by Jenny Plumb
“Yes. Oh, yes,” Margrethe promised eagerly. “Please, I promise I will do everything to be a good queen and a good wife for you, Rupert.” It was the first time she had dared to use his name, and she watched him to see if it was all right. But he gave her only a smile, a wide smile that seemed charmed by her quick excitement to please, and so Margrethe thought it was.
“You are the only one except my mother who calls me that,” Rupert observed. “I like it much better from your lips.” He kissed her softly, then eased her off his lap. “I shall walk you back to your chambers. You must sleep very well tonight, for I cannot promise I will let you sleep well tomorrow, sweetheart.” A flash of mischief crossed his face at that, and he gave her a crooked grin.
“I will try to sleep,” Margrethe answered, with her own hint of mischief, which was sweet, and just a little naughty. “But I cannot say I will be able. Just like when we were little, Christmas is tomorrow, and I want my present very much, now that I have seen it.”
Rupert just laughed and led her by the hand back to her chambers. He didn’t say anything to her ladies; he was rather formal again once they were not alone, but he did bow to them. Then he kissed Margrethe’s hand, and let his eyes wish her a good night.
They had a hundred questions for Margrethe once Rupert had gone, but Cristina saw the dreamy, happy look in Margrethe’s eyes, and saw how she ignored them. “Do be quiet. She has been kissing her groom after all.”
“What?” Anneka demanded. “What do you mean kissing him?”
“She has a sort of kissing pout,” Cristina answered, laughing, and when the others saw that Margrethe blushed and did not deny it, they agreed.
Finally Margrethe said, “We had some speech – yes, all right, and some kissing too – and I am very pleased. I wish it were tomorrow, but it will never be tomorrow if you don’t let me go to sleep.” After that, she would not say anymore, for she knew if she did not keep firmly to her resolve, they would make her replay every single word Rupert had spoken to her, and she had spoken to him, and she would never get any sleep at all. Perhaps she wouldn’t sleep anyway. Perhaps it would be like when she was a child and had lain awake thinking of song and dance and sweets and presents, but if so, she had rather have quiet for it so she could think about Rupert’s lips and his dark, short curls and possessive eyes and all the delicious parts of him that she was so excited to enjoy. When she had let herself think at all of the marriage bed, it had been to worry that she might be too cold to enjoy the sensual delights of it, but now she knew there wouldn’t be problems like that. Had she not moaned, shown herself almost too wanton?
When her hair was brushed out smooth and braided for the night and the women finally retired, Margrethe was very happy to stretch out in bed. Her very body felt different since Rupert had touched it. Before, she had never thought much about her body except as something to hang gowns on. Perhaps she was glad if she danced well, or frustrated that she was too short to mount a tall horse without a good deal of help from the groom. But now... every inch of her seemed made new by Rupert’s caresses. It was if he had given her her own body as a new present to learn and explore. She had never felt so warm and tender as she had when Rupert kissed and caressed her. Deeply snuggled in the warm featherbed, with the fire popping occasionally beside her, Margrethe caressed her own body hesitantly. She let her hand touch her breasts through her delicate linen nightgown, enjoying the light touch. Rupert would touch her here, perhaps, but it would feel very different when it was him. He would touch her everywhere, illuminating her whole body with pleasure.
Margrethe’s gentle explorations did not extend to her precious pearl, but she was happy to touch the ivory of her thigh and even explore where Rupert’s prick would go tomorrow night. A doctor, a Bohemian one, had examined her over the summer – all part of the arrangements for the contract to be fulfilled. It had been unpleasant examination, long and painful, and Margrethe’s happy smile faded when she remembered it.
Rupert would not hurt her because he liked to hurt her, of course, but probably it would hurt anyway. Because Margrethe had no mother, every older woman in Denmark, it seemed like, had felt the need to advise her on the matter before she had left home. It would be dreadful. She would want to scream and run away, but must not. Or it would be bad, but not so bad, and she must make the best of things, for the sake of the children she would get. She should bite her hand if she felt like crying because they didn’t want you to cry. Or they might want you to cry, but not too loud. As the many words that had been spoken to her on the horrors of the wedding night resurfaced in her mind, Margrethe became depressed, and she ceased her happy voyage of discovery around her tender body and curled up, hugging a pillow to her stomach tightly.
Would she cry? She wanted to be brave. She had resolved on that since she had first understood how bad it might be. Margrethe had never been really hurt in her life – she had been whipped, very occasionally, by nurses or tutors, but as a sweet-natured child who never set out to make real mischief, these had been rare occasions, and not severe, for her father would have been displeased with harsh measures used on his beloved eldest daughter. And she had never had a real injury. The one time she had been thrown from a horse, she had fallen in a bed of clover and windflowers and not broken any bones.
At least Margrethe thought that she had not to fear the worst. Rupert would not like hurting her. He would be sorry for the parts that hurt her, and kiss her, she hoped. And if she held his shoulders very tightly, perhaps it would not be so bad. Still, it was frightening, the more so because everyone had disagreed about how much it would hurt, and she did not know what to expect – and because it was so at odd with her instincts, which were so eager to go to Rupert as soon as it was time, warnings or no warnings.
Eventually she did drop off to sleep, letting go of her fears and anticipations, and letting dreams carry her away as outside the wind wailed around the icy spires and more and more snow piled up around the castle.
Chapter 3
The next morning, Margrethe awoke early to the sound of Christmas bells ringing out, clear and merry over the frosty Bohemian landscape. Barefoot, she ran to the window, pleased somehow to see that it had snowed more in the night. She felt like a child, as excited for Christmas morning as if she were still a very little girl hoping her father would have a new doll to give her that day. For today was her wedding day – the day she would marry Rupert, the day when he would not stop kissing her, but kiss her and kiss her all night long. A tiny, girlish giggle escaped her at the idea. She could not help it. Her morning spirits were bubbly and happy, with all the fears of the night quite gone, for now, as if the sunlight sparkling on the snow like a thousand diamonds had dispelled it entirely.
Anneka, Cristina, and Birgitta came in shortly thereafter, and there was a good deal of giggling and joking, but gradually the princess found that Birgitta was taking charge of her toilette and soon the other two were sent away on flimsy errands while Birgitta sat Margrethe down and began brushing her hair very carefully and seriously. “I wish your poor mamma could see you today,” Birgitta said sadly.
“I do too,” Margrethe answered. “I wish Papa had been well enough to come.” Her father had been laid up with a bad back most of the winter, which was why Margrethe had been sent alone to her wedding. Otherwise nothing would have prevented the king from giving away his daughter properly.
“But,” Birgitta persisted, and it became clear that she had a sort of set speech in her head from which she would not deviate, “I know she would wish you to be prepared for the solemn duty that lies before you now.”
It was true, of course. Being married and becoming queen of a whole country, as well as holding the alliances that bound half of Europe together against the other half was a solemn duty, but that was not as cheerful as thinking about how Rupert had liked her laughs, or how he had threatened to kiss her, or how he had threatened to keep her up all night, or that lovely little cluster of curls at his temple. Margrethe
said nothing, though, for the speech would probably proceed regardless.
“The marriage bed is the true beginning of your marriage, for no matter what is said in the church, if the bed is not good, the marriage will not be good. Look at poor Catherine of Aragon.”
“There was nothing wrong with that bed, except that a daughter came of it,” Margrethe said rebelliously. “It was the king who was the problem.”
Birgitta pursed her lips as though she would like to scold, but it was true, so she said nothing, only continued. “But still, that marriage was annulled, and if the bed is not good, the marriage may be annulled, so you see it is the heart of the thing. When King Rupert comes to your bed tonight, it’s very important he be confident in your innocence. If he is not, he may refuse you right then. You must only be still and quiet and let him do as he pleases, no matter how much it hurts or if you are scared. You must not talk, or make your clever remarks. You may save that for when you are a fat old queen who has given your lord a dozen heirs.”
Margrethe thought if she had to save her clever remarks for when she had given a dozen heirs, she would have time to write a book before she was allowed to say anything worth listening to, but she kept it to herself. “I understand,” was all she said.
“Good.” Birgitta leaned down to kiss Margrethe’s brow very tenderly and looked the princess in the eyes, her own big brown eyes brimming with tears. “I am sure you will be very happy, my dearest princess. You are so beautiful. I cannot help wishing you would stay a little girl forever.”
The Christmas service was early in the day, and Margrethe stole looks at Rupert in the little, cold chapel over her prayer book between hymns and prayers. He looked serious, but once or twice she caught him looking at her – and once he winked. That made her blush, but happily, to know that he was as eager and merry for the actual marriage as she was.
The rest of the day passed more quickly than Margrethe had feared. Gifts were exchanged, given and received, though she could not have really named a single item, and then there was the endless matter of being bathed and dressed, but eventually, in the late afternoon, she was led back to the chapel in her heavy gown of gold cloth. Winter’s early darkness was already threatening outside, but so many candles burned inside the chapel that it was as bright as midsummer. Ambassador Hevelsheim led Margrethe down the aisle while her three ladies carried her heavy train and stately music played. Margrethe glanced once at Rupert, and her heart leapt – he seemed so tender, so pleased at the sight of her, and she smiled back at him, letting her own pleasure show just a little. But once she had given her heart that bit of joy, she returned her attention to the ceremony and her role in it. This wasn’t really for them; it was for the courts, the ambassadors, indeed for their countries.
So Margrethe gave her full attention to the exchange of vows and did not make the slightest error, even though she had to speak in Bohemian; she had made her tutor drill her in the ceremony for months ahead of time. Her hand was placed in Rupert’s, and the ring that symbolized faithfulness placed on her hand – it had a big emerald set in it, and it was very heavy. She wondered if she might be allowed not to wear it. She would have to ask him later.
When all was done in the chapel, then there was the wedding feast, and there was just as little opportunity for personal talk between them at the table. Margrethe smiled and smiled and smiled. There was another poem, just as bad as the first, and it seemed she would be the “Snow Queen” now. Lots of compliments and allusions and more silly metaphors, and she had to compliment the poet and pretend to like it. At least there was dancing, and Rupert opened the dance with her, leading her through the figures with easy grace – but he did not speak to her still. She understood. This was how it would be. When they were in public, their words belonged to everyone; they could only smile, or meet eyes. But soon they would be alone. Soon he would be the Rupert she had met last night, the one who had called her sweetheart. Soon he would be her husband, not merely her lord.
There were so many toasts to the happiness of the King and Queen that Margrethe, who did not drink even wine very often, was a little tipsy by the time all the highest ranking ladies of the kingdom, laughing, led her to her chambers and stripped her down to her chemise. Her big bed was garlanded with red and white roses grown in the castle’s hothouses, filling the room with their heavy fragrance. The jokes the women were making – especially the married ones – made Margrethe blush hotly, and she wished, very much, that she could merely have gone to bed on her own. But that was not the custom. The songs, the jokes, the flowers – it was all part of the ritual.
And before very long, she heard a different song, deeper and rowdier, and then the bedroom door flew open and a knot of men burst in singing, tankards in hand and finally their center, the king: Rupert. He had been laughing when he first came in, but as soon as he locked eyes with his bride, he went rather solemn, for he could see that she was not enjoying the noise and the laughter, though she tried to be good humored about it. “All right,” he said sharply, and though he did not raise his voice very loudly, there was enough command to it that the drunken men ceased singing at once. “You have put us to bed – now go empty the casks, for we have business of our own to attend to.”
There was a shout of laughter at his reference to marital “business,” and many men clapped him on the back, but no doubt he expected that, and men and women alike left the room, laughing, singing, and stealing roses.
Then at last they were alone together. Although Margrethe had been eagerly looking forward to this moment all day, as though it were the true Christmas morning when she would unwrap her present, the rowdy men and women, the ritual, and Birgitta’s well-meant but unpleasant advice from that morning had all left her even more nervous than she had been before. And so she sat dumbly, staring at him as if he were a stranger instead of her husband, the man who had held her on his knee and kissed her dizzy, the man who had made her laugh and smile, the dear Rupert she very much hoped to love.
“Be quiet and still and let him do as he pleases,” Birgitta had said, and though Margrethe did not like the advice at all, she found herself following it, just watching Rupert anxiously, waiting for him to advance.
“Here is my queen,” he said quietly, and he came to sit beside her on the bed. He was wearing his nightshirt and dressing gown, and his legs were bare. It struck Margrethe funny that he should be expected to show himself before the court like this, undignified, even if it was his wedding night. She wanted to make a joke about it, but whatever wit had come out of hiding the night before had quite deserted her, and instead she simply looked down at her hands. She hoped that if it was painful tonight, tomorrow would come soon, and it would be nice, like kissing him. That she could giggle, and moan into his mouth, and sit on his lap, and maybe even make a joke. Then perhaps things would be all right. Tonight, it was like pretending to be someone else in a play or masque. They were the King and Queen of Bohemia consummating the alliance between their countries. They weren’t really themselves at all.
When Margrethe finally dared to look up at Rupert’s face, he was frowning a little, and his eyebrows were drawn together. He didn’t look pleased, and the look of immediate worry on her face was so speaking that he said, “What is it?”
“You are displeased, my lord,” she answered immediately. “And I had hoped not to fall into error so quickly.”
Rupert sighed a little. “I am not displeased. But... last night you said you wanted your present very much. Tonight, you will scarcely look at it, and I am not sure you will even unwrap it. And if I would not speak to you last night, tonight you are repaying me with silence.”
“Oh!” It was an unhappy little exclamation, and Margrethe immediately moved closer, quite stricken to realize how cold and unhappy her nerves had made her seem. She wrapped her arms around Rupert’s neck and laid her head on his shoulder. Already, it felt familiar, sweet and safe to have her head there, and when he held her and stroked her hair, she gave a long,
trembling sigh, hoping his tenderness also meant forgiveness. “I have been frightened. You do not know all the things women say about marriage beds, how it will hurt and I will cry, or must not cry, or cannot help crying but must hide it. And Birgitta said that it will be very bad, but I must only let you do as you please. Not speak or look even, just permit. She gave me a talk this morning. She has been a like a mother to me, so I had to listen to it, only...” Margrethe gave a little sigh. “Only I hope my mother would not have talked about it like that. I hope my mother was happy with Papa. I hope Papa did not hurt her. I know he loved her very much,” she whispered into Rupert’s shoulder.
He gave her a warm squeeze at that confidential burst of speech, and continued stroking her hair until the trembling subsided. “I am sure he did,” Rupert said in a quiet, gentle voice. “A man who knows how to love a daughter so well must have loved her mother well indeed. I read the words he put in the case of rubies – before I had met you I thought it just an embellishment, a show of wealth, but now I can see he meant every word. But,” and here he put Margrethe from him, gently but firmly, so they could meet eyes, “this Birgitta may have been like a mother to you, but I spoke clearly last night, did I not?”
She regarded him with large, innocent eyes, not understanding. For though he did not seem angry, there was something stern in his dark gaze, something she had done wrong, and she tried to think of how she might have displeased him. “I-I… yes, my lord.” Nervous, sensing the fault, she did not dare use his name again yet.