The Contingency Plan
By Addison Albright
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2018 Addison Albright
ISBN 9781634866118
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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For Nell Iris and Amy Tasukada, whose beta reading talents are unmatched and deeply appreciated.
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The Contingency Plan
By Addison Albright
Prince Marcelo of Sheburat stared out the window of his bedchamber. The sky was a strikingly vivid azure-blue, broken only by a few scattered billowy clouds. Blackbirds and woodlarks sang their merry tunes, and the blossoms flowering in the grove of plum trees fluttered in the light breeze.
It was the sort of day his twin sister Marcela would have embraced. Yesterday’s beauty would have likely drawn her outdoors to race across the castle’s grounds on her beloved Pepin.
Usually surefooted, she wouldn’t have expected the horse to stumble and throw her. Marcelo could picture his sister’s wide smile as she encouraged Pepin to sprint across the yard, the wind whipping her loose hair into a tangled jumble.
He and Marcela hadn’t been close in years. Not true companions since their nursery days, and not in each other’s confidence at all since his time with the tutors had come to an end. Still, she’d been his twin, and he mourned her passing.
He turned from the window and sat staring at his hands, folded in his lap. How would her unexpected death affect the peace treaty?
Days…they’d been mere days from completing the final component in the treaty their mother, Queen Giselle, had signed eighteen years earlier with King Alnod of Zioneven. The timing of the tragedy, so close to Marcela’s wedding to the crown prince of Zioneven, might have made it suspect. But the accident had been witnessed by advanced riders of the Zioneven entourage as well as trusted Sheburat guards. All agreed there’d been no foul play.
It had been an accident. A particularly badly timed misfortune.
Unlike his twin, who’d been robust and athletic, Marcelo had a delicate build and features more typical of the rare male born into the royal family of this matriarchal sovereignty. With the smooth skin of his face and fine lines of his bone structure, visiting foreign dignitaries might be excused for assuming him to be a woman before taking a closer look. He raked a shaky hand through the silky loose ringlets of his shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair.
The castle was in an uproar with servants rushing to and fro. Doing what, Prince Marcelo wasn’t sure. He recognized the end results of the servants’ hard work but had no idea of the details of how most of it was accomplished. The incessant chatter as they hurried along the stone corridor outside his chamber drove him to distraction.
Of course, there’d been a contingency plan laid out in the treaty because there’d never been a guarantee that Marcela, the third daughter of Queen Giselle and Prince Consort Elmer, would live to see her eighteenth birthday. The two eldest daughters—the heir and the spare—had been excluded from consideration in the wedding arrangement portion of the treaty, so instead of marrying Marcela, the crown prince of Zioneven would now choose from among the younger daughters. Unfortunately, that would cause a delay until the newly chosen bride-to-be turned eighteen, and neither side would appreciate the postponement.
Still, in the larger scope of peace between these two lands, his twin’s death was a mere blip in the process. Queen Giselle, like Marcelo and his sisters, grieved on a personal level, but she had no real worries in regard to the treaty.
A light but persistent tapping on the closed door to his bedchamber wrested him from his melancholic thoughts. “Enter,” he called.
His personal servant, Erich, opened the door and stepped in. “Sir.” With a small bow, Erich announced, “Crown Prince Efren of Zioneven has arrived. You are expected to join your family in the great hall.”
Life went on.
“Thank you.” Marcelo stood and rolled his shoulders as Erich waited. More than twice Marcelo’s age, Erich had patience aplenty, borne of years of experience in service to the royal family. Marcelo briefly closed his eyes while he took a cleansing breath, then followed his servant from the room. Apparently, Prince Efren didn’t want to waste any time working out the details to the modification of the arrangement.
Marcelo arrived at the entrance to the great hall at the same time as his younger sister, Kemble. As the fourth daughter, a year younger than he and Marcela, she was Prince Efren’s likely choice as a replacement bride. Her grim expression confirmed she understood that.
Knowing from birth what her fate was supposed to be, Marcela had grown up coming to terms with her future. With her strength of character, she’d willingly, if not entirely cheerfully, accepted her imminent fate as wife to the future ruler of those boors to the north, often saying, “I’m proud to be the one who will cement the peace that’s finally come over our land.”
Bearing in mind how close they’d come to the wedding sealing the final deal of that long-ago treaty, Kemble was no doubt in shock at the realization that she would be taking her sister’s place in a year’s time. It was hard to say whether she’d use that time to fan the flames of her dread, or to pluck up her mettle.
Marcelo nodded and conveyed what he hoped was a commiserating expression.
She nodded briefly in acknowledgement, then entered the hall as a servant announced, “Her Royal Highness, Princess Kemble of Sheburat.”
Straightening his back, Marcelo stepped into place in the entryway. The servant proclaimed, “His Royal Highness, Prince Marcelo of Sheburat,” and Marcelo strode into the packed room.
The royal family and nobles of Sheburat lined one side, and the entourage from Zioneven flanked the opposite. Being male, he stepped into place at the lower end of the row of Queen Giselle’s offspring, rather than in age-order amongst his sisters.
Surprisingly, considering his whole life he’d heard whispers of what backward brutes the people of Zioneven were, they looked much the same as the people on the Sheburat side of the room. The ambassadors from Zioneven with whom he’d conversed at state dinners had been civilized enough, but he’d considered that an aberration—a skill and front that went with their position.
The men and women varied in size, and although the details of the styling of their clothing was distinctive, the basics were the same: long, silk-trimmed tunics made of a finely woven cloth with a colorful strong fabric belt. Coming from a chillier climate, their trousers were tailored tighter than those worn in Sheburat, and were leather rather than linen, but the leather footw
ear was much the same. Their cloaks were fastened at the left shoulder by a round brooch.
Marcelo scanned the faces on the other side of the hall. The tranquil openness of their expressions suggested honesty and integrity. Certainly, an individual could excel at feigning a disposition that didn’t reflect their true nature, but an entire body of people? They were doing the same, sizing up the nobles of Sheburat. Marcelo stood straight and tall and lifted his chin. They would find no sign of weakness in him.
The man in the middle of the Zioneven lineup was a little taller than average, but not in the same league as the intimidatingly large warriors who had accompanied them. He had short dark brown hair and piercing dark eyes. His bearing set him apart from the rest. The proud tilt to his head, the authoritative demeanor that stopped short of appearing pompous. This regal man had to be Crown Prince Efren. And he was staring directly at Marcelo.
Marcelo blinked in surprise, but tightened his jaw and held the look. He refused to avert his gaze first. After a long moment, one corner of the prince’s mouth quirked up, and he nodded faintly before turning away.
Marcelo’s youngest sister, Suky, standing beside him, peered oddly at him. “That was…interesting,” she whispered.
Perhaps. Curious that the crown prince would take note of the member of the royal family with the least status, but nothing of particular importance. All-in-all, he felt a little less concern on Kemble’s behalf.
With everyone now in attendance, Queen Giselle stepped forward. “Your Royal Highness, Ladies and Lords, and people of Zioneven, please accept our warm welcome to Sheburat, and I hope you’ll accept our sincere apology for the chaos in which you find us today.”
Prince Efren inclined his head. “Of course, Your Majesty. On behalf of Zioneven, I offer our heartfelt condolences on the loss of your beloved daughter.”
“Thank you,” Queen Giselle replied. “Sadly, our loss yesterday affects more than simply causing us private pain.”
“Indeed.” Prince Efren kept his reply short, perhaps diplomatically leaving it to Queen Giselle to either further the conversation toward whether or not he was ready to choose his alternate, or to wait for a time when her grief would be less immediate.
His mother would put diplomacy first, Marcelo didn’t doubt that. The conversation may or may not happen today, but it would occur during this visit. Diplomacy always came ahead of personal concerns.
“Although disappointment caused by the cancellation of the wedding we’d expected tomorrow is unavoidable,” Queen Giselle said. “I hope you’ll find a small comfort in knowing that you may now make your own choice of your future bride from among my younger daughters rather than the arrangement made on your behalf at the tender age of five.”
Again, Prince Efren inclined his head. “Sibling.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Sibling. The terms of the treaty specify I may choose an alternate from among Princess Marcela’s younger siblings. It didn’t restrict the choice to daughters.”
Marcelo stiffened. What in the world could Prince Efren mean by that? Men didn’t marry men. At least, he’d never heard of such a thing occurring in Sheburat. Marcelo wasn’t alone in his bewilderment. Everyone on his side of the room stilled. None of the faces opposite them exhibited confusion. Was that an acceptable option in Zioneven’s culture?
It was only by mere minutes, but Marcelo did qualify as a younger sibling to Marcela.
For the first time in Marcelo’s recollection, his mother faltered. “Do…surely…but…”
Marcelo turned his head toward her, his wide eyes silently imploring her to voice an objection. Kemble may have recently grown complacent thinking herself in the clear, but she’d at least spent her life knowing she was the likely backup plan.
As a royal son in this matriarchal society, Marcelo had grown up knowing he would never marry. Never. Royal sons did not marry. Period.
He’d been perfectly happy with that knowledge because he’d never experienced the attraction that men outside the royal family felt toward women. In fact, he’d enjoyed knowing he would not have to merge his life with a woman’s with the expectation of having to bed her.
His gaze flicked back and forth between Queen Giselle and Prince Efren before settling on the prince. Prince Efren had kept his eyes locked with the queen’s, but as if sensing Marcelo’s scrutiny, his head turned to reflect Marcelo’s regard.
Marcelo’s heart thudded so vigorously in his chest, surely everyone in the room must hear it. His respiration quickened. That single word uttered by Prince Efren had shattered Marcelo’s understanding of everything he knew about the world and had expected in his life.
Queen Giselle remained frozen for a few more moments, her brows drawn together as she processed the unexpected direction of this discussion. She cast a brief, apologetic glance toward Marcelo, then lifted her shoulders in a barely visible shrug. “The treaty does indeed use that word. Prince Efren, the choice is yours.”
Marcelo’s stomach dropped as her words echoed through the silent hall even though he’d known in his heart that she’d put Sheburat before her son’s individual concerns. So, he felt no personal betrayal. It was who is mother had to be.
Prince Efren continued to stare at Marcelo as he firmly stated, “I choose His Royal Highness, Prince Marcelo. The wedding will proceed tomorrow as planned.”
Marcelo swayed as the blood drained from his face. How could this be? How did such a marriage work? Would he be expected to—
“Marcelo?” Suky’s whispered tone voiced her concern. “Are you unwell?”
She repeated the words, but from farther away. Or did her voice only seem distant? He wobbled as the people around him faded, and then, thankfully, this nightmare all went away.
* * * *
Marcelo stretched, then stilled. This didn’t feel right. He was on his bed, but wore his daytime clothes and lay atop the coverlet. He opened his eyes. The sun was far too high in the sky for him to be lying abed.
“Marcelo.”
He turned toward the source of the deep voice. Prince Consort Elmer sat in the chair adjacent to the bed.
“Sir? Father?”
Why was his father in his bedchamber? His salon, perhaps, would have made sense, but even that was rare. Visits with his parents took place in their suite or in the public rooms. No one except Erich or servants under his direction ever entered Marcelo’s private bedchamber.
“Are you injured? In any pain?” Father asked. “You didn’t appear to hit your head as you fell. Kemble made it over to you in time to support you during your collapse.”
“Kemble…”
Marcelo’s muscles stiffened, and his breath hitched as memory of the events in the great hall rushed into his mind. “I choose His Royal Highness, Prince Marcelo. The wedding will proceed tomorrow as planned.”
That had actually happened.
“Collapse? How…how…?” Marcelo trailed off, unsure what he wanted to ask. How could such a marriage be possible? Instead he sat and reached for the metal cup on the small bedside table.
“How did you come to awaken in your bed?” Father queried. “Prince Efren carried you. He said it was the least he could do after shocking you into a dead faint.”
The cup slipped from Marcelo’s hand and clattered to the stone floor, spilling water as it rolled, clinking across the room. And now Prince Efren had shocked him a second time. Naturally, Marcelo had assumed servants had carried him.
An unfamiliar tingle raced through his body at the thought of being held by the prince in such an intimate manner. Or was it caused by remembering the curious half-smile when the prince had let Marcelo “win” the stare-down, or the way he’d looked confidently into Marcelo’s eyes when he’d announced his choice?
Marcelo cleared his throat and shook off the strange feeling. “Father, I don’t understand. How can this be? Men don’t marry other men, and royal sons in Sheburat don’t marry anyone.”
“Men can and do marry other men in
Zioneven. Likewise with women. It’s not the norm, but it’s done. In Sheburat, there are no laws forbidding it, but nobody has yet come forward to try. With this precedent, that will probably change.”
“But royal sons…”
“Again, there are no laws forbidding it. It’s a tradition borne of a long history of royal sons who’ve shown no interest in marrying.”
“I had no interest in marrying.”
“I know.” Father nodded. “But, although royal sons never married, some did take lovers.”
Tilting his head to the side, Marcelo stared blankly at his father. There didn’t seem to be any logic to these traditions whatsoever. “Why wouldn’t they have married their lovers? Did no one tell them it wasn’t forbidden?”
Father took a deep breath before continuing. “Some took lovers, but those lovers were never women.”
Marcelo’s lips parted, and he turned his head to gaze out the open window. How sheltered he’d been. Ignorant and sheltered. Ignorant of the ways of the world, at any rate. Why had no one told him such things weren’t forbidden? Or would they have done so if he had ever shown interest in making a match?
Royal sons were pampered, but not celebrated in the way that daughters were. He’d had full access to the library and had made good use of it. Although his formal education had ended earlier than that of his sisters—there’d been no need to continue beyond the basics as he would never be a statesman—he’d always had a thirst for knowledge. Clearly there were many things to learn that nobody had ventured to put into print.
So, a man could bed with another man, and presumably Prince Efren would expect that as part of their marriage. A shiver ran up his spine, and he rubbed the back of his neck. Did he actually welcome the thought?
The prince had looked at him from across the hall, sized him up, and decided Marcelo would make an acceptable partner. Prince Efren would be a hundred times worldlier than Marcelo, and probably knew that history about Sheburat’s royal sons better than he, who actually was one.
But what of Prince Efren? He’d been prepared to marry Marcela. Would he have preferred a woman? Was his desire to complete the terms of the treaty sooner rather than later more important to him than his personal choice for a spouse? And more importantly…
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