Chapter 5 • The Fall of Wanthong
When the Heart Defies Law, and the Kingdom Demands Judgment
Ayutthaya was radiant that morning, its temples gilded by sunlight, yet within the palace the air was heavy with unease. The case of Wanthong—beloved of two men, condemned by both—had stirred the court and the people alike. Her name was whispered in the markets, in the monasteries, in the shadowed halls of nobles who pretended righteousness while feeding on scandal.
For weeks she had lived within royal custody, a guest in a golden cage. Servants bowed before her, but she felt the chains of silence more than any iron. At night she dreamt of two faces—Khun Phaen’s fierce devotion and Khun Chang’s wounded pride. Each dream ended the same way: the sound of a distant drum, and her own heart breaking.
The king at last summoned judgment. The hall of audience filled with courtiers, monks, and petitioners. Khun Chang knelt first, his fine robes shimmering. “Your Majesty,” he began, “I am a loyal subject wronged by betrayal. My wife has broken her vows, consorted with another, and brought shame upon my house. I beg the crown to restore my honour.”
Then came Khun Phaen, his armour muted but his bearing proud. “I wronged no man,” he said. “Love is not theft. I fought for this kingdom, bled for its glory, and now stand accused for loving too deeply. If justice means denial of truth, then mercy has no place in your realm.” Murmurs rippled through the court. The king raised a hand for silence.
Finally Wanthong was brought forward. She wore simple white silk, her eyes clear though sleepless. The king regarded her kindly. “Woman,” he said, “you have divided two of my best men. Whom do you choose?” Her hands trembled. She looked at Khun Chang—his riches, his power, the safety he offered. Then at Khun Phaen—his scars, his sorrow, the fire that had once lit her life. Tears rose unbidden. “I cannot choose, Your Majesty,” she whispered. “For each holds half my heart.”
A gasp swept the hall. The king’s expression hardened. “A heart divided is a heart that deceives,” he declared. “If you cannot choose, you shall be punished as one who chooses neither.” The sentence fell like thunder: Wanthong was to die by royal decree.
The crowd erupted in disbelief. Khun Phaen stepped forward, his voice breaking. “Spare her, sire! The fault is mine alone.” Khun Chang, pale and shaking, tried to speak but no sound came. The king’s gaze remained resolute. “The law is the law. Let this serve as lesson—that desire ungoverned brings ruin to all.”
At dawn the following day, Wanthong was led beyond the palace gates. The sky was crimson, as if the heavens wept blood for what was to come. She walked with calm grace, her hands folded in prayer. Khun Phaen stood among the soldiers, his face carved in anguish. “Forgive me,” he whispered, though she could no longer hear.
When the drums ceased, a stillness descended upon the land. Even the river seemed to halt its flow. The people would later say that as the blade fell, a breeze passed through Ayutthaya scented with jasmine—her final gift to the world she could not remain in.
In the days that followed, Khun Chang shut himself within his house, tormented by victory’s emptiness. Khun Phaen disappeared into the wilderness, seeking solace in the chants of monks and the silence of mountains. The king, heavy with regret, ordered her name recorded in the royal chronicles: “Wanthong, whose beauty brought both honour and sorrow.”
Thus ended the tale of the woman who loved too truly, of the warrior who fought too fiercely, and of the merchant whose jealousy consumed him. Yet in the whispers of Suphanburi and the verses of the poets, her name endured—not as sinner or saint, but as the eternal echo of love undone by the weight of fate.
Next → Epilogue — Legacy of Passion, Karma, and Folklore
The story of Khun Chang, Khun Phaen, and Wanthong becomes legend—sung by poets, studied by scholars, and remembered by generations as the mirror of the Thai heart.