by Karen Miller
Oh, she wasn’t going to like this, was she? “Yes, Papa,” she said, and folded her hands. The early sunshine no longer warmed her. She felt cold and small and cornered, like some pitiful creature fighting for its life.
“Had God willed it Ranald would have worn the crown after me,” said her father, his sunken eyes fixed on mid-air, on the past. “Or Simon, had he survived that pestilential infection. But my heart’s hope was denied me when God took your brothers in their prime.” He paused to catch his breath, the air bubbling in his chest. “You are my only daughter, Rhian. You know what you must do, for me and for Ethrea. You must bear a fistful of sons. All that remains to decide is who will take my place on the throne.”
And sleep in my bed . Rhian felt the heat of anger flush her head to toe. He talks as though I’m a prized broodmare, and he the studmaster who must choose the best stallion. But I’m no fecund mare, I’m a royal heir as much as Ranald and Simon. The only royal heir now. Why will no-one recognise that?
“Papa,” she said, schooling her voice to a passionless murmur, “I feel I’m too young to marry.”
“Too young?” Her father frowned, displeased. “Your mother, God grant her peace, was two years younger than you the day we wed. Too young! ” Scorn withered his failing voice. “Such notions arise from an excess of bookishness and a want of attention to the womanly arts.”
She sat very still, her heart a drumbeat in her ears. “That doesn’t sound like you, Papa. That sounds like the prolate. It’s a wonder Marlan can pronounce on such matters, sworn celibate that he is.”
“Mind your tongue, Rhian!” her father said, sharp with anger even though he was dying. “Marlan is God’s chosen man. Do not take so lightly his office or the Godgiven wisdom of his preaching.”
She rose from her chair and walked back to the window, not daring to show him her face till it was the very image of contrition. He never used to speak like this. Before the boys died he had scant affection for Marlan and his mean-spirited pronouncements. Nor had he been overpious. But grief and illness had shaken her father to the bone. Cast him adrift on a sea of uncertainty.
If I’m not careful he’ll drown me with him.
“Forgive me, Papa,” she begged him at last, turning. “It’s wrong of me to criticise the prolate.”
Her father nodded, weakly. “Excessively wrong.”
“But Papa, Marlan is unfair when he accuses me of lacking the womanly arts. Mama took great pains to teach me all she knew of such things, while she could.”
Her father’s severe expression softened. “So she did, most excellently. No woman born had more gentleness, grace and breeding than your mother.”
“And after we lost Mama your own sister, God rest her, taught me everything else I should know.”
“Yes. Arabella was a fine woman, too.”
“Indeed. And as for excessive bookishness, Papa,” Rhian pressed, “upon whose lap did I sit every day in the library, learning my alphabet and then, in time, reading the great histories of Ethrea, the geographies and biologies and religious treatises deemed essential to the education of any royal prince?”
“I know full well I encouraged you to study every book you could lay your hand upon, Rhian, but—”
“Furthermore,” she continued, relentless, “who was it presented me with my first foil and taught me to fence like a master? Who gifted me with my first bow and instructed me in the finer points of archery? And who sat me on my first pony and pointed me after hounds?”
Her father’s sigh became a rattling cough. “It was me, it was me, I freely confess it,” he said, when he could speak again. “But that has nothing to do with—”
“Papa!” She returned to his bedside. “It has everything to do with it. All my life you’ve treated me as a third son. Never once did you send me away, saying ‘This pursuit is unwomanly, you may not take part’. I was Ranald’s shadow, Simon’s echo. You used to laugh about that! But now you would chide me?”
Her father groped for her hand with palsied fingers. “Rhian, my dear daughter. I do not chide you, I only remark that you have often favoured manly activities over and above the matters that should concern a young woman ripe for marriage.” Another pause, so he could catch his thin breath. “To be sure I took pride in a fancy riposte or an unbroken string of bull’s-eyes, but I hazard a prospective husband might look more favourably upon a fine piece of tapestry or a pleasant tune on the flute.”
“Papa,” she said, excessively reasonable, “tapestries and flutes are all very well but they have little to do with ruling a kingdom.”
He released her hand. In his face, weary understanding and the intent to deny. “Do not be foolish, child.”
“Why is it foolish?” she demanded. “I’m of the blood royal, a legitimate daughter of the House of Havrell! You’ve said it yourself, I’m as thoroughly educated as any prince. Truth be told I’m better educated than Ranald was. He never cared for books and learning. Don’t make a face, Papa, you know I’m right! If I were your third son I—”
“But you’re not, Rhian,” said her father. “And there the matter ends.”
“ Why does it end? Why am I good enough to breed a king yet somehow insufficient to rule as one myself?”
He did not reprove her rudeness or demand a more compliant demeanour. He loved her, and was sorry. “Rhian, be sensible. You’re barely nineteen, almost a year from your majority.”
“If I were a prince I’d have attained it already! That’s not fair either, Papa, I—”
“Fair?” Her father coughed again, harshly, an ominous wheezing deep in his chest. “You prate to me of fair, Rhian?”
She felt her cheeks heat. “Papa—”
“When you say such things I think your fine education was wasted!”
“All I mean,” she said, her fingers clenched, “is it’s galling to know that Prolate Marlan and the council consider me feeble just because I was born a girl. I’m not feeble, Papa. You know that. And they’ll know it too, before very long. I’ll be twenty in the blink of an eye!”
“Yes,” her father agreed. “But Rhian, gaining your majority won’t make you a prince. My councillors fear that your feminine characteristics, while admirable in a queen consort, do not lend themselves to the more rigorous demands of ruling a kingdom.”
Now she couldn’t breathe properly. The air was stifling in her lungs. There were tears in her eyes, she could feel them burning. “And what about you, Papa? Is that what you fear?”
He recaptured her hand, his touch colder than ice. “I do not dispute you have much to offer this kingdom, Rhian, and offer it you will.” His voice was faint, every shallow breath an effort. “As Ethrea’s queen consort, in the bodies of your children and such works of charity and social service as you may choose to perform.”
“I see,” she said tightly. “So I do get to choose something, do I?”
“Of course!” he said. He sounded wounded. Wounded . When she was the one cut to bleeding by his words … “Do you take me for a tyrant, Rhian, that I would trammel you about with rules and regulations and give not one whit for your happiness? Is that the kind of father I have been to you?”
With exquisite care she removed her hand from his grasp. “You’ve been the kind of father who led me to believe that nothing I desired was beyond my reach, that my sex had no bearing upon my value, that whatever I dreamed of I could also achieve if only I applied my heart and mind and will to the task. Are you telling me that was a lie?”
“No,” he whispered. “But when I believed it you had two brothers and I had two sons.”
As the hot tears overflowed her eyes she said, “So who am I to marry, Papa? Who will be the lucky man?”
Her father averted his gaze. “The council is preparing a list of eligible suitors. When it is completed, you and I will consider their choices.”
“But Papa …” With an effort, she subdued her treacherous temper. “Your councillors aren’t impartial. Excepting Marlan, each one answe
rs to a different duke. They’ll favour their own lord’s son or close relative or someone from a duchy family their duke wishes to court or control. The only way we’ve maintained Ethrea’s unification for so long is by making the business of royal marriage royal business, with no outside interference.”
“Rhian …” Her father sighed. “I am dying, not addled. Of course—”
“Yes, Papa, you’re dying!” she interrupted. “And if, God forbid, you’re taken from us before the council’s list is completed, before I’ve made my choice with you to endorse it, what then? It’s clear your council holds me in utter contempt. They won’t listen to my thoughts on this, they’ll argue and bully and—”
“They will not,” said her father. “Marlan heads the council in my absence, and will continue to head it until a new king is crowned. He will control the dukes’ men, never fear.”
Control them and me as well, an obedient puppet, if he has his way. I’d rather die . She slid from the chair to her knees and clasped her hands on the counterpane, as though in prayer.
“Please, papa, listen . This realm is no more important to you than it is to me. How better can it be served than by your one true heir succeeding you? Our House, our family, was chosen by God to rule Ethrea. How can you break that faith? If the man I marry becomes Ethrea’s king our royal bloodline will be broken! More than three hundred years of history thrown away!”
Though his meagre strength had ebbed almost to its lowest tide, her father struggled upright against his pillows. “I break no faith, girl. I throw nothing away. Our bloodline will continue through your children, my grandchildren. And in their children and those children’s children. Why isn’t that good enough for you? It was good enough to please your mother!”
“My mother’s father was not the king! Papa, you say I can’t rule in my own right, but why ? There is no law—”
“Nor is there precedent,” said her father. He was sweating, trembling, the palsy in his fingers spreading through his whole body. “Our kingdom’s prolate is clear on the matter. There is no authority in law or scripture to sanction the crowning of a queen.”
Marlan, again. He is such a busy man. I must find a way to thank him for his interest in my life . “Papa—”
“ Enough, girl. Must I spend my last days in tumult with you?” said her father, tears brimming in his yellowed eyes. “This is not your decision. I am the king. You are my subject. Marriage, Rhian. That is your future. You will marry a fine son of Ethrea and you will have fine sons of your own. When the council is ready it will deliver its list of eligible suitors and together you and I will consider it. Naturally the final choice will be yours, within reason.”
Every gasping word he spoke was a dagger point, pricking. “Within reason?”
Drained of colour, her father sagged against his pillows. “Yes. Of course.”
She might have laughed, if weeping wasn’t so near. “And what of the spurned pretenders to my hand, Papa? Not being of the Keldrave persuasion I have to be satisfied with only one husband. How much trouble can I expect from the eligible men I deem unworthy of a crown?”
Her father nodded. “That is why we must act quickly, to choose the right man and crown him king and you queen consort, before trouble has a chance to stir.” He coughed, pressing a kerchief to his bloodless lips. “Before I die,” he added, when his breath had returned. “Marlan tells me the list will be ready within two days. But Rhian …”
What, there was more bad news? “Tell me, Papa,” she said, suddenly exhausted. I can’t be cast any lower than this .
He was struggling to keep his sunken eyes open. “I know of one name for certain you’ll not find on the council’s list. Alasdair Linfoi.”
“Why don’t you like him?” she said, when she could trust her voice. “You’ve never told me. Ranald was fond of him. Simon, too. You made no objection when he spent time with the boys.”
Her father’s head shifted, his gaze avoiding her. “Men’s friendships are different. And Ranald was to be king, Simon the Duke of Kingseat after him when he took the throne. A king and his dukes cannot be estranged.”
He made it sound so—so practical . “We all spent time together, Papa,” she said, struggling to keep her temper. “Me and the boys and Alasdair. At court.”
“And your brothers knew to keep an eye on you,” said her father. “And him. They knew how far to let Linfoi run his line.”
They’d discussed her? Spied on her? What gave them the right? Sickened, she watched her fingers tighten into fists on the counterpane. “I don’t understand. Alasdair’s a duke’s son, and soon he’ll be a duke. Surely—”
“I don’t care for his pedigree. And Linfoi’s a paltry duchy. It breeds spavined horses and men of slight character. Let Alasdair inherit it, I have no care for that. But I won’t have our House allied with his. We can do better.”
So unfair! So high-handed! “But Papa —”
“Enough!” said her father, almost groaning. “Rhian, enough. Would you crush me with your selfish dissent? Would you poison my last days with fears for your obedience and love for this kingdom?”
Oh. So there are deeper depths into which I can fall . She pushed herself to her feet and turned her face away to hide her fiery cheeks. “No, Papa. Of course not.”
“Then put Alasdair Linfoi from your thoughts, Rhian, and all shall be well,” said her father faintly. “I will find you a husband worthy of our name.”
Her heart felt like a lump of lead. “Yes, Papa.”
“I will,” he insisted. “Rhian, look at me.”
With infinite reluctance she turned back to the bed. “Papa.”
“I know this is difficult,” he whispered, with an effort. If she breathed hard on him he’d float away. “Were you some simple village lass you could wed where your fancy led you and frolic from sunup to sun-down with no more thought of politics than a cow gives to astronomy. But you are not a village lass. Your life has ever been circumscribed by matters of state.”
If that were true, she’d never noticed. And whose fault was that? Perhaps I’m not as worldly as I thought .
“You must rest, Papa. All this talking has tired you out, and Ven’Justin will be here soon to take up his vigil. If you need me, send to the sewing room or the kitchens where I’ll be pursuing such tasks as befit a mere woman.”
Then she was closing his chamber door behind her, gently, for no-one was permitted to slam the king’s door save the king himself … and none of the outer chamber attendants, looking at her serene face as she swept past them to the corridor, could have guessed what a stormy passion raged beneath her skin.
These men, these men, these impossible men …
“Highness! Princess Rhian! Highness!”
Hearing the cry, Rhian slowed, swearing under her breath. Damnation. Helfred . Her entirely unnecessary personal chaplain, yet another debt she owed Prolate Marlan.
In his mind I’m so unimportant I don’t even rate a venerable to plague me. But then, Marlan doesn’t have a venerable nephew, does he?
“Princess Rhian! Highness! Princess Rhian!”
The querulous, nasal voice could not be ignored. Marlan’s nephew would trot in her wake the length and breadth of the castle and all its grounds, bleating like an abandoned lamb until either she heeded him or dropped in her tracks from old age.
She stopped, and turned. “Yes, Chaplain? What is it?” Hopefully he’d take the hint from her tone and scuttle back the way he’d come.
Sublimely oblivious, Helfred hitched his dark blue habit a little higher round his puffy ankles and hurried along the corridor to join her. Such a gormless fellow, looking always as though there should be a drip at the end of his nose. She didn’t know exactly how old he was, it wasn’t something that came up in spiritual conversations. She guessed he was perhaps ten years older than herself, which would make him a hairsbreadth younger than her dead brother, Ranald. A smidgin older than her other dead brother, Simon. Oh, how she missed them … an
d was angry.
You wretches. If you hadn’t insisted on running off adventuring I wouldn’t be in this mess now!
“Your Highness,” said Helfred as he reached her, touching his thumb to his heart and moist pink lips. “Where are you going?”
She was a full four inches taller than him. At times like this the advantage in height was something of a comfort. “Tell me what business it is of yours and I’ll tell you where I’m going,” she replied. “Perhaps.”
His poached-egg eyes regarded her reproachfully. “Highness, as your spiritual advisor it is my duty to attend you at all times, in case some crisis should arise that requires my intervention.”
“So you keep saying,” she said, “without any kind of precedent or proof, I might add. Very well. What if I told you I’m on my way to the watercloset?”
He blinked, pinking beneath his unhealthy skin. “Are you?”
“As it happens, no. But for the sake of argument let’s say that I am. I can’t imagine what kind of crisis might arise there that would require your intervention, can you? Unless of course I were to run out of—”
“Highness!” Helfred squawked, blushing like a beacon from his greasy forehead to his pimply neck. “This is hardly a proper topic of conversation!”
“No,” she agreed regretfully. “I dare say it’s not. Forgive me. I sat up all night with the king. I’m tired and hungry and now that I think of it, I do need to pee.”
“Highness!” he called, scurrying to catch up again as she continued toward her privy apartments. “Highness, as I was about to say, given that I have the honour of being your spiritual advisor it is incumbent upon me to remind you that three full days have passed since you knelt with me in chapel and recited the Litany.”
She glanced sideways at him, trampling the overwhelming urge to pick up her skirts and run. “Really? As long as that? I swear it seems like only five minutes.”
“No, Highness, three days, my sacred oath upon it,” said Helfred. “As a good and obedient daughter of the Church I know you wish to do your duty, and as soon as possible.”