Frowning, he followed the woman’s nod. Standing next to a bay mare was a tall young woman in masculine riding leathers instead of a proper dress. No wonder I didn’t spot her—
His irritation disappeared as she pulled off her soft cap, letting a wealth of curly dark hair spill down over her shoulders. True to the Hellene type, it was so dark as to give off blue highlights in the flickering illumination of the torches. She ran a brisk hand through it, sweeping it back from her face.
Matthias’s mouth went dry. Gods, she’s stunning. The fat little partridge of his memory had grown into a graceful swan, with a lovely face dominated by midnight blue eyes and a wide, mobile mouth. She looked around the courtyard, locating him after a moment. A blinding smile blinked into existence, disappearing to be replaced by a more demure expression.
She handed the reins to a waiting groom and walked over to Matthias, dipping into a curtsey. “It’s good to see you again, your majesty,” she said, her voice low and pleasant. “Although I’m afraid you have me at an advantage. I had hoped to be in something a bit more presentable when we met.”
Making himself swallow, Matthias studied her riding garb. In soft blue leather, it had been tailored for her, giving her the ability to ride astride instead of side saddle. Even Hanne had never done anything so daring.
And it did a marvelous job of outlining a slender body that swelled deliciously at breast and hip. To his surprise he felt a flash of desire.
He quashed it. “It looks … practical,” he said. “If unexpected.”
Another Hellene stepped up to join the queen, his startling resemblance to her identifying him as Prince Darius. “It was my idea, your majesty,” the young man said with a smirk. “My sister isn’t used to the ways of horses, and I was afraid that if she rode sidesaddle all the way from Hellas disaster would surely follow. Nobody wants to watch a bride hobble her way down the aisle, after all.”
Danaë raised one frosty eyebrow at him. “That will be enough, your highness.”
Still smirking, he ducked his head and stepped back. Redonning her pleasant expression, Danaë said, “In any case, I’m very happy to be here. I assume that everything is ready for the ceremony tomorrow?”
“It is, but your people are welcome to meet with my chamberlain to confirm details.”
Danaë gave her brother a nod. He was joined by a pair of courtiers Matthias remembered from the final treaty session, and the trio trooped off with the palace chamberlain.
Aware that this still left a large number of people in the courtyard watching them, Matthias introduced Danaë to Reniel and the other officials in his retinue, then offered his arm. “May I escort you to your rooms, your majesty?” he said, feeling awkward.
She slid her arm into his with another one of those flickering smiles. “I would be delighted, your majesty.”
****
“Your intended’s a stuffy sort, mistress,” Danaë’s personal maid Flavia said, unpacking the trunks and bags that had been brought up from the baggage train. She held up a wrinkled gown and squinted at it. “I thought his face was going to crack when I spoke to him.”
“Ypresians are a bit more reserved than we are,” Danaë said, digging through her own saddlebag and pulling out the jewelry box she had secreted at the bottom. The carved sandalwood was smooth from decades of handling, first by her grandmother and then her mother. Danaë had inherited the box and its contents upon Queen Clarae’s death, a link to her mother that was very welcome right now. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.”
Flavia harrumphed, laying aside the gown and extracting another one from the trunk. This gown had been wrapped in velvet with an outer layer of oilskin, and glimmered in the candlelight as she unwrapped it and held it up for examination.
“Ah, that’s fine,” she said in satisfaction. “Not a stain on it.”
Danaë studied her wedding gown with a critical eye. It was a simple sheath with long sleeves and a band of golden embroidery that ran across the neckline of the bodice. The pale blue silk would look stunning with her sun-kissed skin and black hair, the palace seamstress had assured her.
She hoped so. Because so far King Matthias didn’t seem all that impressed with her. He’d been polite, of course, showing her to her sumptuous quarters and summoning the maids who would form Flavia’s work force during their stay. But there hadn’t been any real sense of welcome in his manner.
She wondered how much of it had to do with her riding garb. Damn it, how was I supposed to know he’d be waiting for us in the courtyard? She’d thought to have the chance to wash her face, brush her impossible hair, and change into something appropriately regal for her official presentation to her betrothed. But his unexpected arrival had put paid to that little plan. He must think he’s about to marry the stable girl.
Her attention came back to Flavia, who had been speaking. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Her maid gave her a good-natured eye roll. “I said, if you get out of those leathers you can give yourself a wash, then I’ll brush your hair and put it up for dinner, mistress. Do you still want to wear the garnet gown tonight?”
The one she’d spent so much time debating over. So much for making a good first impression. “Yes, please.”
Flavia extracted the gown from the half-unpacked trunk and went to the door, summoning a maid and handing the gown off for pressing. “And if there’s a scorch mark on it anywhere you’ll answer to me, my girl,” she warned.
The Ypresian maid bobbed a nervous curtsey and scurried off with her burden.
“Don’t be so hard on them,” Danaë chided once the door was closed. “I’m sure they’re exhausted from the wedding preparations.”
“They’re young and strong, mistress,” Flavia said, heading to the washstand and pouring the contents of a steaming pewter jug into a bowl. “They’ll survive the rough side of my tongue. Now, come over here and give yourself a wash while I dig out your brushes and combs. Why you thought you could keep all your hair in that tiny cap I’ll never know.”
Comforted by the familiar scolding, Danaë stripped down to a loose pair of cotton knickers. She gave one armpit a tentative sniff and winced. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said as she went to the washstand, dunking a sponge into the hot water and running it over her face. “Hopefully I can work on making a better impression at dinner.”
Flavia resumed rooting through the trunk. With a snort of triumph she held up a toiletries case. “He’s the one who should be working on his attitude. He’s lucky to have a fresh young beauty like yourself.”
Danaë blushed as she rinsed herself off. “Oh, hush. He’s still in mourning for Queen Hanne.”
“That may be, mistress, but I think you give the man too much credit,” Flavia said, shooing her to the dressing table. “You could do better, you know. Prince Marcus is only a few years older than you and a much more appropriate match.”
Danaë pursed her lips as Flavia began brushing her hair. The prince in question was fourth in line to the throne of Illium, the kingdom to the south of both Ypres and Hellas. Marcus had no chance of becoming king unless something dreadful happened to his father, two older brothers, and nephew. From reports she’d had of the wily prince, “something dreadful” was well within his purview. “Prince Marcus is far too clever for his own good, and I have no intention of having someone taste my food every meal to make sure it’s not poisoned. Besides, the council already rejected him.”
“The Earl of Balnacra, then.”
Danaë shuddered. “Well-educated, but his personal hygiene leaves something to be desired.”
“Archduke Robles?”
“Overly pious and makes Matthias look like a drunken sailor.” She caught Flavia’s gaze in the mirror. “Believe me, I’m not upset by this marriage. I think his majesty and I can find enough common ground for friendship, if nothing else.”
Flavia sighed. “Forgive me, mistress. I suppose I wanted something better for you. And I know y
our parents felt the same way.”
“I know. But politics doesn’t always allow for love. This marriage will benefit our countries, and that’s the most important thing.” Her gut curled a bit, but she forced out the words. “Love isn’t necessary between us.”
A soft snort from Flavia was her only answer as the maid continued brushing her hair.
****
Danaë entered the palace dining hall on Darius’s arm, head held high but with a pleasant smile. The room itself was a long rectangle lined with high stained glass windows representing kings and queens from the country’s history. Each end of the hall held battle standards in various colors. She knew the standard in russet and cream with the gold bar running the length belonged to Matthias’s family, the Laurents. I wonder if he has a window marked out for himself already.
Two long tables stretched the length of the hall, gleaming with silver plate, goblets, and polished pitchers. The seats were already filled with Ypresian nobility and wedding guests from other countries, all of them turning to watch her entrance.
“Am I late?” Danaë whispered through her smile to her brother.
“Not at all. I think they’re just eager for dinner,” Darius whispered back. “I’ve spotted at least five ambassadors. If they don’t take advantage of free food they’re booted from the Ambassador’s Guild.”
Danaë’s smile transformed into a grin just as Darius guided her to the table where Matthias already sat, an empty space on his right.
Her husband-to-be got to his feet at her approach. She gave him her hand and he bowed over it. “Welcome, your majesty,” he said.
“Thank you, your majesty,” she said, giving him a precise curtsey. “I think we’d better sit down before we’re besieged by starving guests.”
His mouth twitched at that. “The gods forbid,” he muttered in good humor.
At a nod from him servants began to stream into the room bearing steaming platters of Ypresian and Hellene delicacies. Danaë’s mouth watered when she spotted a dish of golden baked fish decorated with the thinnest slices of lemon. All she’d had since breakfast had been dried meat and a handful of nuts and raisins, and her stomach rumbled at the marvelous scent. Remember you’re a queen. Don’t fall on your food like a starving animal.
After a whispered conference with the chamberlain Darius moved a few seats down, taking a seat next to an attractive woman with golden hair worn up in an elegant coronet of braids. Very fine lines around her eyes indicated middle age, but she wore them with grace and dignity, giving Darius and other diners a charming smile as she spoke with them. Across the table from her was a greying handsome man dressed in understated navy velvet. Danaë remembered him from the initial treaty negotiations as Andreas Verheyen, head of the King’s Council and Ypres’s equivalent of a prime minister.
“Your brother seems to be getting on well with my sister-in-law,” Matthias said.
“That’s Lady Margot?” Danaë gave the blonde woman a closer glance. She’d never met the sister of Queen Hanne, but Lady Margot Pauwels was well known as the premier hostess in Ypresian society. Being invited to one of her soirees could make a reputation—or break it. “I should speak with her after dinner.”
Matthias caught her hesitant tone and gave her a reassuring smile. “Margot is looking forward to meeting you. You needn’t worry about any ill feelings on her part.”
Danaë wondered if she could be so graceful if the situation was reversed. “I’m sure it will be fine.”
A servant picked that moment to place a steaming plate of baked fish in front of her, while another served Matthias with grilled chops. Danaë set to with a will, chatting with Matthias and the red-haired man with the impressive mustache on her other side who introduced himself as Commander Bardahlson of the Ypresian cavalry. In between bites she glanced around the table, noting the expressions on the other dinner guests. Her own council had kept her well-informed on her new country’s politics, and she knew that some of the nobility and members of the King’s Council weren’t in favor of the Hellene marriage, as they called it. It had been one thing for Danaë to marry Lukas; that merely made her the crown princess of Ypres. In time she would have born Lukas’s children and provided heirs for the throne, guaranteeing her loyalty to the country. But it was something else for her to leapfrog in status by marrying Matthias and becoming Queen of Ypres all at once.
According to covert reports, the more conservative council members had promoted the idea of persuading Danaë to take one of the higher-ranking noblemen as a husband instead, allowing Matthias to marry a Ypresian noblewoman. There were even suggestions that Lady Margot herself was in the running for the coveted spot.
For Matthias to marry his sister-in-law was a good political move, Danaë had to admit, but there was a question as to whether the lady could still bear children. According to her reports the King’s Council had finally agreed that siring a new heir to the throne took precedence over political consolidation. The one thing no one had been able to confirm was how Matthias felt about being offered up as a matrimonial sacrifice. But judging by his lack of warmth in the courtyard, Danaë suspected she knew.
She risked a quick look at her husband-to-be. His eyes were much lighter than her own, a pale blue that could be oblique at times. Defined grooves bracketed his mouth, and another one lay between his brows. It wasn’t a face that invited small talk or humorous banter, but there was a quiet sensuality in the fullness of his lower lip that made her want to explore it with her fingertips, feel the roughness of the stubble along his jaw. She wondered if his first kiss would be gentle and tender, or full of need.
Matthias glanced at her, raising an eyebrow in silent query. She blushed and gave him a quick smile, then turned back to the cavalry commander. In the end, it didn’t matter how he felt, or how she felt for that matter. Their marriage was a political one, and that took precedence over everything else.
She had to hope that what she had told Flavia was true, and in time Matthias would grow fond of her. If he didn’t, it would be a very long, cold marriage indeed.
****
The city of Mons had been constructed over two hundred years ago on a rise near the River Meuse, following one of the most detailed urban planning documents ever executed anywhere on the continent. The royal palace lay on the rise’s crest, with shops, offices, and churches set around it like jewels in a necklace. Residential neighborhoods had been situated well away from the artisan quarter with its stinking tanneries and dyers, and the banks of the Meuse that abutted the city proper had been turned into a long stretch of parkway, with fisheries and ports situated on either end.
Even as the city grew it followed the plan set forth by King Mads III and his chief advisor Gwendoline of Naymes. It now formed a comfortable sprawl that stretched from the banks of the Meuse to the edge of the Namur Plains. The rich grasslands off to the west were dotted with farmsteads and cattle ranches that supplied the city with much of its food and drink. More exotic foodstuffs and rich trade goods came by way of the Kasterlee Road from the east, the Achterlee Road from the west, or ported up and down the Meuse, making Mons the crossroads of Ypres.
While the palace dominated the city, its heart was the Cathedral of Rebben, a large crenellated structure that had been started soon after the city’s founding. Construction on the cathedral had progressed in fits and starts over the decades, delayed by wars, natural disasters, or internecine struggles between council and patriarchy. The original design had included two majestic towers along the front facade, meant to mimic arms rising to Ypres’s patron god Rebben in worship. One of the two towers had been finished but the other was a mere one-third its intended height, giving the cathedral an odd, hunched look.
Nevertheless, the people of Mons loved their cathedral, unbalanced as it was, and its patriarch was fond of using it as a way of pointing out that Rebben didn’t require perfection in his people.
Reniel now stood in the sacristy, hands linked over the round jut of his belly as
he watched Matthias pace the room. The king wore his wedding finery topped with an ermine-trimmed cloak, beating his crown against his thigh like a tambourine.
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” Reniel asked again.
Matthias shot a black look at him. “Is a priest supposed to get a groom drunk before his wedding?”
“If it stops the groom from wearing a trough in the floor, yes.”
“You are not helping.”
“Tell me how I can help and I’ll do it.”
“Find my son. Bring him back. Make him take his rightful place at the altar.”
Not for the first time, Reniel wondered about his friend’s grief for his late wife. The king had been grief-stricken after Queen Hanne’s death, and had mourned for an entire year as was customary. But it was now three years on, and there was no sign of Matthias’s heart healing from his loss. He hadn’t expected enthusiasm about this new marriage, but neither did he expect Matthias to treat it like a raw recruit on the eve of a battle.
“You know we’ve searched for him, sire,” he said. “Both Verheyen and I have had spies roaming the continent these last three years, investigating every nook and cranny. There is no sign of him anywhere—”
“He isn’t dead,” Matthias snapped. “There’s no sign of that, either.”
Reniel bit back what he wanted to say. He had tried voicing his suspicions about Prince Lukas’s disappearance to Matthias once. The furious king refused to speak to him for six months afterwards, and still maintained a distance that pained the Patriarch. “No one is saying he’s dead, sire,” he said, choosing his words now with care. “But for whatever reason, Prince Lukas has chosen to distance himself from Ypres. We cannot change that. In the meantime, we have a treaty to fulfill.”
Matthias spread his hands. “I know that. It’s why I’m dressed up in this frippery.”
“And wonderful frippery it is, too.” Reniel quipped, then grew sober. “Tell me, is Danaë truly that distasteful to you? She’s far lovelier than you led me to believe, and she seemed charming and well-spoken at dinner.”
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