Chapter 77

Beatrice’s POV

I huddled in the back of the creaking wagon, my fingers absently tracing the rough fabric covering half my face. Ahead, William's straight back remained turned to me, his shoulders stiff beneath his worn armor. Even when his wound clearly pained him, causing him to list in his saddle, he wouldn't accept my help.

"Stay in the wagon," he'd said earlier, his voice carrying none of its former warmth. "I need to check on the men up front." The same men who now crossed themselves and spat in the dirt.

I hadn't expected a triumphant return, but this silence was worse than any jeering could have been. Every hoofbeat seemed to echo with accusations. These were my men once, soldiers who had followed my commands without question. Now they huddled together, exchanging dark glances and whispers that carried just far enough for me to catch fragments:

"...got what she deserved..."

"...should've left her there..."

"...curse the day we followed a woman..."

My fingers clenched in my lap. Just months ago, I had ridden at the head of this same column, my armor gleaming, my orders sharp and sure. Now I was cargo, a shameful burden to be carried home and hidden away.

The wagon hit a rut, jolting me forward. I steadied myself against the wooden side, catching a glimpse of my reflection in a puddle of rainwater. Even distorted by ripples, the sight made me flinch. I quickly looked away, but not before the image burned itself into my mind: skin mottled and twisted, more befitting a peasant woman who'd spent her life bent over a cooking fire than a noble warrior.

But William had done this. His own hands had pressed the burning brand to my flesh. Surely that meant something? He could have chosen Isabella, with her perfect face, but he hadn't. He'd chosen me.

The thought of Isabella sent a fresh wave of bitterness through me. Even now, I could hear the cheers that had greeted her return. The soldiers had lifted her on their shields, their faces shining with adoration. The Prince himself had praised her courage. She would be welcomed at court, celebrated at feasts, while I...

I allowed myself a thin smile beneath my veil. Let her enjoy her moment. She was still a cast-off wife, too proud to accept the marriage proposals that would surely come from opportunistic nobles. She would end up alone, watching her beauty fade in some forgotten tower. The thought brought me more comfort than it should have.

The wagon slowed as we approached the Beauchamp estate. My stomach clenched at the sight of the familiar gates. I had imagined returning through them in triumph, not skulking in like a thief.

"Lady Margaret wishes to see you immediately." The servant's voice was carefully neutral, but I caught the slight emphasis on 'immediately.' My mother-in-law wasn't known for her patience.

I found her in her private chambers, reclining on her daybed like a queen holding court. The sickroom smell of herbs couldn't quite mask the underlying staleness of the air.

"Let me see your face, dear." Her voice dripped honey, but her eyes were sharp as she reached for my veil.

I stepped back. "The sight might distress you, my lady."

"More than the rumors already distressing me?" She folded her hands in her lap. "Tell me truly - did those barbarians...rape you?"

The accusation hit me like a physical blow. My fingers clutched at my skirts, the fabric bunching beneath my white-knuckled grip. The whispers had reached the capital already? I fought to keep my voice steady.

"I suffered only flesh wounds, my lady. My honor remains intact."

"Does it?" Her eyes flickered to Lord Roland, who stood uncomfortably by the window. "Strange how none of the soldiers who returned with you will verify that claim."

My throat tightened. Those same soldiers who had seen everything, who knew the truth, now conveniently claimed ignorance. Even my own cousin... I could still see his averted gaze when questioned about my time in captivity.

"The truth needs no verification," I said, but the words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

Lady Margaret's lips curved in a smile that held no warmth. "The truth? The truth is that our family name is now a joke in every noble house in the capital. Your... adventure has cast a shadow over young Julian's marriage prospects. Even sweet Sylvia's suitors are reconsidering their offers."

The unfairness of it all bubbled up inside me like poison. "And whose fault is that? You were so eager to welcome me into your family when you wanted to be rid of Isabella. Now you regret it?"

"Mind your tongue!" Lady Margaret's facade of concern cracked. "We expected you to bring honor to this house, not shame!"

"Honor?" I laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. "Was it honorable to cast aside a faithful wife for someone more useful? And now that I'm no longer useful, you wish you had kept her instead?"

"You dare..." Lady Margaret half-rose from her seat, her face flushing.

"I dare because I have nothing left to lose." My voice rose despite my attempts to control it. "You don't care what I suffered there. You don't care about the truth. All you care about is your precious reputation and your precious plans!"

"Beatrice..." Lord Roland finally spoke, his tone placating.

"No! I was a fool to think I could ever belong here. A fool to think..." My voice broke. Without waiting for a response, I turned and fled the chamber.

But I didn't go far. Something made me stop just outside the door, hidden in the shadows of the corridor. Through the heavy wood, their voices carried clearly.

"Let her go," Lord Roland sighed. "We should wait for William's return before making any decisions."

"By then our reputation will be beyond salvaging." Lady Margaret's voice had lost its sharp edge, replaced by something that sounded almost wistful. "Isabella would never have caused such a scandal."

"You were the one who thought her too proud, too independent."

"And now look where we are." A pause. "Do you think... do you think there's any chance of reconciliation there?"

"With Isabella?" Lord Roland's voice grew thoughtful. "She still cares for William, I'm sure of it. And she was always dutiful to her mother's wishes. If we were to remind her that William was her mother's choice..."

I didn't wait to hear more. I fled down the corridor, my footsteps silent on the thick carpets, my mind spinning with rage and fear. They would try to bring her back. And William...

My hand touched the scars on my face, feeling the rough texture beneath my fingers.