charles de beaumont.
Charles de Beaumont learned from a young age that there were only two types of flowers: the variety which grows in a private garden, catered to and watered by hand, and that which blooms in the wild, surviving on naught but the strength of its roots. Once full grown, there was a fundamental difference between the two – even despite comparable beauty: that which was grown in a man’s greenhouse inevitably spent its whole life waiting to be pulled up and put on display as either a bloom beheaded or a corsage crowned.
It was the unspoken curse of nobility, he decided. Those belonging to the gentry lived with this duality of uncertainty overhead whether they knew it or not, and with each new day, they all took a roll of the die and gambled for a chance to be a rose in a bell jar, far and above the meager daisies and common violets that sprouted at whim. Among the weeds were those forced to pay the price for their unexciting affliction, such as the defendant he witnessed be sentenced to death during today’s trial. Try as he might, Charles could not erase the sheer brutality the accused had been dealt in front of the eyes of the noble court. And so, he sought to escape all thought of it for a little while, and brought along his lute to a corner of the castle where he believed nary a soul crept at this hour of the night. He sang and strummed, his hands manipulating the strings as deftly as a soldier commanded his sword or a queen played her king, and weaved a mournful little tune for himself and his surprise audience lurking in the shadows. Sensing the presence, Charles ceased playing and asked with a voice so weary, it might’ve disguised him entirely. “Have you a request?”
Isabel was always restless. It was common for the Duchess to be awake when it seemed more reasonable for her to be asleep. She had slipped out of her chambers, passed the sleeping guards and carried on down the corridor. There was a calm in the silence, one which she welcomed. Sometimes, it was easier if she imagined that she was the only person in the world. If she did not enjoy finery so much, perhaps she would have been content to live on an island on her own. But, alas, she had inherited her father’s wits. Sapphire eyes narrowed at the sight of her husband tucked away in the corner of the castle, playing his lute as though he were its master.
❛ Play whatever you like, ❜ she murmured distantly, struggling her cloak closer to her body. Despite the early summer warmth which made the days mild, there was still a chill at night which caused the lady to shudder. Isabel kept her gaze away from her husband, instead, she stared out of the window blankly. There was a time in the early months of her marriage when she had tried to be more open, less cold. But after their loss, Isabel felt as though any warmth and affection which she felt for her husband had been swallowed up. It was numbness which she felt in his presence. ❛ What keeps you awake, husband? ❜ Isabel enquired, not once looking at him.
