The Royal Affair

Chapter 12

The final days of their diplomatic stay in Carlos’s kingdom were a whirlwind of preparations, a stark contrast to the languid pace of their initial arrival.

Derek and Francis, their minds now filled with the logistics of their return journey, packed their belongings, their movements imbued with a sense of urgency. The vast ocean, a daunting expanse of rolling waves and endless horizons, awaited them, promising a month-long voyage back to their homeland. The bustling port, a cacophony of sailors' calls, creaking ropes, and the rhythmic clang of hammers, buzzed with activity, a microcosm of the kingdom's vibrant trade.

Alexa, her presence a soft, lingering warmth, bid them farewell with a grace that belied the subtle undercurrents of emotion. To Francis, she offered a polite, regal nod, her words formal and courteous, a testament to her royal upbringing.

"Lord Francis," she said, her voice a delicate melody, clear and precise, "I wish you a safe journey and a swift return to your kingdom. May your alliance bring prosperity to both our lands."

To Derek, however, her farewell held a different tone, a subtle warmth that lingered in her gaze, a silent promise of future encounters. Before he turned to board the ship, she presented him with a beautifully decorated box, its intricate carvings hinting at the treasures within, a small token of their shared moments.

"Sir Derek," she said, her voice a gentle whisper, a soft caress on the air, "a small token of our time together. I hope these sugar-infused candies bring you a taste of our market back home, and serve as a reminder of our time together."

Derek bowed deeply, his heart pounding in his chest, his eyes locking with hers, a silent exchange of unspoken words.

"Thank you, Princess," he replied, his voice a low murmur, his gaze unwavering.

Alexa offered a small, enigmatic smirk, a playful curve of her lips that hinted at hidden depths, and returned his bow with a graceful flourish, her movements fluid and elegant.

The month-long journey back to the port was a monotonous affair, a blur of rolling waves, endless horizons, and the creaking symphony of the ship's timbers. The ship, a sturdy vessel, creaked and groaned beneath them, its rhythmic sway a constant reminder of the vast expanse of the ocean, the endless blue stretching to the horizon. From the port, a month-long ride on horseback brought them back to Jericho, a journey across vast plains, through dense forests, and over rolling hills, each mile a testament to the distance that separated them from Alexa.

Upon their arrival in Jericho, Francis received grave news: Queen Laura, his wife, had fallen ill, confined to her bed for the remainder of her pregnancy. The news cast a pall over the celebratory atmosphere of their return, a somber shadow that darkened the palace halls. Francis, however, quickly reverted to his old habits, seeking solace in the arms of his numerous mistresses. His days were filled with clandestine meetings and whispered promises, his nights a blur of fleeting pleasures, a desperate attempt to drown his anxieties in fleeting sensations.

Derek, however, found no such comfort. The memory of Alexa, her scent of bamboo and hibiscus, haunted his every waking moment, a persistent phantom that lingered in his thoughts. He craved her presence, the gentle warmth of her smile, the spark of intelligence in her eyes, the quiet strength that radiated from her.

He tried to forget her, to erase her from his thoughts, by bedding other women, but it was to no avail. Every touch, every whispered word, only served to remind him of her absence, her unique presence. He found himself imagining her face in the darkness, her voice echoing in the silence, her laughter a distant melody. There was something about her, a unique blend of grace and intelligence, that had captured his heart, a silent, insistent pull he couldn’t fight, an obsession that consumed his every thought.

As the days dragged on, the Queen's condition worsened, the palace physicians, their faces etched with worry, spoke in hushed tones, their words filled with ominous implications, their expressions grim.

Then, one day, the inevitable occurred: Queen Laura went into premature labor, her cries echoing through the palace halls, a desperate plea that reverberated through the stone walls. The nurses and doctors, their faces grim, their movements frantic, worked tirelessly, their efforts a desperate attempt to save both mother and child, a battle against the inevitable. But their efforts were futile. The Queen, weakened by her illness, succumbed to the strain of childbirth, her life extinguished along with that of her unborn son, a boy who would have been heir to the throne, a future king lost before he could draw his first breath.

King Francis, wept, his grief a raw, visceral sound that echoed through the palace, a lament that filled the halls. He threw chairs and flipped table out of anger with tears streaming down his face but his tears were not for the Queen, his wife, but for the loss of his son, the heir who would never inherit his crown, a future dynasty shattered. Derek, his heart aching with a strange mix of sympathy and disgust, comforted his king, holding him as Francis cried on his shoulder, a silent witness to the king’s selfish grief.

The funeral for Queen Laura and the unborn Prince was a somber affair, a grand spectacle of grief and mourning, a display of royal sorrow. The palace was draped in black, its once vibrant halls now shrouded in shadows, a testament to the kingdom’s loss. The Queen's body, pale and lifeless, lay in state, surrounded by flickering candles and weeping mourners, a still figure amidst a sea of grief.

The unborn Prince, a tiny, still form, lay beside her, a symbol of lost hope and shattered dreams, a reminder of the fragile line of succession. The King, his face etched with sorrow, his eyes red and swollen, presided over the ceremony, his voice a hollow echo of his former self, a mournful lament.

The nobles, their faces masks of solemnity, their expressions carefully crafted, paid their respects, their whispers a mournful chorus, a symphony of grief. The funeral procession, a long, winding line of black-clad figures, snaked its way through the city streets, a somber parade of grief, a silent march of mourning. The city itself seemed to hold its breath, the silence broken only by the mournful tolling of the church bells, a somber melody that echoed through the empty streets.

The Queen's tomb, a grand mausoleum carved from dark stone, stood as a stark reminder of mortality, a silent testament to the fragility of life and the fleeting nature of power, a monument to a lost queen and a lost heir. The scent of funeral lilies and burning incense filled the air, a heavy, suffocating fragrance that clung to the mourners' clothes and lingered in their memories, a constant reminder of death. Derek, standing amidst the crowd, felt a strange sense of detachment, his thoughts drifting back to the scent of bamboo and hibiscus, a distant memory of a life that seemed worlds away, a stark contrast to the somber scene before him.