The Swordswoman’s Revenge Story after Rebirth
Chapter 30: The King
The High Court of Parliament and the Southern Watch were now collaborating closely to investigate the Shadowmere affair. They knew even the faintest clue could expose a vast network of culprits. She wondered if William and Eleanor's influence would prove strong enough to withstand this storm.
On the third day, Harlan returned with a set of fine satin garments. The purple attire, though slightly old-fashioned, fit Isolde perfectly and lent her an air of understated nobility. Geoffrey said nothing, merely instructing her to change quickly. Later, he visited the Velvet Wing, where he selected a delicate headdress from Matilda’s jewelry box and ordered it sent to the Pearl Tower. Though parting with such finery pained Matilda, a few reassuring words from Anne brought a smile to her face as she saw Geoffrey off.
Meanwhile, the Royal Court conferred honors upon Isolde and Geoffrey, and elevated Oliver to Great Marshal of Argentum. In the Eryndral Empire, the highest military title was Grand Marshal, granted only in wartime. Seven Marshals commanded the major military regions below him. Oliver’s appointment as Marshal of Argentum meant he now commanded all the city's forces. This was ostensibly a reward for quelling bandits—a fact that fueled suspicion and whispers of the King's ulterior motives.
Some believed this signaled the Southern Watch's reemergence as a force in court politics. Others attributed it to deference to Oliver’s lineage—he was, after all, the son of a legendary Marshal. The rumors remained unanswered. That day, Oliver rode his prized steed to the palace to give thanks, where he encountered Geoffrey at the East Gate.
Geoffrey, long hoping to inquire about the incident at Wolf Mountain, greeted him warmly. “I’ll invite you to my estate soon—we have much to discuss.” Oliver agreed, then turned his gaze to Isolde, his expression tightening. “Your wounds—why do they still look so severe?”
Isolde lowered her eyes. “I’m much better now, my lord.” Oliver glanced briefly at Geoffrey but said nothing more. As they entered the palace gates, he drew a small porcelain vial from his sleeve and handed it to Isolde. “This will help. Take one in the morning and one at night. You’ll recover within days,” he said, his tone calm but firm.
Surprised, Isolde accepted the vial without thinking. Before she could thank him, he had already strode away. The porcelain still held the warmth of his hand. Her fingers traced its smooth surface as tears welled in her eyes. She had never considered herself fragile, yet this simple kindness nearly shattered her carefully rebuilt resolve. How many people, after all, had ever shown her such care?
The King received them in the grandeur of his study. Kneeling on the cold, marbled floor, Isolde listened quietly to the King’s commanding voice, which today held an unexpected warmth—unlike her memories of a lifetime ago. “Lady Isolde, raise your head. Let me see you,” the King said.
Isolde obeyed, lifting her gaze slowly, though she dared not meet the King’s eyes. Instead, her focus landed on Oliver, standing beside the King. Their eyes met briefly before she looked away. The King studied her with keen interest. “A woman’s beauty comes in two forms: delicate grace or noble strength. Duke Blackmoor, your daughter possesses both. She has your warrior’s spirit and her mother’s gentleness—she surpasses even the fairest ladies of my court.”
Geoffrey was momentarily taken aback but quickly recovered. “Your Majesty is far too kind. My daughter is but a humble girl, unworthy of such high praise.”
The King then turned to Isolde. “I hear you began training in sword fighting at a young age. Who was your teacher?” Isolde hesitated only a moment. “My lord, I trained under Master Orson.” The King’s brows lifted in surprise. “Oh? Is that so?” “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Geoffrey, unfamiliar with the name, dismissed it as unimportant. Surely, he thought, if he had not heard of this master, the King would not know him either. “Your Majesty,” Geoffrey interjected, “forgive me, but my daughter’s skill amounts to little more than decorative gestures. She knows nothing of refinement—no music, no painting, no embroidery. The fault is mine for failing her education.”
The King frowned. “You sell her short, Duke Blackmoor. If the Queen Mother were here, she would remind you that a woman can rise to greatness, even on the battlefield. It is not a lack of ability but a lack of opportunity that holds them back.” When mention of the Queen Mother arose, Geoffrey stiffened, his voice edged with unease. “Yes, Her Majesty is most wise.”
The King’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Go now. I have matters yet to discuss with Oliver.” Geoffrey and Isolde bowed and departed.
The lakeside breeze was soft, carrying the fresh tranquility of May. They walked silently along the shoreline, their path led by Lord Vargas, the King’s trusted chamberlain. After some time, Lord Vargas turned to Isolde. “Lady Isolde, should you cross paths with Master Orson, be so kind as to pass along my regards.” Isolde gave a polite, knowing smile. “Of course, my lord.” Geoffrey shot a suspicious glance. How does he know of Master Orson?
In the carriage back to the estate, Geoffrey made several attempts to broach the subject with Isolde, but each time the words faltered on his lips. It was a bitter truth: everyone else seemed to know the identity of Isolde’s mysterious master, while he, her own father, remained in ignorance. The shame of it kept him silent. Isolde, however, was preoccupied with her own thoughts.
The King—wise and just—owed much to the Queen Mother’s guidance in his early reign. Yet recent events gnawed at her mind: she and Lord Theodric had been captured at Wolf Mountain, and both their fathers—men of the High Court—were investigating corruption in Shadowmere. How could the King fail to see the connection? Even her father, slow to perceive such matters, had begun to understand the stakes. This was precisely why she had kept Milton’s name a secret. She meant to drag him into a pit so deep, escape would be impossible.
Geoffrey and Isolde, both lost in their own musings, returned to the estate in silence. Upon arrival, the gatekeeper stepped forward. “Your Grace, the Marchioness of Eldermere has sent her card. She intends to visit tomorrow.”
Geoffrey’s expression darkened. “What business could she possibly have? The engagement has already been annulled. Send word that I am otherwise engaged tomorrow.” The Valen family had wasted no time ending the betrothal when scandal tainted Isolde. Their disloyalty had been insult enough. And now, mere days after breaking the match, they dared to pay a visit? He knew their motives all too well—his recent title of Grand Duke, Isolde’s title of County Princess, and the realization that the grounds for the annulment were baseless. No doubt they were scrambling for excuses to placate the Marquis.
But, he thought, I am no spineless fool to be toyed with by a chamber lady. The engagement is over, and so it shall remain. He glanced at Isolde, intending to reassure her that she had his unwavering support. But Isolde, head bowed, walked past him as though she had not heard a word. His temper flared, though he could find no outlet for his frustration.