pointing in that direction, there was little he could do.
Athar sneered at the cardinal, as did Glovendale. Both were outraged to find him in the throne room but had little time to fuss about it before the prince came.
"Victoria has joined forces once more with the English—and openly this time," Saxton stated without any other pleasantries. They were jumping straight into business. "And not only my spies tell me of this." His eyes sent daggers to Thorpe, who sat in stoic silence until the prince himself redirected his gaze toward him.
"I wonder something, Cardinal," Edward said in his direction.
The chubby cardinal shifted under the gaze of the prince. His small eyes squinted further, his thick fingers clasped together, and his red robes caught the sunlight, stabbing their eyes with their intensive color. "I am at your disposal, Your Highness," he answered.
"From what General Cullen has explained, you played a part in the wrongful accusation of Thomas Athar. You also imprisoned General Cullen and Carlisle Chaeld when they passed briefly through Rome and have been known to imply that you were involved in Victoria Fell's overthrowing of Jasper."
Thorpe's eyes shifted from Athar to Glovendale, Graham and the other lords. Most looked sourly at him. He stared at the prince once more, now leaning forward with a disinterested look on his face.
"Tell me now why I shouldn't throw you into the dungeons."
"Your Highness!" Thorpe stated. "Lord Athar's imprisonment was based on true evidence. Lady Swan's own maid—who also served Lord Cullen—testified. I never conjured up such evidence. The same can be said for the documents I found in his office. As for the incident in Rome," he looked at Carlisle and bit back a remark. "I apologize to General Cullen for any discomfort I may have caused him—"
"But you still remained in Wessport—were even welcomed there by Victoria herself—" Carlisle growled.
Thorpe shrugged his shoulders. "I took a neutral stance in this conflict. Most of it I spent in Rome. I tried to keep out as much as possible."
"Yet now you are taking sides," Edward added. He knew he had little to go on that would incriminate Thorpe. Even after the minor inquisition against him, there was still little he could do legally unless Thorpe confessed his involvement. And such a thing would, of course, never happen.
"Because I realize where Victoria is headed. I stay true to the crown." He bowed his head to Edward. "And you are truly who you say you are, I can see your father's resemblance in you. By right of birth, thus by God, you are entitled to the throne she claims to hold." The words were flattering, but many there knew the viper would switch sides in a heartbeat if it favored him.
He had to tolerate Thorpe, as Carlisle had so kindly put it. But for Carlisle, it was easy, for he could openly show his distaste for the cardinal while in the guise of the masked general. Edward himself had never had an acquaintance with Thorpe as William Fell and could therefore not have an opinion of the man.
"I had to ask, Cardinal," the prince stated. Thorpe brushed it off once he was sure he was safe once more in their company. Athar was aghast, having wanted William to cast the cardinal aside. Yet, Thorpe was powerful, and they could still make use of his influences and power. "What have you heard from the north?"
"I might have heard news from my fellow priests in Wessport as well," he started. "Indeed, Victoria has been seen in Wessport in the company of Percy Beauchamp."
Edward fought hard not to react at the name of the English general whom he had fought during the previous war—a man who he had only met once while under his other persona. No doubt Beauchamp was keen on taking down Edward Cullen once and for all.
Athar had remained silent all this while. As had Glovendale, Irias and Raleigh, those of the highest ranks in that room, besides the prince, of course.
"The real question is now, Your Royal Highness, how we proceed," Athar said as he leaned forward. His gray eyes flickered, his white hair was pushed back, and he held Edward's face in his sight, anticipating his answer. The prince could hear the old advisor hold his breath as he awaited the younger man's answer. He knew what he wanted to hear.
"We must rally our forces and fight my sister," Edward stated as if it was the most obvious thing.
"Of course," Irias interrupted. The thin lord with brown hair nodded along. "But that is not what we are referring to. What will you do now?"
The green orbs of the prince shifted about the room, bathed in the strong rays of the sun. He took in the silent magnificent splendor. He took in the poise, the sheer majesty of that throne room. His eyes darted to where the new throne sat, the throne of olden kings. He could savor the answer on the tip of his tongue, wishing to break past his lips. He feared its impact, feared the future it would bring him. But, in a strange way, he wanted to say it. The answer held the key to his destiny, the key to Angloa's future.
"Rosalie didn't crown herself… She thought it blasphemous to have two queens claiming the divine right of the crown—at the same time nonetheless," he began. The wooden chair grew stiff against his back and he saw their eyes locked on to him. He looked at the throne once more, deciding not to fear it anymore.
"But I do not feel that way."
Seven words echoed strangely eerie in that room. Seven words that made Athar's heart jump in his chest, inflicting a strange sort of emotion within most of them. They waited for him to continue, anticipated it as if they were watching the unbelievable happen.
"I have sworn to myself that I shall only meet Victoria as an equal, my lords." He looked out over his council. "And that means meeting her only as another royal—only as a king."
Athar gulped, feeling the goosebumps etch their way onto his skin. This was what he had fought for, for so long. This was what he had hoped ever since he had heard Leonore was with child. But he had never dared.
Irias broke the silence first. "Wessport is under English occupation, Your Royal Highness—"
"I will not be crowned in Wessport," Edward interrupted. He let silence reign, and none dared break it. However, Thorpe deemed it worthy to intercede.
"With all due respect, but all kings and queens of Angloa have been crowned in Wessport for as long as I can remember."
"Not always, Cardinal. For, tell me, where were they crowned before the English occupation? Where were the three kings crowned at the end of the war of independence?" he asked.
It started dawning on them that he was implying, and they widened their eyes. A boyish grin spread on Saxton's features as he looked at Carlisle, no doubt thinking General Cullen had passed on the idea to the prince.
"But it is New London," Raleigh dared as he too understood what the prince was saying.
"You cannot be crowned here," Fawkes growled, almost as if insulted.
"No, Fawkes, in that you are right. I could not crown myself in New London," Edward agreed. The stigma of the once splendid capital of Angloa having been turned into an English stronghold was still very much present. "But I can crown myself in Safeira."
The sunlight passed over the blue rooftops of the city, making them glisten in the cold day. The men sat around the table as if mute, not really knowing what to answer.
"But that is…" Thorpe dared to say, alas not knowing how to continue.
Now it was Carlisle who spoke on Edward's behalf. "Safeira was once the seat of Angloa—once our capital. Why do we not take her back? Why can we not show the whole country that we are restoring the old to its former glory?"
Something warm started expanding in most chests. Saxton nodded vigorously. "It was only a few hundred years ago until we stopped crowning kings and queens here. But New London—Safeira is the true seat of power. His Royal Highness is right. If he is crowned king here, as the true son and heir of Philip Fell, in the ancient capital, he removes any legitimacy Victoria ever had when she was crowned in Wessport. He restores the true legitimacy here."
Indeed, it was a brilliant plan, and most started seeing that. Even Lord Graham, who was present as well.
"The Cathedral of Wessport was constructed in the name of your father, Your Royal Highness," Thorpe started with his nasal tone. "Turning your back on that is turning your back on the work your father put down in raising a new city," he smirked.
Edward looked at him a long while. "Wessport has been tainted by Victoria. She has sullied it with the executions, with letting the enemy in, with killing our cousin within its walls. And while my father made the city become prosperous and built up to become a powerhouse, his daughter has torn all that work down already. My lords, I will only be crowned if it is here—and if the city is restored to its previous name: Safeira."
The ultimatum hung in the air of the throne room, anticipation slick. It was heavy, it was loaded with emotion. But they all nodded.
"Then we have your first decree, Your Royal Highness," Lord Graham stated. "All shall know how New London will change back to be called Safeira once more—"
"And who will crown you?" interrupted Cardinal Thorpe.
"Who crowned Victoria?" asked Athar the cardinal, wrinkling his nose at the constant interruptions.
Thorpe turned flustered. "It has always been the Bishop of Wessport who has crowned the kings and queens of Angloa since the time of Philip Fell."
"Yet such an honor should befall the Archbishop, don't you think? He is, after all, the most senior. Indeed, the Archbishop of Maesir."
Maesir was a region to the south, the seat of clerical power in Angloa. While the country did indeed have an archbishop, Cardinal Thorpe—who was also an ordained bishop by the church—had managed to grab onto more power as he was continuously going between Wessport and Rome.
The archbishop did not seek the same power as Thorpe, and thus he had decided to remain in his remote bishop's palace and await his final days. Thorpe hungered for the seat of the archbishop and was continuously worked toward his final goal—that of papacy.
"His Grace Clarence of Maesir has kept to his palace for the last decade—" Thorpe began.
"Then we shall call on him, for being crowned by the Archbishop should be the only way," Glovendale interrupted while sending a stern look Thorpe's way. He had no like for the cardinal either. He still remembered Edward and Carlisle being kept in their cells in Rome, how they had been beaten by the guards, hung and chained by Thorpe's request.
"Send for him and make sure he is within the city walls before you proclaim this coronation to take place," Edward continued.
"Your Royal Highness, I do not think we should put the Archbishop through such an extenuating journey—"
"His Grace will come, as the prince has said. And the prince's word is final, Cardinal," Carlisle growled, emanating clear distaste for the man. "If you have any objections to his decision take it up with me."
Thorpe paled, and Edward fought hard to hide the smirk. The other lords closed their ears to the confrontation—all except Graham, Irias, and Glovendale. Irias had no love for Thorpe either, but so mindlessly casting such a highly respected man of the country aside was unwise. For now, they needed him on their side. The treatment of Thorpe started giving Graham some ideas.
A/N: Hey there! Another chapter, they're coming out fast now, eh? I'm trying to finish this fic before the 24th of December as a sort of Christmas present to you all :D I keep saying there isn't a lot left all the time but it is true, I swear. There are around 30+ chapters or so, but I've been cutting out a lot of unnecessary parts (I do love my details!). I'll try to see if I can update again at the start of next week!
Hoping you like it!
Cheers,
Isabelle