Chapter 76
Isabella’s POV
Prince Philip paused at the city gates, gesturing for all to halt. With careful reverence, he adjusted my father's cedar statue in his arms, ensuring it would be the first to pass through the gates. The gesture - so simple yet profound - caught in my throat. Around us, every soldier bearing a memorial statue maintained a solemn dignity that even the cheering crowds couldn't disturb.
As we approached the throne, I kept my eyes lowered, conscious of the weight of my brother's statue in my arms and the even heavier weight of hundreds of watching eyes.
Prince Philip's voice rang clear through the street: "Your Majesty, by the grace of God and your blessed fortune, Prince Philip and Duke Godfrey de Montfort, along with our brave soldiers, have reclaimed the Holy Land!"
The street erupted in cheers, and I saw tears streaming down weathered faces of veteran commanders. Even the King's composure wavered as his gaze fell upon the cedar likenesses of my father and brothers. He cleared his throat several times before speaking.
When he finally approached me, I maintained my soldier's stance, though my arms ached from the long journey. The sun had darkened my skin, but I kept my spine straight, my chin level. In his eyes, I saw the shadow of our last meeting - when he had dismissed my pleas for aid, suspecting them to be motivated by mere romantic entanglement.
"The House of Montfort has served us well," he declared, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "You have done your family proud."
I held my composure, though my heart thundered in my chest. This was what validation felt like - not the quiet satisfaction of personal achievement, but the public acknowledgment of sacrifices made and honor upheld.
"Your father's spirit will rest easier now," the King added softly, and for a moment I had to bite the inside of my cheek to maintain control.
The triumph procession that followed was a blur of sound and color. The King had granted me the honor of riding in the same carriage as Prince Philip and the other memorial-bearing commanders. From this vantage point, I could see William, struggling to stay mounted due to his injuries - wounds taken in Beatrice's stead. His brother Edmund rushed to his side, concern evident on his face.
"William, you're hurt! Is it serious?"
"It's nothing, brother. Just a minor wound," William grimaced, though the way Edmund's eyes narrowed at Beatrice suggested the Beauchamp household had already heard the rumors.
Emma, Thomas and other servants ran alongside our carriage, crying and laughing as they caught sight of the memorial statues. Their joy at having something of their lords to welcome home pierced through my carefully maintained composure.
Emma's laughter rang out behind me, all propriety forgotten in her joy. She chased after my carriage like a child, her face streaked with happy tears. Prince Philip watched her with an unexpected smile.
"I remember her falling from that apple tree at St. Mary's," he remarked, his eyes distant with memory. "Nearly gave the sisters a heart attack."
I turned to him in surprise. "You visited the convent?"
"Yearly." His fingers traced the edge of his sword hilt. "Seeking guidance from your mentors, though I noticed you always avoided Father Geralt's quarters."
The observation caught me off guard. "You knew about that?"
He smiled slightly. "Everyone feared his stern justice, even your mentor Vesemir. The dark chamber in his quarters saw many a penitent student."
I felt a strange flutter in my chest. All those years at St. Mary's, and I'd never known Prince Philip had been there, watching, learning about me through the stories of my childhood misdeeds.
The great hall was transformed for the victory feast, silver candelabras casting warm light across tables laden with delicacies. The guest list was carefully curated - William was present, and Beatrice's absence. A page approached with word that the Queen Mother wished to see me after the feast.
I hadn't paid my respects to her after my marriage to William, too occupied with tending his ailing mother and managing the Beauchamp household. Now, everything was different.
The wine flowed freely as nobles vied to toast Prince Philip and myself. Deputy Marshal Reginald, his face flushed with drink, suddenly turned to William.
"Any regrets about your choices, Sir William?" he asked loudly, making several nearby conversations falter.
I kept my expression neutral, though I noticed William's hand tighten on his goblet, his eyes flickering toward me before dropping away. There was regret there, certainly, but whether for his choices or merely their consequences, I couldn't tell.
"We should thank the Marshal's office for the winter supplies," Prince Philip's voice cut through the awkward moment. "They proved crucial to our victory. A toast to Lord Aldrich."
High Marshal Aldrich rose quickly to return the toast, relief evident in his voice. "The credit belongs to Your Highness's valor. Providing supplies was merely our duty."