I will not weep.
Sewing rests forgotten in her lap. A candle sputters, dims, dies. If she notices, she doesn’t care.
In silence, she envisions him, riding out that morning beneath banners floating high in the crisp autumn air. He’d rested tall in the saddle, as much an image of kingly splendor as the untried King riding at his side. She wonders how, once, she could have considered this other lord fair. Could she not now see that her husband was to him like the sun is to the stars?
She smiles – lights the lamp.
I need weep no longer.