Good morning, lovelies!

Thank you to Mel and Pamela!

Chapter 17

Once again, I wake alone. This time, there is a slip of parchment on the pillow beside me.

I have gone to train with Michael and did not have the heart to wake you.

Edward

I stare at the loops of his writing, realizing that I have never seen it before. It is the first letter he's ever written to me. I am surprisingly wounded by this and place the note back down on the pillow, letting out a long, weary sigh.

My heart is heavy with the accusations against Edward. I feel in my heart I know him—I love him, truly—but my mind is less certain of everything. How well do I really know him? He has kept me at a distance in so many ways, he very well could be hiding things from me.

I lift a hand, rubbing it across my chest, as if I can ease the ache there.

There is a knock at the door, and I sit up, calling for the visitor to enter. I recognize one of Rosalie's maids as she comes in carrying a tray.

"My Lady," she says with a small curtsey. "Your breakfast."

I nod in surprise and she sets the tray on the small table before she turns to the hearth to stoke the fire. "Did my husband send it?" I ask her as I climb out of bed. I move across the room, retrieving my dressing gown and pull it on before she turns to look at me.

"No, m'lady. 'Twas sent by the duchess."

My heart sinks. "I see," I say softly. "Thank you."

She nods and dips one more time before leaving the room. I make my way to the tray, eyeing the eggs and porridge. My stomach is in knots over Edward, but I know that if I do not eat here and now, I will be too self-conscious in front of the court ladies to eat much later, so I sit and force myself to take a portion of food.

The taste is more than adequate, but somehow lacks in comparison to the food from Rowanberry.

Never have I been so homesick.

Not even the allure of spending time with my sister has eased this trip for me. I can feel myself counting down the days, yearning to return home to my quiet life, one where judgment and betrayal are not awaiting me around every corner.

At the thought of betrayal, my mind suddenly conjures Madre Maria's message to me all those weeks ago.

Listen to me closely …There is a darkness looming in your future. A terrible loss. You must learn to hear what is not being said and see what is not seen … You must have courage. Find your voice and use it … There is a horrible betrayal ahead of you ... You cannot trust the Lion.

My hands are shaking and a spoon clatters from my grasp back onto the tray. Madre Maria couldn't have known, could she? She couldn't have been talking about Edward.

The Lion … Le Lion …

It cannot be.

My head is spinning, and I feel as if I will be sick.

I race across the room, finding a basin that is used for washing, and bend over it in time for my breakfast to come back up. My body retches at the thought that Edward could be this person, this monster, that they all have described him to be.

It cannot be. It cannot be.

Tears are streaming down my face as I lean back against a wall, pushing the basin far from me. I cannot accept this news. I must speak to Edward directly.

Despite my surety, it takes me a long time to gather myself off the floor and dress. Except, the court dresses are more complicated than my simple frocks, and midway through, I realize I will need help. Miserable, I don my robe again and exit our bedroom chambers, seeking a maid.

Two are walking past with linens in their arms, and I reach a hand up to flag them down. "Please, will you send someone to my rooms to help me dress?" My voice is too soft and weak, and I hate myself for the vulnerability I am displaying.

The maids stare at me with wide eyes but nod, one passing off her linens to the other. "I shall help you, m'lady," she says, turning to me.

I move back to my rooms with the maid following me. "What is your name?" I ask as we enter my bedchamber. I turn in time to see a look of surprise on her young face.

"Johanna Beckett," she says, dipping into a quick curtsey.

I nod. "May I call you Johanna?" It is an inappropriate request, I know. I am informal with Angela, but that is in the privacy of our own home.

Johanna looks surprised. "Oh, well, yes if m'lady wishes it," she says, sounding as if she wants anything but informality between us. I immediately feel bad for asking.

She moves across the room, picking up the gown I was trying to dress in before. She looks at me expectantly, and I shed my robe, moving in front of her. Her movements are quick and efficient, and sooner than I would have guessed, I am prepared for the day.

"Are you finished with your breakfast?" Johanna asks, motioning to the tray.

I wince. "I am." I point to the basin across the room. "I apologize, but I was sick this morning."

She looks up and I catch a slight grimace on her face. "It is not a bother, m'lady. It will be attended to."

I sigh. "Thank you, Miss Beckett."

She gives me a tiny smile as she whisks the tray out of the room. Dressed and without anything further to distract me, I gather my things and head out, looking for Edward.

Countess Middleton and Baroness Stukely find me during my search for my husband several hours later.

"Lady Cullen," the countess says, her voice still honeyed and child-like. "My, you look…" She pauses, and a cruel smile comes across her lips. "Lovely, my dear. Just lovely."

Her words are laced with malice, and I know that according to her rules, I have committed some sort of faux pas already, even though I have done nothing more than dress for the day.

"It is good to see you, Countess Middleton, Baroness Stukely," I say, dipping into quick curtseys. "If you will excuse me though, I seek my husband."

Countess Middleton shakes her head, wrapping her arm through my own. "Oh certainly not," she protests. "The duchess is hosting a luncheon in the garden. We must go at once."

I open my mouth to protest, but the baroness comes up beside me, looping her arm through my other elbow. "You shall be fine dressed like that," she tells me, not unkindly.

They drag me outside of the castle to the gardens that stretch around it. There is a pavillion of tents erected on the far side of the gardens, and I take that to be our destination.

"I hope we did not upset you yesterday," the countess says, looking me over. "It must be frightful to be married to such a monstrous man. We did not mean to cause you any undue stress over the matter."

I can tell by her tone that it had been her exact intention to do just that.

"My husband is a noble man," I say, urging my voice to be steady. "I am hardly fickle enough to sway in my marriage over silly gossip." I almost believe my own words.

Beside me, I catch the countess's mouth purse quickly. "Indeed," she agrees, and I do not think it is my imagination that she grabs my arm a little rougher.

We arrive in the pavilion shortly thereafter, and I am weary to see brand new faces looking back at me. Introductions are brief, and I do not catch a single name or title properly. Rosalie is seated far from me, and because of my social standing, there is no way for me to get any closer, so I resign myself to my spot, miserable.

As predicted, I am not able to stomach much food, though by now I am actually hungry. Despite the feast before us, the women hardly eat. I manage a nibble of a pear tart and two bites of pheasant.

My entire day is filled with gossip and women giving me wide-eyed stares when they discover whom it is I am married to. It is such a terrible, miserable feeling, and all day, I long to leave these gossiping women and find my husband.

But just as evening before, I do not catch sight of him even once, and once again I am asleep before he ever makes it back to our rooms.

Nearly the whole week passes in a similar vein. I do not see Edward at all, for he rises before me and leaves to train, and then I am utterly consumed by the women of the court. I have made no friends, have not spent a single moment with my niece, and have had no chance to speak to my sister. I have never felt so lost and alone.

Two days before the king is meant to arrive and the ball officially begins, Rosalie makes a terrible announcement.

"My dear friends," she calls, her smile wide and the discomfort of her pregnancy momentarily wiped from her face. "Today, his Grace has had a truly marvelous idea," she says. "He has decided to host a friendly tournament, and he has requested that the wives of the men be in attendance to cheer for their champions."

Around the room, excited titters break out, but I feel a cold sweat sweep my neck. A tournament? What sort? What will Edward be made to do?

Before I can protest, we are being ushered from the castle and across the grounds to an arena filled with various weapons. There are raised seats around the edge, and we file in according to our rank. I am one of the farthest down from Rosalie, and I twist in my chair, wishing I could speak to her.

There is a sharp sound of trumpets and then the duke is entering the arena, grinning at the filling seats. It is more than the wives come to watch, and the fuller the arena gets, the more anxious I become.

"My subjects!" the duke bellows. "What a momentous occasion this is!" There is a loud cheer coming from the stands, and I feel my heartbeat quicken. "In my wisdom and generosity, I have decided to host this tournament to celebrate our daring general's return from battle." He turns and motions across the arena. My heart sinks when I see Edward dressed in his war regalia, the metal of his armor shining brightly in the sun. He lifts a hand and waves quickly to the crowd.

No.

"Let the tournament begin!" the duke calls before marching out of the arena.

I do not want to watch Edward fight. Part of me fears seeing him injured, and another part of me is terrified at the prospect of seeing the bloodlust people have accused him of. My hands shake in my lap as my eyes stay fixed on my husband. He is one of the tallest in the line of men, but he is not the broadest. My eyes trace over the insignia painted on the shield attached to his arm—the lion and three lilies—and I feel as if I am going to be ill.

I have never watched any sort of combat. Jousting tournaments are old-fashioned and outdated, something that has not been done for a long time. Yet I can see as the men prepare to fight one another, the crowd is gaining some sort of perverse joy at the prospect of bloodshed.

I silently pray for it all to end.

The first two men to compete climb upon their mounts, their armor bright and shining in the summer sun. I recognize one of that as Marquess Harcourt, and my eyes dart down the line to the marchioness who looks positively ill at seeing her husband in the arena. I want to reach out to her, to comfort and assure her that she is not alone in her fear, but she is too far away, and the crowd is so loud, there is no hope of my words being heard.

A moderator steps forth, looking between the two men and explains the rules of combat. I can barely hear him over the growing chants and shouts around me. I see a flag wave, and then the arena is cleared apart from the two men on horses. A breath later, they are charging toward each other, lances braced.

The sound is horrifying, a cracking of wood and slamming of metals and bodies that sends a shudder deep down my spine. Marquess Harcourt is thrown from his mount, and I think surely he cannot carry on. But he discards his broken lance and takes up his sword as his opponent dismounts his own horse. The battle turns to sword fighting, and the clash of steel pulls shocked gasps from my lips.

It is terrible to watch.

The marquess receives a blow to his shoulder that I think will surely end him. His opponent's sword comes away bloody, but the marquess staggers back to his feet and continues to retaliate, his heavy weapon swinging wildly in his hands.

The battle ends when the marquess is somehow finally able to best his opponent, ridding the other man of his sword and forcing him to forfeit.

There are bloodthirsty calls and screams in the arena as the marquess turns to the duke and offers him a shaky bow.

I see the marchioness get up from her chair and slip through the seats, presumably racing to meet her husband.

The battles grow more and more violent as the day burns hotter and hotter. The crowd is vicious, calling for blood as the men tear each other apart in the arena.

I cannot understand the purpose of the whole affair. The duke is the highest-ranking noble here, but surely there is little sense to making his men fight like this? If they were all soldiers, I might be able to understand, but most of the men are nobles themselves, untrained and out of shape.

It is so senseless, I can barely stand to watch.

Then Edward is stepping into the arena, and my breathing stops completely.

He looks every inch the general standing there in his armor. He looks larger dressed in the regalia of war, formidable. I try to see his face, to look into his eyes so that I might be able to tell if this is enjoyment for him or not, but his helmet is in the way.

The match begins, and Edward bursts toward his opponent on his mount with such speed and precision, it is immediately made clear to me that none of the men that have come before him have ever seen war.

Edward's strike is so accurate his opponent is thrown from his mount, flying back much farther than anyone else thus far. Edward is off his horse in a heartbeat, not bothering to draw his sword as he advances.

He is stunning and terrifying, as quick and efficient as a viper as he dodges a blow from the man scrambling to get to his feet. In a single swift maneuver, Edward twists the man around, taking his sword and throwing the man back to the ground. Edward's boot lands on the man's chest, his own sword poised over his throat as he throws his hands up in surrender.

Edward's fight is by far the quickest, but I have seen all I need to. My husband is good at his work, too good.

He steps off the man's chest, hauling his defeated opponent to his feet before he turns to the duke. When he removes his helmet to bow, I am horrified at the bright smile on his face.

He has enjoyed this.

This is horror like I have never known it. I feel like I will be ill if I continue to sit here.

After the first round of fights has finished, the second round begins. This time—despite most of them being injured—the fighters are far more aggressive, and more than once, I am sick to my stomach as I watch red blood splatter across the arena.

When it is Edward's turn again, I cannot bring myself to witness it. I keep my eyes on my lap, tears streaming down my cheeks as I try to assure myself that my entire marriage is not a lie.

The crowd begins to chant, a name that carves the very heart from my chest.

Le Lion! Le Lion! Le Lion!

It is all too much, and before Edward's match is even finished, I am standing, striding out of the arena.

I can hear the crowd roaring as I make my way back to the castle, and I silently pray that Edward is unharmed. Despite my fear and uncertainty, I cannot deny the love my bruised heart still holds for him. He may not be the man I thought he was, but somewhere in his heart is a man I do know.

I just pray that he is stronger than Edward's instinct for violence.

The castle is nearly empty when I arrive back. I want nothing more than to go to my rooms and curl up, pretending this last week did not happen at all.

On my way upstairs, I am surprised when I run into Michael.

My husband's brother looks startled to see me, though his face quickly morphs into one of annoyance.

"Michael," I say, swiping the tears from my cheek.

"M'lady," he says, his voice stiff. "Are you heading to your rooms?" he asks, glancing at the staircase behind him.

I nod. "I am."

"But the tournament is still going," he counters.

I shake my head. "I am afraid I do not have much of a stomach for violence."

Michael's eyebrows tug into a frown, and for a very brief moment, he looks like Edward.

"Afraid of war and married to a general?" he asks. His tone is verging on mocking, and I fight a flinch. "It is no wonder why my brother wished to dissolve your marriage."

I feel like I might faint. "What?" I croak.

"He wrote to me shortly upon his return to Rowanberry," he says, his eyes hard. "He thought his marriage was an ill-match after all, and that it would be best if it were dissolved."

I can feel my body start to shake as I try to understand what he is saying. "You lie to me," I say, my voice a trembling whisper.

Michael reaches into his pocket, producing a worn parchment. "I do not. Here is the letter if you wish to see for yourself."

I stare at the parchment, hardly able to discern anything about it through my tears. After a long moment, I reach up, taking it from him.

"There is no shame in admitting when something does not work," Michael says gently. "A dissolvement will free the both of you, grant you a new life."

I turn my face, looking up at him in stunned silence.

"It is clear that your differences are too great to overcome," he continues. "My brother is a war hero. Violence and bloodshed are in his very nature. That is no life for someone such as you."

I crush the parchment to my chest.

"Thank you, Michael. You must excuse me." My voice is hollow and Michael nods, stepping aside. I move past him on aching limbs, tears streaming down my face as I finally make it back to our bedchamber.

The rooms are cold, and I realize that the fires have not been tended, leaving nothing but meagerly glowing embers.

Carefully, I pick up a log and set it on the hearth, hoping it will catch. I look at the crumpled letter in my palms and let out a shaking breath.

Sinking onto the chair before the fire, I open the letter.

Dearest Michael,

It was good to hear from you. I am happy to hear of your promotion and the news of home. You do not know how much my heart misses our family.

I have returned from the campaign to Rowanberry on schedule. In my last letter, I speculated what life might be like upon my arrival to the estate, but I am burdened with grief to report I have never been so wrong.

My wife is cold to our marriage and I suspect that she hates me. She can scarcely look at me without trembling in fear, and what is more, I do not blame her for it. She is a soft being, tender-hearted and innocent. I cannot imagine what it must be like to share a bed with a beast such as I.

Though I had hoped to make this marriage work, I fear that dissolution will be our only course. We are too different, and I do not know if this fear and loathing can be overcome. I cannot live like this, to be thought of as a monstrous beast of a man, and she will never see me as anything but that.

I have taken your news about the king seeking a suitor for his daughter under advisement. We shall speak further on this matter the next time we are able to meet.

I have been summoned to the duke's estate for his ball later this season. I hope that our schedules will align and that I will be able to see you again.

I have missed our talks.

Your brother,

Edward

I read over the words again and again, willing any of them to make sense. I move to our bedchamber, retrieving the note Edward left me several days ago and sit in front of the fire again, trying to compare the writing.

By my untrained eye, the hand looks the same, and my heart squeezes painfully in my chest.

Edward does not want me.

Fresh tears overcome me, and before I know what I am doing, I climb to my feet, leaving our rooms. I move on instinct, ascending farther through the castle until I am outside Rosalie's doors. She is down at the tournament along with everyone else, but I am in desperate need of a safe place.

I slip into her chambers, curling up on her bed. The moment my head is against a pillow, I burst into tears, so deep and raw, they shake my entire body to the core.

I sob until I fall into a fitful, terrible sleep.