A Royal Marriage

by Rachelle Mccalla

  “Yes, of course. I understand. I’m so sorry for disrupting—”

  “Please don’t apologize. None of this is your fault.”

  She nodded in understanding, though she did not appear to be convinced. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  John wished there was some way for him to reassure her completely, but he couldn’t think of anything—could hardly think at all, with the majority of his mental faculties intent on absorbing the radiance of her beauty. Her response goaded him. “You don’t have to call me that.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Your Highness, you may address me as John.”

  “I couldn’t possibly—”

  “My title is for use by subordinates. You’re the daughter of the emperor.”

  “He’s not your emperor. We’re on your soil. I suppose I should bow to you as your servants do.”

  “No.” John took a step closer to her with a stomp of finality. “I forbid you to bow to anyone in my kingdom. I should bow to you—protocol would dictate I do so on imperial soil.”

  “We are not currently in my father’s empire. You are the ruler here.” Her eyes glinted up at him with challenge in their blue depths.

  “I’ve told you already—you owe me nothing. No debt of gratitude, and certainly not any deference.” John wavered between taking her by the shoulders and backing toward the door again. Really, he ought to leave. Why was it so difficult for him to excuse himself from her presence? But he had to make her understand so they could avoid having the same conversation again.

  “Your Majes—”

  His finger covered her lips before she finished the word. Her wide eyes mirrored his shock.

  He withdrew his hand quickly. “I apologize. Your lips—” He licked his own and tried to make them utter coherent words. “Forbidden.”

  Princess Gisela stared at him as though his touch had frozen her.

  “I’m so sorry. I must go.” Bowing deeply to her from the doorway, he fled.

  * * *

  “Your Highness?” a servant called from the doorway. “Lunch is ready. If you’ll follow me?”

  “One moment, please.” Gisela bit the side of her finger as she paced the room.

  She couldn’t face him. How could she face King John? He’d bowed to her. She’d embraced him. He’d touched her lips—they burned with awareness at the contact. They burned for his contact still.

  “Your Highness?” The female voice drew closer as the servant approached the bedroom through the waiting room.

  Gisela couldn’t put off their meeting any longer. She’d promised to meet the king’s sister, to befriend the girl and teach her all about proper regal behavior. That she could do easily enough. Hilda and the maids back home were all the time reminding her of proper regal behavior, most especially whenever she did anything they felt transgressed those standards, which was often.

  “Coming.” She followed the woman through the hallways, thinking frantically. How was she supposed to address the king now? He’d said she ought to call him John, but that sounded impossibly familiar. She had to keep the formal titles prominently displayed between them at all times. They were quite nearly the only wall she could find to put up between them.

  The enticing scent of finely prepared food drifted down the hallways as they neared the dining hall. Gisela felt her stomach rumble. After hardly eating at all during her illness, her appetite had returned clamoring to make up for every morsel she’d lost out on.

  Lovely. She’d just turn her attention from King John and focus on eating, then. The food smelled good enough to gorge upon. There was no rule that said a proper princess shouldn’t have a healthy appetite, though Hilda often chided her if she thought she’d taken too many helpings, especially of dessert. But that, Gisela suspected, was only so the maid could gobble up the leftovers as she returned the dishes to the kitchen.

  Gisela didn’t begrudge Hilda her interest in food. She had the woman’s appetite to thank for her absence now—Hilda had excused herself an hour before to see if the cooks needed help in the kitchen. With the maid gone, Gisela had been free to pace and fret and repeat snippets of her conversation with the king to herself while watching her reflection in the mirror, in order to analyze every interaction and determine how much of a fool she’d made of herself.

  Enough of a fool that she wanted to grab hold of the sides of the doorway to the dining room like a cat being dragged off to its bath and scramble away before she had to face the king again.

  Unfortunately, the very regal protocol she’d promised to teach Elisabette stipulated that she not cling to doorways, yowling and trying to escape.

  “Your Highness.” King John appeared in the doorway just as she was longingly examining the stonework.

  Startled, she straightened herself to the proper regal posture. “You can’t address me like that,” she refuted quietly, leaning close so others wouldn’t hear. “If I’m to call you John, then you must address me as Gisela.”

  “Princess Gisela,” the king countered.

  She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak and walk at the same time. King John had taken her arm to escort her in and had stolen her voice in the process.

  The room was already full of strangers dressed in fine lace and silks. Either the Lydians held themselves to higher luncheon apparel standards than the people of the northern regions, or word of her arrival had spread, and King John’s courtiers had dressed in their finest for her. With a sinking stomach, Gisela realized she didn’t know any of them.

  The king seemed to sense her apprehension and patted her arm as he led her toward the first beaming cluster of noblemen and ladies. “Don’t worry, no one expects you to remember any names. They’ve all heard about your brush with death, and they’re excited to meet you. But if you feel overwhelmed and want to leave—” he leaned close so his whispers wouldn’t be overheard “—just stomp on my foot three times and we’ll make our escape.”

  Gisela nodded, still not trusting her voice, and feeling all the more indebted by his thoughtfulness. As the courtiers turned and bowed low to greet them, Gisela couldn’t help wondering how many times she’d have to stomp on John’s foot if she wanted to escape from him. She found his presence on her arm more overwhelming than the crowds that filled the room. She was used to being surrounded by courtiers, even if the folks at home tended to be rowdier and less interested in impressing her. But the effect King John had on her was both unfamiliar and unsettling.

  They made the rounds until smiling faces blurred together in her mind and she’d lost track of everyone but King John himself. To his credit, he never once let go of her arm and even thoughtfully supplied her with a light tea to drink, which was helpful since his proximity tended to make her mouth go dry.

  Just as she’d begun to wonder if there would ever be any food served or if she was doomed to circle endlessly through a sea of strangers, John led her to the head of the table, where two chairs indicated she’d be seated at his side.

  She’d never sat at the head of a table before. Her father’s household was filled with aunts and uncles and siblings of far higher rank than she. Even when she traveled, it had always before been with older siblings who were given precedence above her. She’d feel more comfortable squeezing onto the side benches with the lesser nobility than sitting in a high-backed chair beside the king.

  John must have sensed her panic, though she tried not to show it.

  “Is the seating arrangement acceptable? Do you need to step out before we eat?”

  “Do you intend for me to sit beside you?”

  “I thought, given our earlier discussion about rank, that an equal sitting arrangement would be most practical. Or I can have your chair placed upon a raised dais, if you prefer.”

  She leaned close to him and turned her head so those present wouldn’t
witness her distress. “I’ve never been seated at the head of a table before. Everyone will be able to see me.”

  “You’re very lovely to look upon.”

  “But I don’t know your local customs. How will I know what to do? If I make a mistake it will be visible to everyone.” She kept her voice to a whisper, but it inched up several panicked octaves. Having John on her arm was distracting enough, and circulating through the crowd had drained her sense of decorum. And she was absolutely starving. What if she fell ravenously on her food and made a fool of herself?

  “Watch me carefully. Do what I do. If you’re not sure, ask. You can always stomp my foot, you know.” He looked apologetic and gestured to the place setting. “We only have one gold cup. Do you mind terribly sharing with me?”

  “I’ve always shared a cup with someone.” Gisela looked down the long table and saw that John’s guests would be sharing silver cups by twos and threes. No one would expect even a king to own enough cups for so many guests to have their own. And yet, the thought of drinking from John’s cup sent a shiver through her. She hoped he wouldn’t notice the faint color that rose to her cheeks.

  Fortunately, John was looking past her. “Ah, here comes my sister.”

  Gisela turned to see a dark-haired young woman approaching them, the rich brown tones of her delicately embroidered dress matching the color of her kohl-rimmed eyes. The way Elisabette’s hair had been piled in delicate curls atop her head told Gisela the girl had spent far more time primping for the luncheon than she had.

  Suddenly she felt backward in her simple long braid and pale green gown and wondered if she’d have anything to teach John’s sophisticated little sister. Her hands were far more used to swords and horse reins than makeup brushes and curling wands, and though Hilda would have loved to pile Gisela’s hair in elaborate settings, Gisela didn’t have the patience for anything more than a practical braid. At least she’d had the presence of mind to clasp jewels around her neck and wrists. Still, she felt a far cry from the picture of sophisticated beauty Elisabette presented.

  Gisela feared Elisabette might look down upon her for her lack of patient primping, but the girl smiled warmly as she bowed to greet them, and a moment later everyone began to find their seats.

  To Gisela’s relief, John had Elisabette seated beside her, and the food was quickly served. She recognized fish and cucumbers and olives, though their preparations were unfamiliar to her, and there were more foods she couldn’t identify. John told her their names, but she’d heard enough names meeting people that she didn’t bother trying to remember what any of the food was called for fear of confusing the two and accidentally calling a courtier by the name of an entrée at their next meeting. If she addressed a nobleman as Sir Fish, she might start another war.

  Fortunately, Elisabette kept up a constant stream of questions, asking her about her wedding plans, travel experiences and the customs of her homeland, so that Gisela had to constantly stop eating to answer, which served to keep her from eating as quickly as she’d feared she might.

  For the final course, broiled pears were served with a drizzle of spiced honey, and Gisela savored the dessert to the last bite. Then John stood and thanked their guests before dismissing them and turning to her. “Would you like to retire to your room to rest?”

  “Is that what I’m expected to do?” she questioned, still feeling the eyes of many upon her.

  “You may do as you like.” He smiled warmly.

  “What will you be doing?”

  “I need to run drills with my men. Today is Tuesday—on Thursday I will meet my brother again at the border. There is much to be accomplished before then.”

  Gisela felt an instant twinge of disappointment—at the reminder that she’d sparked the situation on the borderlands and that King John would be leaving shortly. She told herself to be glad he’d be gone. At least then she wouldn’t embarrass herself with him again. But at the same time, the mention of his pending journey triggered a sense of loss inside her, even though he hadn’t yet left.

  “I suppose I am tired.”

  “I’ll have an attendant escort you to your room.” He dipped his head in a gesture that wasn’t nearly a bow but still reminded her of the one he’d given when he’d left her room that morning.

  “Thank you for all your many kindnesses.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” He handed her off to the attendant who’d been hovering near before he weaved through the crowded room in the other direction.

  She watched as he disappeared through the dispersing crowd, and could almost see the burden of impending war that hung on his shoulders like a mantle. She felt sorrowful that he had to bear such a burden alone—without his father’s guidance, or the loving support of a queen beside him. Further, she felt guilty for whatever role she’d played in placing that burden on him. Surely there was something she could do to ease its weight. But what?

  * * *

  As Princess Gisela had feared, John’s sister, Elisabette, was primarily interested in the very feminine and domestic pursuits that Gisela had spent most of her youth trying to avoid. And the girl wanted to quiz Gisela about her pending nuptials, which made Gisela squirm.

  Gisela wanted to avoid talking about her upcoming wedding in order to prevent Bette from learning of the connection between the family into which she’d soon be married and the man who’d killed King Theodoric. Knowing how deeply John despised the man who’d killed his father, Gisela wasn’t about to let that wall come up between her and Bette.

  The two of them had so precious little in common anyway.

  Once she’d finally convinced Bette that she truly didn’t know what she’d be wearing on her wedding day, Elisabette reluctantly dropped the subject and quizzed Gisela on what she did for entertainment in the emperor’s palace.

  “When we’re on tours of the kingdom or in Rome, we do a lot of hunting.”

  “Even the women?”

  “Oh, yes. Have you ever seen any of the great tapestries depicting the splendor of the hunt? The women ride alongside the men and dogs. It’s great sporting fun, and I confess I’ve become rather handy with a bow and arrow.”

  “And what do you do when you’re not traveling or hunting?”

  “When we’re in the Frankish capital of Aachen, we take a lot of baths.” Gisela figured they’d have that much at least, in common, given Bette’s interest in grooming activities.

  But Bette only frowned. “For fun?”

  “We have spas fed by hot springs in Aachen. It’s relaxing.”

  Bette looked unconvinced. “But what do you do to enjoy yourself?”

  Abandoning all hope of identifying an activity they both appreciated, Gisela admitted her favorite sport. “Fencing.”

  “Swordplay?” Bette’s eyes lit up.

  “Yes. Sometimes we organize sword-fighting tournaments.”

  To Gisela’s surprise, Elisabette looked sincerely excited. “Do you think we could organize a fencing tournament?”

  Gisela was glad to have finally found an interest she and Bette held in common. More important, if the borderlands really were in need of increased defense, a fencing tournament might be just the thing to encourage John’s men to hone their skills, while identifying those who were already proficient. Acute guilt continued to plague her for the role she’d played in provoking the threat of war. If she could do something to help, perhaps that would assuage her guilt.

  Perhaps John would be pleased.

  “I believe we could organize a tournament in a matter of days, but before we begin, we should most certainly ask your brother’s permission.”

  Bette frowned. “Can’t we surprise him?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve surprised him more than enough already.”

  “Verily, you speak the truth.” Elisabette sighed. “I don’t suppo
se you’d mind being the one to ask him?”

  Chapter Eight

  King John did not look to be in a good mood when Gisela approached him across the training field. She prayed silently that God would grant her favor with the king.

  To her relief, his frown changed to a smile when he turned from instructing his men and spotted her approaching.

  “Princess Gisela—” he dipped his head in deference “—you appear to be recovering quite well from your injuries.”

  “With many thanks to you,” she acknowledged with a gracious smile. “I feel as though I’m almost my old self again.”

  “What brings you to the training field?”

  “A request.”

  “Granted,” he assured her without hesitation. “Whatever you desire will be done. I’ve instructed Eliab and Urias to carry out any request you might make.”

  While John stepped away to give further training orders to his men, Gisela stood still and weighed his words. His generosity humbled her. Even as a princess in the emperor’s household she had never been treated with such regard, being a lesser noble in a household of many higher-ranking royals.

  But she couldn’t let King John’s words distract her, nor did she feel she could proceed without his specific blessing—not given the scope of her project.

  “Your Highness?” John appeared to be surprised that she was still waiting for him when he turned around.

  Knowing he was busy and unwilling to waste any more of his time, Gisela got straight to the point. “Elisabette and I would like to host a fencing tournament among your men.”

  The sudden clang of swords cut off her words as the soldiers’ training exercises gained momentum.

  But John must have heard her, because his face registered a growing smile, and for one giddy moment Gisela hoped she’d found a way to relieve some of the burden he bore after all.