A Love Betrayed

She paced the floor in angered agitation. Perhaps angered was an understatement. Danele Valenti, Queen of Nharati, was infuriated. She paced the confines of the sitting room in her chambers like a trapped animal. Her pale hands were balled into fists at her sides, and it was a wonder steam did not stream from her nostrils.
“How could he?!” she wanted to scream. However, it came out as no more than a rasped mutter. Her emerald eyes burned with unshed tears, but she refused to allow them to fall. She refused to allow herself to cry again. She had done enough of that the evening before. Never again would he have her sorrow. The he was, of course, her husband, the King himself.

“Bastard…the lying, rutting bastard.”

The pained fury still burned strong in her breast, all from a single incident. Yesterday, she had gone to the garden, seeking him. The reluctance of the footman, when she had asked for Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen’s location had failed to register.

“I should have known he would be among those unholy statues!”

That secret area of the garden, where the statues of marbled figures in different sexual positions resided, was his favorite, of course. How many times had he taken there, only to strip off her gown and push her down into the lush carpet of thick grass? How often had they imitated those same positions in both sun, and moonlight? The servants never said a word when they emerged, mussed and tousled, from the lovers’ paradise. It was no longer paradise now, though, was it? No. Yesterday, it had been turned into a place of betrayal.

She had been so eager as she headed for the tree surrounded area. Her feet had nearly skipped across the lawn in her haste to see him. Married almost a year now, and she wanted him more by the day. The soft, faint, feminine laughter should have given her pause; but she just assumed it was being carried on the wind from another area. A brilliant smile curved her lips as she burst through the copse of trees. In the next second, her world shattered. Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen was there, indeed. So was his mistress. Her dress was carelessly thrown atop his own clothing. She still remembered the color. Purple. Deep, royal purple. And just a few feet away, there they both stood. Their nude bodies, illuminated in a shaft of silvery moonlight, were locked together against one of those wretched statues. Her back was to him, her hands clutched around a pale, marble outstretched arm, and thighs parted. He stood behind her with both hands cupping her full breasts and his lips on her neck. From the motion of his bare ass, the way the muscles contracted rhythmically, it was not hard to deduce he was taking her, and taking her hard.

Danele’s hand clamped over her mouth as a horrified gasp escaped. His mistress, too caught up in the moment, did not hear. However, Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen did. His tawny head snapped around, and emerald eyes fixed on his wife. Any other man would have stopped, tried to hastily cover himself, and his lover, maybe even beg forgiveness; but not him. No. He continued to pump himself into the whore’s willing body repeatedly. If possible, and if the mistress’ scream of ecstasy was any indication, he began to move faster, harder. Unable to bear another moment, Danele spun and ran from the garden, with tears streaming down her face. She had gone straight to her chambers and had not come out. To his credit, he had let her be until the next morning. Then, he had casually strolled in. Of course, with the anger of youth, she had raged and ranted. She had sobbed and accused. Then, she had damned them both by declaring he would not touch her body again unless it was to get an heir. Even in her anger, she knew her duty.

He had not cajoled, or pled. He had not held her, nor tried to offer explanations. There were no requests of forgiveness, nor any flattering phrases. He had merely allowed her to rage until she collapsed on the settee, spent and exhausted. Then, damn him, he had walked over and stood above her, looking down at her with those cold eyes. When he finally spoke, his tone was hard and quiet.

“You will have your way, my lovely wife. As you have seen, I will have no trouble sating my pleasures elsewhere. However, you will give me heirs, and you will do it without complaint. You will take no other lovers, as well. You are mine, and as mine, no one but me will touch you. Else, your Father will find his kingdom back in peril, and bearing a disgraced daughter.”

That being said, he turned and marched from the room. Oh, she had no doubt he meant what he said. A string of curses followed him out the door; curses that should never pass a proper lady’s lips. All day, she had raged. All day, she had cried; but no more. He would live his life, and she would live her’s. That would be the way of it for the rest of their lives. She paused in her pacing and spotted the priceless, antique vase on the fireplace mantle. It had been in his family for generations, and he treasured it. Without thinking, her hand snatched the pottery from it’s place and hurled it toward the nearby door. There was something infinitely satisfying about hearing the shatter and crash of the beloved object. He had taken her love, and trust, and shattered them in much the same way. No, the vase did not even begin to compare, but it was a start.