Page 4 of The Beauty and His Beast

Kenelm, ever watchful and protective, noticed the way Camdyn’s face paled. Without hesitation, he shot a sharp pinch into Gibson’s side, his fingers digging into the man’s flesh. The movement was quick and deliberate, a sign of reprimand. At the same time, Kenelm shot a hard glare at Gibson, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of annoyance and concern.

“That was during the war, Gibson,” Kenelm said, his voice low but firm, carrying an unmistakable tone of authority. “Men are different in war.”

His words were meant to soften the impact of Gibson's account, to remind Camdyn—perhaps even Gibson himself—that the horrors of war were not necessarily a reflection of the man Everild had become. But the way the memory had been recounted, with such rawness and intensity, made it hard for Camdyn to shake the image of his future husband as a bloodthirsty warrior, forever bound by the violence of his past.

“I don’t think so,” Gibson muttered stubbornly.

Kenelm, however, was not to be deterred. “I don’t care what you think, because you’re wrong. We’ve been over this. A man’s not going to treat his spouse the same way he fights an enemy combatant, Gibson. You’re being ridiculous.”

But Gibson was insistent. “In battle, you see a man’s true nature.”

“I’m not going to argue with you right now,” Kenelm said with a sharp tone, his voice rising as if ready to continue the debate. Camdyn’s nerves were already on edge, and the last thing he wanted was for this journey to become even more tense than it already was. Besides, there was something else he needed to know.

He cut in before the argument could escalate further, his voice soft and almost pleading, “I mean to ask, will he like me, do you think? Will he—will he be kind to me?” The question had been on his mind since the marriage had been arranged, andnow, it seemed like the only thing that mattered. The only thing he hoped for.

His brothers exchanged glances, the silence between them thickening.

Kenelm finally spoke, his voice softer now, tinged with regret. “I’m sorry, Camdyn. We don’t know him personally, just his reputation on the battlefield. But I don’t think you have to worry—“

He was interrupted by Gibson, who scoffed and spat on the grass. His voice was low but resolute. “If he isn’t, you must tell me. As soon as you can, any way that you can. Because I don’t care if he’s the king’s cousin or not, I’ll kill him myself, I swear it.”

The weight of Gibson’s words hung heavily in the air. No one seemed to know how to respond to this oath, and Camdyn certainly didn’t know what to say. He let the conversation fall into silence, his mind turning over his brothers' words. It seemed that the only positive things about his betrothed were the very qualities that had persuaded his father to agree to the marriage in the first place: his status and power through his connection to the king.

Camdyn dearly hoped that Everild would not be cruel to him. They didn’t have to be friends, but it would be nice if they could at least tolerate each other. He would do his best to please his husband, but the road to that would be one he would have to learn to walk carefully.

There were things Camdyn could do that might help. He had been taught to sew well enough to mend clothes. He could bake bread and catch and gut fish for dinner. He could tend a garden, should Everild have one. His voice was clear and pleasant to listen to, and if his husband wished, he could read aloud to entertain him. But as Camdyn thought more on it, he realized there would not be much interesting for him tosay. After all, he had spent nearly all of his life at an isolated monastery, with little experience in the world beyond. He didn’t know dances besides the ones he had made up in the forest, and the only songs he knew were hymns.

He also wasn’t sure how attractive a figure he would make, even once out of his monk’s robes. Unlike his brothers, who were tall, strong, and a bit dashing in their armor, Camdyn was slight and delicate. He could only hope that his betrothed would not be too disappointed in him.

Kenelm dropped a sack onto the cart with a loud thud, startling Camdyn out of his thoughts. His brother winked at him playfully, rummaging through the sack before pulling out a fistful of almonds and dried cherries. He popped a few into his mouth before dropping the rest into Camdyn’s lap.

“Well, this is fine hospitality, isn’t it?” Kenelm teased with a grin. “All this food we’re being sent off with. Fresh baked bread, dried fish, fruits, rice, and herbs. Do you eat like this every day, Camdyn?”

Gibson joined in the teasing, his tone gentle but with an edge of mischief. “Got to keep it a secret, eh? Otherwise, everyone would be coming out here for the cookery.”

Near the chapel’s entrance stood the abbot and Cenric, side by side. Despite the height difference, the abbot was holding Cenric up, offering silent support against the heavy weight of grief that hung around the younger man like a dark cloud. The expression on Cenric’s face was one of pain and loss, a look Camdyn had seen before but never wanted to witness again.

Camdyn answered Kenelm’s question with a sad smile, his voice soft. “No, this is a special occasion.”

This, he realized, was his farewell.

Chapter Three

In the weeks that followed the king’s drunken proclamation, Everild had come to an uneasy realization—one that settled deep in his chest, tightening like a noose with each passing day. Much of his wedding had already been planned and prepared long before his cousin had even seen fit to inform him. The arrangements had been set in motion well before he’d been made aware of them, the decisions already carved into stone without his voice ever being considered. Now, as he watched the flurry of activity unfold around him, the decorations being hung, the wedding feast being planned, the guest lists being scrutinized and finalized, it felt as though his future was being handed to him by unseen hands, as though his life had been bargained away by those who saw him as little more than a tool to be wielded in their pursuit of power.

If the king hadn’t drunkenly blurted out the arrangement when he did, Everild feared that he might have woken up one morning with some strange young man beside him in his bed, the man claiming to be his husband without Everild ever having been consulted or granted even the illusion of choice. The thought made his stomach twist. He had always known that love was a luxury rarely afforded to people like him, but he had at least expected the courtesy of being informed before he was shackled to another for life.

In the quiet moments between the endless, mind-numbing preparations, Everild found his thoughts circling around this Camdyn person—his future husband, a man who was little more than a name to him. A former novice, plucked from the sanctuary of his monastery at the king’s and his father’s command, Camdyn seemed less like a groom and more like a pawn in a game neither of them had chosen to play. What must it have been like for him? To spend years believing his path was set, only to be wrenched from a life of devotion and thrust into marriage with a stranger?

Everild tried to picture him, but his mind conjured only vague impressions. He supposed Camdyn would be pious—how could he not be, after so many years of religious instruction? He would be well-educated, surely, his mind steeped in scripture and doctrine, his words careful and measured. Everild had taken it upon himself to order the castle’s chapel scrubbed and polished, the library dusted and meticulously organized, hoping that such small gestures might ease Camdyn’s transition into this new and unwanted life. But beyond that, Everild could only wonder. What sort of temperament would Camdyn have? Would he be bitter, angry at being torn from the monastery? Or would he be sorrowful, quietly resigned to the fate thrust upon him? Everild wasn’t sure which he would prefer. Anger could be argued with, fought against, countered with his own sharp tongue. But sadness? Sadness was something Everild had never known how to face.

And then there was the question that nagged at him most persistently: What would Camdyn look like? The descriptions he had heard were frustratingly vague, repeated over and over with a maddening simplicity. Pretty.

Not handsome, not striking, not imposing. Just pretty.

The word lingered in Everild’s mind like an unanswered riddle. Would Camdyn be delicate and ethereal, beautiful inthe way Everild’s mother had been? Or would he take after the more austere, formidable side of his family? There were no portraits of him—none that Everild had been allowed to see, at least. And tradition forbade him from meeting Camdyn before the ceremony. An odd custom, one that Camdyn’s people held to with almost superstitious fervor. It was said to be bad luck for the betrothed to set eyes on each other before the vows were spoken. Some whispered that the tradition had once been a means of concealing an undesirable match until it was too late to protest.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they lock the church doors once you’re inside,” Dustan had muttered darkly upon hearing of the custom. “No one’s allowed to leave until they’re bound for life. Probably just to make sure no one runs away after meeting the monster they’ve passed off to you, cousin.”

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