from time to time, from the stones and rivers that flowed, everyone knew that talbot was an exemplary prince, and above all, a good boy. and everyone knew that he would become a good man – and, a good king.

born to the clamor of anvils and the beating of banners, thomas was not a prince of silks and vain banquets. the bards said that their mount, a steed black as the shadows of a great kingdom in wales, knew more the smell of peat and blood than the heat of the royal stables.

his father no longer carried the crown. his mother? she no longer wore the beautiful queenly dresses and all her glory and impotence. thomas would assume power after marriage, now a man, at the age of 24.

yet neither victories on the battlefield nor the gold of the harvest could silence the emptiness that echoed in the stone halls of talbot castle. thomas had joined his fate with that of lady catherine, a rose of noble lineage, but whose womb remained like dry earth under the august sun. – for the seven winters of their marriage, no child's cry broke the silence of the royal cradle. venomous whispers ran down the castle stairs like serpents: rivals said that the talbot lineage was withering away, and that a prince without an heir is just a king of ashes.

while catherine sought solace in the prayers and herbs of her elders, thomas saw his glory tarnished by the shadow of succession. the steel of his sword was strong, but the future of his name hung by a thread as fragile as his wife's silence.