Chapter 75

Isabella’s POV

He looked up from his work, his hands stilling on the carving tools. "Isabella. Please, enter."

I stepped forward, gathering my courage. "Your Highness, I wish to pray at the place where my father and brothers fell." The words caught slightly in my throat. "I believe their spirits still guard these lands, waiting for the day we would reclaim them."

A strange expression crossed his face. Without a word, he rose and moved to the silk-covered object. "I've already been there." His fingers lingered on the fabric. "Your father led me in my first battle..." With a gentle movement, he pulled away the silk.

The cedar statue stood about eight inches tall, but the likeness stole my breath. There was my father, Duke Godfrey de Montfort, captured in warm wood - his proud stance, the slight tilt of his head I remembered so well, even the way his hand always rested on his sword hilt. Tears welled in my eyes before I could stop them.

Prince Philip quietly offered me his handkerchief. I took it with trembling fingers, dabbing at my eyes before trying to return it. But his gaze lingered on the cloth, something unreadable in his expression. "Keep it," he said softly. "I owe your father far more than a handkerchief."

I nodded, unable to speak for a moment. Finally, I managed, "Then I needn't make the journey, since Your Highness has already honored them so beautifully."

He studied me for a long moment. "What are your plans after returning to the capital? A position at court, perhaps? Or..."

"My mother hopes I'll stay away from the military path." I smiled faintly. "She's had enough of sending family to war."

"And marriage?" His tone was carefully neutral. "A poor match can be annulled. There's always a chance for a better one."

I looked at the statue of my father. "I've already lost once in that game, I'd rather not gamble again."

"A wise choice, perhaps." He picked up a carving tool, running his thumb along its edge. "I myself have no plans to marry."

The statement hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken meaning that I chose not to examine too closely. Instead, I found myself considering the larger picture - the Holy Land reclaimed, our vengeance against Byzantium achieved. Yet new challenges loomed: Byzantine succession struggles that could spill into our borders, our own king's efforts to train young commanders.

News spread through the camp like wildfire: William had taken Beatrice's punishment. I watched as soldiers gathered in small groups, their voices carrying on the spring breeze.

"Twenty lashes," a young archer whispered. "Took them without a sound."

"Aye, he’s a real tough man." his companion replied. “But his wife is a real bitch, so hungry for glory that she got herself captured—”

They fell silent as Beatrice passed, her head held high though her steps were hurried. She had tried ignoring the whispers at first, maintaining her proud demeanor. But as the days passed and the murmurs grew louder, she retreated to her tent, citing her old wounds.

William bore it all in silence - what else could he do? How could he explain the chaos at St. Croix, the screams of villagers that still haunted our dreams? These things can’t be explained, and any attempt to do so will only make matters worse. Neither the Ironlance Knights nor the Prince's personal guard showed any sympathy for William. In their eyes, he had abandoned a faithful wife who had tended his parents for a year. Honor meant everything to these men, and he had forsaken his.

Days later, Prince Philip finalized the border garrison plans. I found myself assigned to escort my brothers' statues home, while he would carry my father's.

The journey home was a strange mixture of triumph and sorrow. In every town we passed, people lined the streets to cheer Prince Philip, the hero who had reclaimed the Holy Land. Yet I noticed how the whispers about Beatrice had spread even here - tales of her capture, her disruption of the siege, her desperate grab for glory. Byzantine spies had done their work well before Prince Philip had them identified and expelled. It would only be a matter of time before these stories reached the capital.

As we approached the Kingdom, I could hear the triumph bells ringing across the valley. The entire court had turned out to welcome us home. I held my eldest brother's statue close as we entered the city gates, Prince Philip beside me with my father's likeness in his arms.

The streets were a riot of color and sound. Trumpets blared as the Ironlance Knights led the procession, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. Behind them came the spoils of war - captured Byzantine standards, prized horses, ornate weapons taken from Moorish commanders. A choir of monks sang hymns of victory while children scattered rose petals in our path.

I kept my eyes fixed ahead, trying to focus on the weight of the cedar in my arms rather than the cheering crowds. This was what victory looked like - but all I could think of was the cost. How many fathers and brothers would never return to hear these triumph bells?

"Your father would be proud to see this day," Prince Philip said loudly beside me.

I nodded, unable to trust my voice. Victory tastes bittersweet when bought with so much blood.

"Make way for Prince Philip and Lady Isabella, heroes of the Holy Land!" the town crier called, his voice echoing off the stone walls.