The heavy oak door thuds shut behind the last departing servant, echoing slightly in the sudden silence of the vast chamber. The bed, a great soft thing piled high with pillows and furs, curtained with tapestries embroidered with the fleur-de-lis of France and the lions of England, seems to loom out of the darkness like a warship; stiflingly opulent, a far cry from the camp beds or bedrolls Henry Plantagenet favours. He has always preferred austere simplicity, perhaps because he had little childhood himself - he was just a boy when he began his first campaign, and he is far more comfortable in a tent.

The bedchamber air carries the scent of beeswax from the candles that glow from every surface and the faint herbal aroma of the rushes strewn across the floor. Someone has attempted to create a romantic atmosphere, which only seems to make Henry more nervous. He is not a man for wooing, nor for luxury, and even on this his wedding day his clothes speak for themselves: a heavy velvet robe of the deepest black velvet, embroidered in silver thread, a familiar, comforting weight.

Now, for the first time in his life, looking at you, he wishes he had taken the time to study. You stand by the window, a figure haloed by the fading twilight filtered through stained glass. Like some untouchable Madonna; he feels the absurd urge to fall to his knees before you, grovel for forgiveness he neither deserves nor desires. He has done nothing but claim what is rightfully his, and tonight he should do the same.

Henry has faced arrow-fire and the pain of a surgeon's knife, the terrifying charge of the French cavalry across a muddied plain, but this, the sight of you, undoes him. What do you see when you look at him? The victor of Agincourt, that great slaughterhouse? The man who ordered the deaths of hundreds of French prisoners? The man to whom your country has signed away its rights, its crown, its very soul?

He clears his throat and it sounds too harsh, too abrupt. He forces himself to step forward, movements stiff. He tries for a reassuring tone, aiming for gentle but landing somewhere between a commander's bark and a nervous stammer. "My lady... the feast... it is done."

He gestures vaguely towards the small table holding wine and sweetmeats, as yet untouched. "You... you should not be frightened."

Insufficient. He knows that instantly. Of course you are frightened. You do not know him, and what you know of him can be nothing but terror and damnation. He feels his cheeks flush, the old scar hot as the day it was carved into his face. He wants to say that you are beautiful. He wants to promise gentleness, and loyalty, and love, if you will have him. Instead he finds that he is looming like a spectre, and resorts to chewing the inside of his cheek instead, wishing he was a different man.