Chapter 78

Isabella’s POV

The familiar scent of lavender and beeswax filled the Queen Mother's chambers, bringing back memories of countless afternoons spent here in my childhood.

Queen Mother Mary sat by the window, her silhouette graceful against the afternoon light. At just under fifty, she remained striking - her dark hair showing only a few strands of silver, her face marked by mere hints of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. As I entered, she turned, and I caught the flash of emotions across her features - relief, concern, and something deeper that made her eyes glisten.

"Isabella." Her voice carried both warmth and reproach. "Come here, child."

I approached and sank into a deep curtsy, the weight of my riding clothes unfamiliar after months in armor. "Your Grace, I apologize for any worry I may have caused."

"Worry?" She rose, her purple velvet gown rustling. "You rode off to battle without a word. 'Worry' hardly begins to describe it." Despite her stern tone, her hands were gentle as she lifted me from my curtsy.

"The situation at the Holy Land required immediate action," I explained, keeping my voice steady. "There wasn't time to-"

"There's always time for a message," she interrupted, but then her expression softened. "Look at you - your skin is burned dark as a common soldier's." She touched my cheek with cool fingers. "What would your mother say?"

The mention of my mother brought a familiar ache to my chest. I remained silent, knowing the question was rhetorical.

"Sit with me," she commanded, leading me to the window seat. The cushions were soft after months of wooden benches and saddles. "Now tell me everything - and don't spare the details about Beatrice's involvement."

I noticed the slight edge in her voice at the mention of Beatrice. "The credit belongs to Prince Philip's strategy," I deflected carefully. "My role was minor."

"Minor?" She arched an eyebrow. "That's not what the reports say. But we can discuss your modesty another time." She paused, studying my face. "There are other matters we need to address - your future, specifically."

I tensed, anticipating what would come next.

"You're of an age, Isabella. Your mother..." her voice caught slightly. "Your mother wanted to see you safely married, with children of your own. Away from the dangers that took her from us."

"Your Grace," I began carefully, "I understand, but now is not the time for-"

"When will it be time?" She sighed, and for a moment I saw the weight of old griefs in her eyes. "I know you're capable of more than simply being someone's wife. Truth be told, I'd rather see you leading our armies. But I promised your mother..." She reached for my hand. "She feared the battlefield so deeply, Isabella. It took everything from her - her sons, her husband, and finally her own life from the grief of it all."

I squeezed her hand gently. "I know. But I am not my mother, Your Grace. And times have changed."

She held my gaze for a long moment before letting out another soft sigh.

My eyes drifted to the window alcove where I used to hide as a child, watching her and my mother talk for hours.

"You always loved that corner," the Queen Mother said softly, following my gaze. "Do you remember how you would curl up there with your books while your mother and I talked?"

I nodded, throat tight with emotion. Those afternoon conversations between them had shaped my early years. They would discuss everything from politics to personal dreams, their voices animated with passion. "You both talked about women being more than just wives and mothers," I said quietly.

"Yes." A shadow crossed her face. "Even as queen, I felt trapped within these gilded walls. Your mother... she was determined you would have more freedom than either of us."

The memory shifted to my time at St. Mary's Convent. Those had been my happiest days - climbing trees, practicing swordplay, racing horses across the meadows. Mother would visit, beaming with pride as I demonstrated my latest skills. "Keep training," she would say. "The battlefield may need you someday."

"You were such a wild little thing then," Queen Mother Mary smiled, but her eyes glistened. "Always covered in dirt, always laughing."

The laughter had died the day the messenger arrived with news of my father and brothers. I remembered my mother's face, how it had seemed to age years in moments. After that, everything changed. Her fierce advocacy for my independence transformed into desperate pleas for me to settle into a safe, conventional life.

"She became so afraid," Queen Mother Mary whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "The battlefield took everything from her - her husband, her sons, and finally her spirit."

I stared at my hands, calloused now from sword and lance. Once, mother had celebrated these marks of warrior training. Later, she would cry at the sight of them.

"These walls that once felt like a prison to me became her sanctuary," the Queen Mother continued. "She couldn't bear the thought of losing you too."

The weight of unspoken grief hung heavy between us. I could see the Queen Mother fighting back tears, trying to maintain her composure.

"Your Grace," I began, but she shook her head.

"You smell of horses and armor," she said briskly, though her voice wavered. "Go refresh yourself. We can speak more another time."

I recognized the dismissal for what it was - mercy for us both. Rising, I curtsied deeply. As I reached the door, her voice stopped me.

"Isabella?"

I turned back.

"Your mother would be proud of who you've become," she said softly. "And terrified. Both at once. As am I."