The holy ruler

Chapter 7 - A Shocking Turn of Events

The funeral ceremony for Queen Camilla Tudor was a somber affair, but beneath the sorrow and black-clad crowd, cracks in the facade of grief were impossible to ignore. Camilla had been a stepmother to Anastasia, and though their relationship was often strained, Anastasia couldn’t help but feel a pang of loss.

The queen had been bedridden for months, her decline a slow and painful process. Yet, even in her final days, she had carried herself with a quiet dignity that demanded respect. But now, as Anastasia sat among the mourners, her black gown heavy on her shoulders, she felt a mixture of sadness and simmering anger. Her father, King Henry, stood at the head of the room, his expression devoid of the grief she felt he should be showing.

As the priest concluded the solemn prayers, Prince Charles—Camilla's stepson and the only one in the family who had truly loved her—sobbed openly by the casket. His young frame shook with the force of his grief, his fists pounding lightly against the velvet-covered wood as though begging her to wake. “Please, don’t leave me,” he whispered brokenly, his voice barely audible. Camilla had been the only mother he’d known, the one who had tucked him in at night, soothed his fears, and offered the love his father never did.

Anastasia’s chest tightened as she watched Charles break apart, his tears cutting through her own emotional defenses. She turned her gaze to her younger sister, Mary, who sat stiffly a few rows ahead. Mary was silent, but her hand trembled as she gripped a delicate handkerchief embroidered with Camilla’s initials. She looked utterly devastated, her lips pressed tightly together as though holding back the scream that threatened to escape.

In sharp contrast, King Henry seemed utterly unaffected. If anything, he looked restless, his eyes darting around the room as though mentally rearranging the court’s pieces on his political chessboard. When the casket was finally lifted to be taken for burial, he barely glanced at it. Anastasia clenched her fists, disgusted.

Later that evening, the whispers began: King Henry had announced a grand ball to be held in two days to begin the search for his next wife.

Anastasia overheard the court gossiping as she retreated to her chambers. “He didn’t even wait for the mourning period,” someone whispered. “Does he have no shame?”

Anastasia slammed her chamber door shut, the sound echoing in the emptiness of her room. “A ball,” she spat, pacing angrily. “A celebration, while Camilla is barely in the ground. How dare he?” She had not always been close to Camilla, but the woman had been a constant presence, and she didn’t deserve this disrespect.

Mary, meanwhile, was inconsolable. She stayed locked in her chambers, her sobs muffled by the heavy doors. Camilla had been her closest confidante, the one person who had truly understood her amidst the chaos of court life. To Mary, the ball was a betrayal of everything her mother had stood for.

Charles, too, was crushed. “She was my mother,” he whispered angrily to one of the attendants. “Not in blood, but in everything that matters. And now he’s acting like she was nothing. Like she was replaceable.” His voice broke, and he turned away, unable to contain his tears.

The palace was a clash of mourning and festivity. Black mourning banners still adorned the walls, but the kitchens buzzed with preparations for the upcoming ball. Musicians practiced lively tunes in the halls, their melodies a sharp contrast to the weight of grief still hanging in the air.

Anastasia could barely stand it. She stormed into the gardens, needing air and distance from the chaos. As she sat beneath the shade of an old oak, her thoughts churned. Why did her father’s actions still surprise her? He had never shown remorse for any of his decisions, always prioritizing power and appearances over the feelings of his family. Yet, this time, it felt personal.

“I don’t even want to wed Prince Adam,” she muttered to herself, her voice sharp with frustration. “But to see my father act like this, to see him dishonor her so soon—” Her words faltered as anger overtook her.

The ball loomed closer, a grotesque reminder of King Henry’s disregard for anything but his ambitions. Anastasia, Mary, and Charles each grappled with their grief in their own ways, but one thing was clear: none of them would forgive the King for how quickly he had cast aside the woman who had meant so much to them all.