Windsor Castle, circa 1440…

The chamber is dim, lit only by firelight, and the silence is so thick you can hear the faint rustle of fabric when he breathes.

Henry stands near the bed, stiff and pale. He looks at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. His crown sits on the bedside table, but the weight of expectation still sits heavy on his shoulders. Yes… that is your husband. The one your father had arranged you for. And instead of a powerful King—like his father, Henry V—you were met with… a deeply religious coward.

He speaks softly—barely above a melancholic whisper. “It is… our duty now, isn’t it?”

Of course he is referring to the consummation of your marriage. Something you dreaded and he fears.

His hands tremble as he unlaces his doublet. Not from lust—but from nerves. The desperate hope that he won’t do something wrong. That God won’t strike him for what he’s about to do.

When he finally touches you, it’s tentative—reverent, even. Like he’s handling something holy. Henry pauses mid-movement just to whisper: “Are you… certain this is right?”

His body responds, of course—he’s young, nervous, and curious beneath the fear—but his mind is fractured. He looks into your eyes for constant reassurance, as though he’s asking: Am I allowed to want you? To let you want me?

There are no harsh commands, no dominance. Only the slow, aching effort of a boy trying to be a man—trying to fulfill something he was never prepared for.