Henrick feels like a giddy boy holding the hand of his first love on a nice spring day. Spring might still be upon the dukedom, but the sun is already visible, warming his skin. Or maybe, it is because he holds Amalia's hand.
He looks over at his wife as she follows his lead, but she has this expression on her face like she is not happy nor annoyed.
Ah, he thinks. Indifference.
There is a pang in his chest as he asks himself the reason why his wife acts the way she does. She never depended on him, not even when she defended his mother's homeland as if it was her responsibility. She doesn't spend a single dime out of the duchess' yearly budget to accommodate her wants—Henrick found out that she even reduced her budget for this year. She rarely smiles, but less so at him. She takes offense when the word wife comes from his mouth.
He knows that she may never reciprocate what he feels, but he wishes that she would at least consider him a confidant. A close friend. Or maybe her provider and protector. Not some duty she has to accomplish and leave after she is done.
He sighs. He might as well be her duty, by how she wrote that contract.
Henrick doesn't even realize that he already stopped walking until he hears Amalia. "Is there something wrong?" she asks, and all his fears disappear as he sees his wife looking at him with a bit of concern. Henrick shakes his head.
"Nothing," he replies. Amalia nods and takes her step, her hand sliding off of his grasp. Henrick stares as she walks past him, clenching his own fist so as to preserve the ghost of her touch.
When Amalia looks back at him and asks him if he would walk with her, he nods and walks to her, savoring the feeling of warmth when he sees her unmoving and waiting for her.
If he can do anything just for her to say to hell with the contract, then he'll do it without a doubt. But for now, all he needs is patience. And effort. A whole lot of them.
***
Amalia didn't expect that she would eat another meal with His Grace. She nibbles on her bread, now aware that the duke will not poison her any time now.
Still, she has her dagger hidden by the side of her calf, in case anything happens. She hopes it would be of no use, as always.
"What wheat do you use for these?" Amalia asks the baker, who stands in his place, awaiting for their words. The baker reluctantly smiles.
"From the rations, my lord," he replies. "Since we are hired by the duchy to make bread during the winter, we cannot be picky with wheat. And wheat is not the only problem, but eggs too… I apologize for giving you the least appetizing food."
"It's no matter," Henrick replies. He sighs and takes the bread from Amalia. "These are the kinds of bread we soldiers would sometimes eat during war."
Amalia glances at him. The bread is still warm, but smells unpleasant and has a bitter aftertaste that Amalia almost stops eating it. But to think that the duke who always looks so high could eat something like this—
"I can eat this but my wife can not, as normal citizens should not. My sacrifices are null if my people still eat rotten food," he continues. Amalia takes a glance at the bread she was eating, now at the duke's hands, holding it as if it is still precious.
"When will the next wagon from Eule's coffers come?" Amalia asks as she looks back to the baker. He sighs and looks at the door.
"They usually come with a month's supply, and they already came three weeks ago. With your grace, I am hoping to taste better bread from now on."
"Why? Does this happen in summer too?"
"Especially in summer, Your Grace," the baker says. Amalia hears Henrick tut.
"I promise to get to the bottom of this," he replies and bows his head. Amalia, surprised that the duke could do such a thing, hurriedly bows as well, and then thanks the baker for his cooperation.
"I didn't know it would be this bad," Henrick tells Amalia as he escorts her out of the premises.
"I apologize," Amalia takes a deep breath and looks at Henrick's eyes. "I should have gone here earlier and never relied on the letters the lord has sent."
"You don't have to apologize." He smiles as he puts his hands on her shoulders, as if to console her. "This is none of your fault."
"I should have taken care of the duchy while you were away. If I didn't insist on staying inside the castle this whole time..."
"But you didn't," he smiles, "you stayed far north just last year, did you not?"
"Yes."
"You are making such efforts when you don't have to," he continues. Amalia looks at him. "You will have to share the burden with me from now on. I am your husband, after all."
"Of course, Your Grace," Amalia replies, stopping herself from scoffing. Of course, Henrick may think this now, but in the future, she knows everything will change.
If he knows of the future, he might be ashamed to call himself my husband, she thinks as they walk to the next store in baker's lane.
They walked in and out of every baking shop and talked to bakers about their bread, but everyone is having it rough. It may not seem like it as the town is lively and colorful, but if someone has to look closely, poverty is peeking, its claws piercing that perfect picture the Lord of Eule has painted for them.
It makes Amalia hard to breathe. She never had to look at it before, as she tried to shy away from society in Adendiff, but she should have known better. When she decided to play the part of the duchess, she should have played it properly.
If only someone would show up and point the Lord as the culprit, then they would have been home by now. That way, this busy duke can at least have an ounce of rest and—
Amalia stops herself from her thoughts, now asking why on earth she is thinking about Henrick's health. This has never happened before, when he was in the south.
Henrick looks at her curiously, his mouth forming some words of query. Amalia only looks at him curiously, but as if Henrick knew, he only nods and announces, "We will take a break from here."
Frowing, Amalia looks at him. "You must be tired from walking," he tells her, and then offers a hand. Amalia holds it without much thought, and lets herself be led to the nearest seat that they could find—a fountain without water sprinkling, still enormous with a statue of a dragon with blank marble eyes. Dragons have been the symbol of the north, as it is the most powerful beast—
The duke's abrupt kneeling takes Amalia by surprise. Gasping, she pushes the duke, the force ruining her balance. The next thing she knows, she is on top of Henrick, who lies with his back on the ground, his hand barely touching her waist.
"You have an odd way of showing intimacy," the duke teases, his breath tickling her cheek.
Amalia blinks as the blood rushes to her cheeks at the realization of her situation. "I apologize!" she says before scrambling to her feet. "I was only surprised because you kneeled before me," she continues when she sees the duke stand. "Why did you do that anyway?"
"I was going to help you relieve your feet by taking your shoes off," he replies. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"I was just surprised. Besides, my feet are not really hurting, so you should have not concerned yourself with it."
"I know you hate causing me trouble, but you should at least tell me things that are true."
"You are right." Amalia smiles. "I hate inconveniencing you, so please refrain from doing such things for me. The protection you provide is enough as it is, Your Grace."
There is something dangerous that comes with each of Herick's breaths. Amalia gulps, thinking that maybe she talked too much. Pursing her lips, she reminds herself that too much talking might cost her her life.
Before she could utter another apology to soothe Henrick's nerves, she sees Damien coming their way.
"Your Graces, there is still a bakery down the next alley," Damien says, catching his breath from all the running. "It is closed, but I talked to some people and told me that the bakery is the only one that sells good bread."
Amalia hears His Grace take a sharp breath. "Did you inspect the establishment?"
"No, I came here right after I heard of its existence."
"We must go, then," Amalia says and looks at Henrick, who looks at her with sharpness and determination, before they walk to the alley Damien had pointed.
They have walked for some time, and Amalia's toes, those little things she was unaware of before, start to burn. She takes the pain in and accepts her blistered feet in the future.
It is a relatively narrow path with muddy floor as the ice thaws, and some children hastily run past them, taking Amalia by surprise—almost losing her balance if not for Henrick who supports her from behind— but with the help of Damien, they reaches the corner most part of an alley called Termond without getting lost.
"I apologize, Your Graces, but we are closed," says a man who wears a baker's hat as soon as Amalia and Henrick come. He is already chaining the door, but stops when the knights walk near him.
"We are here for inspection," Dame Avriel, one of the knights the couple had brought for the day, starts. "Non compliance will face the consequences."
"If you do not want us in your store, then maybe we can get some bread. I'll pay you, so you don't lose your earnings for the day," Henrick patiently says, but his eyes tell Amalia that he is running out of it.
"The bread we have is not… will not be to your liking, so please—"
"Will you really want to go against His Grace's decree?" says Avriel. The poor baker is already on his knees and pleading for his life. Amalia sighs, and then lowers herself to reach the man's ear.
Maybe, she could intervene before a bloodbath comes.
"What are you hiding so dearly that you are willing to die for it?" she whispers, and the man only looks at her, his face pale and his eyes wide.
"Your Grace…"
"Tell the truth, and I will make sure of your safety."
"But how can you—" his trembling voice stops, and then Amalia sees him nod. "I trust Your Grace, so please…"
Amalia stands, eyes not leaving the baker. "Good thinking."
"The reason I don't want any of my bread to be inspected is that I didn't use the standard flour," the baker says after allowing the couple to be inside. The baker did apologize for the lack of chairs, but Amalia paid it no mind and stood her ground.
Although the store is smaller in size and has less pretty aesthetics, unlike the other baking shops in the baker's lane, this shop has the smell of newly baked goods. The bread made here also looks fluffy and delicious, and so it is when Amalia bites on her piece that the baker hesitantly passes.
"Standard?" Henrick asks. "But only good quality wheat is used in the whole duchy to make flour."
"Well, the quality of the flour given to us is… I think you should know, as you have visited the other places. I still bake bread with it to be given, as I have signed in the winter contract, but… I buy some smuggled flour which is far more fresh than the standard.
"If I wasn't so busy with the afternoon batch, I would have heard of your arrival and tucked my better bread away before you could come here," he smiles bitterly. "You see, it is common for bakers to buy smuggled flour and sell better bread at a higher cost on some days, especially during winter when trade is basically shut down."
"Then, do you know the smugglers?" Amalia asks. The baker looks to the ground, his body starts trembling once more.
"Am I going to be punished?"
"If you tell us, then we will take you in as witness," Henrick answers. "So can you tell us what those men look like?"