“Why doesn’t he care that he can’t have any legitimate heirs if he marries me?”
“Perhaps he is satisfied with letting his younger siblings and their children carry on the line.”
Marcelo stared at the fallen cup that had rolled toward the fireplace. He had so many questions, but most he would be uncomfortable asking his father.
“I don’t have a choice in this matter, do I.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No. I’m sorry, but you don’t.”
* * * *
Marcelo closed the heavy tome with more vigor than necessary and scanned the vast walls of books in the castle library. Not only had he been sheltered from commonplace knowledge, but apparently, he shouldn’t have confidence in everything written in books either. He trusted the evidence of his own eyes, and that contradicted everything he’d heard about the people of Zioneven, and much of what he’d read in this book.
He trailed a finger along its spine. In the book, even where details were possibly factually correct, they were presented in such a fashion as to make Zioneven’s policies appear misguided or dangerous. But when he thought about it, Sheburat’s arguments against educating the commoners appeared self-serving and coldhearted. Zioneven’s policy seemed more benevolent, and likely to cultivate a more civilized society. He took heart in knowing that his family and ancestors didn’t go so far as to forbid educating the masses, but they did nothing to encourage it or make it easier to achieve.
Could this be why his people had deemed the kingdom of Zioneven to be backward? Because their common people had the ability to rise above their station at birth? Because the children of the humblest of field workers could elevate themselves to a learned position in life…maybe even a diplomat? He’d thought it was because men were allowed to rule in Zioneven even though they were considered to be generally more aggressive than women. Possibly it was a combination of these things.
True, he had yet to personally interact with any of them beyond the occasional ambassador over the years, but they’d appeared every bit as civilized when assembled in the great hall as the people of Sheburat, and their crown prince had taken it upon himself to carry Marcelo to his bedchamber after his fainting spell. That little smile kept popping up in his mind, catching him off guard, warming his heart to the man.
Allowing people with same-sex attractions to marry each other felt like the humane thing to do, so once again, the rulers of Zioneven seemed more principled than Sheburat’s. Marcelo had accepted that he would be alone and celibate because it had simply never occurred to him that there could be another more palatable option.
More palatable. He sniffed and shook his head. Mere hours ago, the thought of marrying Prince Efren had alarmed him to the point where he’d passed out rather than deal with the thought of it. Unbelievably, he was coming around to the idea that his life might actually improve with this marriage.
It made sense that his sisters had been dismayed at the thought of moving away from a land where they were the highly respected rulers to one where they would instead have to accept the reign of a man in a land where rule passed to the oldest child without regard to that child’s gender. But for Marcelo, that concern didn’t apply.
This matriarchal society was all he’d ever known. As a royal, he was indulged, but he would have never enjoyed the status of his sisters. Would his standing be elevated in Zioneven? Would he be treated with respect? Would his opinions be valued?
A discreetly clearing throat sounded behind Marcelo, and he turned to acknowledge the person wishing to gain his attention.
Erich bowed his head. “Sir, dinner is served.”
“Thank you.”
Perhaps he could get answers to a few of his questions. It wouldn’t change the fact that he must marry Prince Efren tomorrow regardless, but it would help relieve his unsettled state of mind. He rose and set out for the great hall.
Marcelo wiped his palms on the sides of his tunic and settled his breathing before stepping into the room. Inside, the long tables stood along the center of the chamber. At the head sat his mother with his father at her right hand. His six sisters and a mix of nobles from both Sheburat and Zioneven flanked the sides. Prince Efren sat at the foot, with the seat at his right hand remaining empty.
With his shoulders back, Marcelo strode to the chair reserved for him. His face heated with the knowledge that all eyes were on him as a servant pulled out the chair. A quiver zipped up his spine as he sat so close to Prince Efren he could smell the clean musky scent of the man mixed with a whiff of a lightly floral cologne. The quiver was alien, but not unwelcomed. It was…reassuring.
He nodded respectfully to Prince Efren, but waited for the higher-ranked man to speak first. Prince Efren chose to study him for a few moments, but Marcelo kept his head high and held the gaze. As when they’d first set eyes on one another hours earlier, the result was once again for the prince to twitch up one side of his mouth. However, this time he didn’t turn away.
“Prince Marcelo, I trust you’ve fully recovered from your shock?”
Marcelo returned the slight grin. “Your Royal Highness. Thank you for asking. Indeed, I have.”
Prince Efren inclined his head. “I’m happy to hear it.”
“I hope you understand, sir, that my swoon was truly caused by my utter astonishment, and that you won’t be facing an antagonistic partner. Apparently, I’ve been shielded from the realities of life to a far greater extent than I knew.”
Prince Efren’s grin widened. “I surmised as much, but thank you for reassuring me.”
“If you don’t object, I’d like to take this opportunity to learn from you what will be expected of me. What is my role to be in your household? In your kingdom?”
“Excellent questions. I am encouraged by your interest in such matters. It would appear my diplomats’ analysis was accurate.”
“Sir?”
“Sheltered as you were, I’m sure you were still aware that since the treaty was signed, ambassadors from each of our lands have visited back and forth.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve spoken with them.”
“One of their objectives was to learn as much as they could about the characters of Princess Marcela’s younger siblings so a contingency plan could be in place should the worst happen. It was decided years ago that you would be the best choice both as a partner for me personally, and for Zioneven overall.”
For me personally. That answered one of Marcelo’s concerns. Somewhat. He still wasn’t sure if the prince would have been equally happy with Marcela, but sadly, the answer to that no longer mattered. “Is it because we shared a birthday, and there need not be any further delay?”
“That was a factor, yes, but not as important as other considerations. Although none of your sisters were found lacking, our diplomats felt you had the most empathetic temperament and an inquisitive nature, and those characteristics are highly valued in Zioneven.”
“I see.” Marcelo’s chest expanded with pride. He’d never been anyone’s first choice for anything. His whole life he’d been last in line. Last considered. Cut from lessons his sisters continued.
As it turned out, being deprived of the political lessons as told from Sheburat’s perspective had possibly worked in his favor in this particular matter.
Discussion halted as servants came around with the first course, greens mixed with chopped and shredded raw vegetables. He used the time dining to sort his thoughts.
Or tried to. Prince Efren’s proximity had an odd effect on his ability to reason. Beyond the persistent tingles affecting various parts of his body, a peculiar fluttering in his belly couldn’t be explained by hunger. His whole body warmed, and he had to pointedly abstain from doing something so uncouth as fanning himself at table.
He put down his fork when Prince Efren did and waited for the prince to again open their conversation.
“To answer your question regarding your role in Zioneven, I would say your first project should be to spend time
with our tutors to expand your education. Then, as your particular interests and abilities surface, we will revisit that subject.”
It was only Marcelo’s good breeding that kept him from sagging into the chair in relief. He hadn’t realized that, as much as he desired a purpose in his new life, he also felt woefully underprepared to take one on.
“Thank you, sir. I would dearly love to continue my formal education.”
Staring into Prince Efren’s eyes reminded him of something he’d first noticed when he’d come across Kemble speaking with one of the eligible lords. Besides the…less-than-prudent smiles that had adorned their faces, the pupils in their eyes had been enlarged. The uncharacteristic grins had cued him to their mutual attraction. The expanded pupils, he’d concluded, were an involuntary bodily reaction that no amount of good manners could eliminate—one he’d observed in multiple instances since then, although never directed toward him.
Prince Efren’s pupils had grown since Marcelo had first sat next to him. The crown prince of Zioneven was attracted to him. Were his own pupils doing the same? Evidently, a physical attraction to Prince Efren was behind the butterflies in his stomach, and the pleasant shivers drifting over his skin.
He gasped quietly when Prince Efren’s soft-leather-clad foot brushed against his own. Deliberately. It had to have been an intentional maneuver.
And then the half-smile that always seemed to short-circuit Marcelo’s brain appeared. The prince must have liked whatever he’d seen in Marcelo’s reaction.
How Marcelo made it through the rest of that dinner without embarrassing himself by forgetting every rule of etiquette he’d been taught since birth was a mystery.
* * * *
The rasp of the heavy draperies swinging aside on their rings woke him. The sun was thankfully behind a cloud or he’d have endured the added discomfort of being blinded by the bright light.
“Good morning, sir.” Erich’s voice wasn’t as cheery as it would typically be, despite it being Marcelo’s wedding day. The wedding would be in the afternoon. His sister Marcela’s burial would be this morning.
One servant started a fresh blaze in the fireplace, while a veritable army of servants trooped in, first placing a large copper tub in front of it, then filling the bath with bucket after bucket of heated water.
He sighed, threw off the covers, pulled off his nightshirt, and moved behind the screen to relieve himself in the chamber pot. Then he stepped into the tub and allowed Erich to prepare him for this eventful day. A day that would begin with sorrow and end with fresh hope, for himself and for all of Sheburat.
Clearing his throat first, Erich uncharacteristically interrupted their silent ritual with a question. “Sir, I’ve been tasked with asking if you intend to take me with you to Zioneven, or if you’ll acquire a new personal servant there.”
Resisting the impulse to state his own inclination—to have the comfort of keeping at least one person from his present life with him—he instead replied, “Which would be your preference, Erich?”
Erich gently kneaded suds into Marcelo’s hair. “I have no family tying me to Sheburat, sir, and I’ve enjoyed serving you. You’ve always treated me well. I’ve spoken with some of the servants from Zioneven, and believe I’d like it there.”
The tightness that had developed in Marcelo’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m glad to hear that. I’d very much like to take you with me.”
Erich expelled a soft breath. “Thank you, sir.”
“Have you…?” Marcelo paused and closed his eyes. He disliked encouraging personal gossip, but…“Have you heard anything from the Zioneven servants regarding Prince Efren’s disposition?”
“I’ve heard he’s fair-minded and even-tempered, sir.”
Marcelo nodded. “Thank you. That agrees with my own observations, but I imagine servants are best placed to know truths that might be successfully masked from outsiders.”
“Indeed, sir. I’m assured you need not worry.”
No, he’d already begun to feel secure in the knowledge that he would at least be treated with benevolence. But the more time he spent in the man’s company, the more he realized that he wanted more than simple kindness. The feeling was so new, it was difficult to analyze precisely what it was he wanted.
And at the same time, his gut churned when he thought of the physical aspect of their relationship. Sexual relations was one of the categories where his formal education was severely lacking, but he’d spent time in the stables and touring farms in Sheburat, and he could extrapolate parallels to humans—at least in regard to relations between men and women.
His apprehension was at odds with the strange new sensations he experienced in Prince Efren’s presence. A slight smile crept across his lips. Not only in the man’s presence—simply thinking about the man brought it on.
Best to put that thought out of his mind for now. It would hardly be an appropriate preoccupation for this morning’s somber event.
* * * *
Prince Efren and the nobles of Zioneven stood respectfully to one side of the open grave while the royal family and nobles of Sheburat stood on the other. Marcelo stayed with his family, and seeing the earnest sorrow on the faces across from him helped chase the chill from his heart.
The anecdotes shared by his sisters served to drive home how aged many of his own happy recollections of his twin were. How had he not known that she’d rounded out her political training and love of the outdoors with a recent interest in painting landscapes? The Marcela he remembered as his friend and close companion had been but a memory for years, and had she lived, it was likely they’d never have seen each other again after her wedding today. Still, knowing she was no longer enjoying life saddened him.
He pushed away the melancholy thoughts, the same as everyone appeared to do once the subdued mood of the funeral breakfast had passed. The castle’s occupants seemed to welcome the excuse of that afternoon’s wedding to lift the atmosphere in a more optimistic direction.
He escaped to the privacy of his rooms while chaos once again reigned as preparations were made for the ceremony and celebratory dinner. He spent the time pacing, pausing now and then to stare out the window.
Fidgety actions he couldn’t get away with in the public rooms were loosed. His fingers drummed against his thigh. He just didn’t know for sure what to expect. He hated not knowing.
He paced again through his bedchamber. Marriages were consummated. Something needed to occur between two men to that end. “But what?” he whispered. He didn’t know with any certainty what to expect, but he could surmise based on what he knew happened between men and women.
Erich’s familiar presence in the background of his pacing—packing and putting the finishing touches on Marcelo’s long, silk wedding tunic—had a calming effect on his nerves, but did not completely alleviate them.
He stopped at the opening to his dressing room and grimaced, hating to put forth such a…personal inquiry. “Erich?”
“Sir?”
Marcelo sighed. “I don’t even know how to put this to words.”
Ever patient, Erich waited silently with a calm expression that was probably as much training as it was true serenity. Nevertheless, it had the same effect.
“I find myself unduly anxious about…things that will occur later tonight, after the celebration. My anxiety is rooted in not knowing what will happen.”
“I see. I don’t have any personal experience in such matters either, but…”
“But?”
“I know that there’s a lubricating oil involved, and that men who prefer men do repeatedly seek each other out, so the experience must be one that both parties consider pleasurable.”
A lubricating oil. Marcelo pressed his lips together. That likely confirmed his suspicions, but Erich’s observation helped to ease his fears.
“Thank you, Erich. What would I do without you?”
A small smile played at the servant’s lips as he bent over his embroidery. “I don’t kn
ow, sir.”
* * * *
When the time came, Erich helped him into the bright blue silk tunic, exquisitely embroidered with chains of white and pink flowers. While cut in a more masculine fashion, it was decorated similarly to the tunics he’d often seen on brides. He fastened Marcelo’s curls at the nape of his neck with a strip of silk with matching embroidery.
Together they walked to the courtyard, where the ceremonial portion of the wedding festivities would take place. Marcelo held up his chin as he stepped through the archway. He, the son no one had thought could contribute anything meaningful to their society, was fulfilling the terms of the peace treaty. He was the first royal son to marry, and the first citizen in all of Sheburat to marry another of the same sex, setting a new standard. His mention in history books would now be more than a mere citation of his name.
Prince Efren waited in the sunshine, under the wide expanse of blue sky, and held out a hand to welcome Marcelo to his side. When they joined hands for the first time, Marcelo’s eyes widened as his heart skipped a beat.
His earlier fears vanished in that warm touch, replaced by restrained anticipation. Their gazes locked and held as Queen Giselle approached.
She smiled. “I think the answer is clear to all, but I must ask—do each of you enter willingly into this marriage?”
“Yes, I enter into this marriage as a willing participant,” Prince Efren replied in a firm tone.
Marcelo echoed Prince Efren. “Yes, I enter into this marriage as a willing participant.”
“You may proceed.” The queen stepped away.
Marcelo removed a ring—a bejeweled band that had belonged to one of his ancestors—from one of his fingers and placed it in Prince Efren’s palm. The prince pulled a ring off his smallest finger and placed it in Marcelo’s palm. The heat from the ring melted Marcelo as he slipped it onto the fourth finger of his left hand.
The Contingency Plan Page 2