❝From the sole of the foot and up to the head there is no health in it; 

bruise and sore and bleeding wound have not been cleansed...❞

Isaiah 1:6

— ♛ —

𝑻he ceremony had been without pomp.

With no more witnesses than baron Francis Lovell and the old priest that had officiated the marriage, lady Anne, once princess of Wales to the feeble Edward of Westminster, became the Duchess of Gloucester in the eyes of God and men. 

Therefore, his.

His. Her spirit, her bed, her dowry, all that was her to give... She had bestowed it, oh so naively, and now he, Richard of Gloucester, was his master. 

No feast or merriment followed after the ending of the ceremony. Once the pertinent vows were exchanged between whispers, the priest commanded them to stood up and exchange a single kiss to seal their union at last. This time, the bridegroom was cautious when kissing his lady wife: The memory of the unexpected and all consuming fever that had assailed him the night before when she had bid him farewell, and the torrid passion that followed when his desire made him follow her to the bedchamber was still fresh in the memory of the proud duke, and he would not allow that sudden vulnerability ever bother him again. His lips were closed when he pressed the most chaste and cold of the kisses ever given to a bride against her trembling mouth, before he pulled apart and, grabbing her wrist with his gloved hand, he left the chapel.

The newlyweds headed to the Duke's chambers in complete silence. The cold halls were solitary, and such lonely environment invited to entertain thoughts of more secret acts of affection; however, when they reached their bedchamber, the place meant for life, love and death, and she reached out to hold his sleeve, Gloucester pushed her away. 

"Unhand me, woman" he hissed. Lady Anne took a step back, confusion casting a pitiful shadow over her fine features, "Thou shalt not touch me."

She seemed to be bright enough to understand that he desired not to be bothered; under his watchful gaze, she turned her back to him and started to disrobe. First went the gown, then the kirtle and the many layers of skirts and the bodice, the piece creaking under her trembling fingers like fallen leaves under a hunter's feet. She took off her hennin and unbraided her hair slowly, and the duke had to force himself not to tangle his gloved fingers in the soft realm of her locks. Only the long chemise remained when he finally heard her steps getting closer to the bed and opening the bedcovers. She blew the candles with a sigh and rested silently, as if she had already resigned herself to spent her wedding night relegated to oblivion.

Only then did Richard start to prepare himself to go to bed. As he unrobed methodically, he refused to face the reflection that the mirror offered him, for he knew beforehand what wicked image would return his gaze: An uncomely, hunched and gaunt body, the image of God's least favourite creation. He struggled to put on his nightshirt and, once he had tightly tied the thin laces around the cleavage, he blew the trembling candlelight and limped his way to the bed.

Lady Anne was already asleep; the gentle harmony of her tranquil breath was the only sign of her presence in the room, that in the darkness seemed as lonely as a convent's cell. He turned his back at her and closed his eyes, a biter feeling overpowering the satisfaction of having achieved the first part of his plan.

Solitude, a solitude that had been his only companion in the bedchamber for years. Not allowing himself to get anguished, he shifted in bed and entertained thoughts of what could he do when his foolish brother Edward found out. However... In the dead of night, when sleep had come to claim him back to his real,, he felt lady Anne shifting closer, as if embracing him without am embrace; the tender pressure of her touch against his form accompanied him as he fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.