''Some women fear the fire, some women simply become it.''
Evellíne embarks on a journey with her parents to England, as a request of Queen Judith and her son, King Alfred. They barely met and the connection between them is so strong that in a blin...
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Aethelred examined his wife by candlelight. Sitting in her padded chair, she looked like a queen in every possible way.
It was indeed a pity that she would never reach the throne.
Even dressed in a simple nightdress, she had an intense attitude of a wise powerful woman, despite her youth. The soft, thick shawl of finely woven black wool she had worn over his shoulders highlighted the whiteness of her skin. The golden hair, loose from the discreet braid she wore during the day, hung around her in soft waves that fell like a river of milk on her lap. In the six months since his nuptials, he had not developed any special affection for her, but she felt great pride in possessing something of such exceptional beauty.
But Margot could never get to Evelline's feet.
On returning from his journey in search of the Danes, how big was the shock when Aethelred had discovered that Judith had died suddenly, and Evellíne already wore the crown. Imperiously, the girl only looked down at him with disdain, nodding at him, for she did not want Alfred to notice the discomfort between them.
Worst of all, he would now have to refer to the princess as "your majesty," to follow her orders and commands, as if he were a subaltern and not the direct heir of King Aethelwulf. His blood boiled in the face of such injustice.
And the Queen's pregnancy disrupted him even more.
By the terrible and unscrupulous act he had committed against the poor princess, Aethelred, deep in his heart, was not ashamed, much less remorseful. His only concern was that Evellíne would tell what had happened to Alfred, for he knew that the love his brother felt for his wife was greater than the bond of blood that united them as brothers.
And though he had incited the victim to believe that he would be the father of the fruit she carried in her belly, he knew he could never procreate, no matter how hard he tried. When Alfred confessed that he planned to have his first child with Evelline soon, Aethelred went into a state of fury. He refused to accept that his fate would always be a thousand steps behind the great King Alfred, who, besides having the crown, still had the woman who inflamed the most intense desires in Aethelred. And now... also the paternity issue.
The prince would never submit to the pathetic role of an uncle, looking enviously at his brother's healthy offspring scurrying about Wessex with a smile on his face.
His brother's rise was his greatest nightmare.
It was not fair.
When Margot saw him, she stared back.
Aethelred approached passing behind the chair in which she sat and gently held her blond hair. He stroked her and lowered his lips to her bare neck. The palm of his right hand was conducted to the princess's prominent belly, and without Margot saying a word, Aethelred perched on the floor, and rested his head on his wife's lap, and suddenly burst into tears.
