The Princess of Cortova

by Diane Stanley

  “Old or young?”

  “Not young. But not what you’d call old.”

  “Dark or fair?”

  “I think her hair was dark.”

  “But you’re not sure.”

  “No.”

  “Estella, there are two reasons a woman wears elaborate gowns and lots of jewels. One is to display her wealth. The other is to make her look more attractive.”

  She paused to let the slave take this in.

  “Do you think my lady needs to remind her suitor that her father is rich?”

  “Of course not. Everyone knows that he is a king!”

  “And would you say that her appearance needs improving?”

  “Not at all!”

  “Exactly. Now our lady princess is going to meet one of her suitors tonight. When he returns to his quarters after the dinner and thinks back on the evening, what would she like him to remember?”

  “That she is beautiful.”

  “Not how the chains on her necklace draped so cunningly or the size of the ruby that hung down in the middle?”

  “No, Claudia.”

  “Good. I believe we understand each other. Now go help my lady with her earrings.”

  “Yes, Claudia.”

  With trembling hands, Estella took the pearl drops from the coffer and threaded the gold loops through the little holes in the princess’s earlobes. Then she stepped away, and Giulia came forward with the case that held the diadem.

  This crown, like the summer palace itself, was ancient, a relic of Cortova’s grandest age. It was delicate and finely made, its gold burnished to a soft sheen by the touch of countless regal hands over the course of a thousand years. Elizabetta now took it reverently and set it upon her own head, deeply conscious of the history it carried and of all the long-dead queens and princesses who’d worn it before. Over the ages their lives had been reduced to a few dry footnotes in history books, yet they’d each witnessed some small part of the great arc of Cortova’s history. They’d been consorts to kings of famous name or miserable child brides who’d died very young. They’d seen conquest and glory, treachery and murder, famine, war, and plague. But each of them, whatever her story might have been, had probably sat before a mirror, just as she did now, looking at her reflection, admiring the beautiful diadem, and thinking of the evening ahead.

  And like them—just this once—Elizabetta smiled.

  4

  The First Suitor

  SLAVES MOVED THROUGH THE crowd with silver trays, collecting the antique cups. Others followed with laurel wreaths for the gentlemen to wear. They weren’t gold like Gonzalo’s, but they were handsomely made: the leaves fresh and fragrant, the wreaths fastened in the back with silk ribbons. But for Reynard and his son, as guests of honor (who were already wearing crowns), Gonzalo had provided something special and distinctive: long strips of cloth-of-gold to be worn across the chest and fastened at the shoulder with a golden pin (also, apparently, a gift).

  While the slaves who’d brought the sashes were making a few fine adjustments—the pin must lie a little to the front so it would show to advantage, and the loose ends of the fabric must be smoothed down so as to hang properly—Reynard looked around and noticed for the first time that there were no ladies in attendance.

  Not a single one.

  Not even the princess.

  Did Gonzalo really expect him to agree to a match with his son—and pay handsomely for the privilege—without even so much as laying eyes on the girl?

  Well, of course, now that he thought of it, he had laid eyes on her that night in Westria. She’d come floating into the banquet hall of Dethemere Castle on the arm of King Edmund the Fair, and no one in the room had looked at anyone but her. The hall had buzzed with a chorus of whispers and sighs, all of them remarking on her beauty: those large, dark eyes; that creamy skin; the dramatic nose; and the hair as sleek and black as a raven’s wing. She’d worn a headdress, he remembered, of gold netting encrusted with emeralds and pearls. The pearls had glistened against her dark hair like stars in a winter sky.

  So, considering that she was such a paragon of loveliness, why not bring her out and show her off? He supposed it didn’t really matter whether Rupert wed a gnome or a goddess so long as Reynard got his alliance and the girl could produce an heir. But still, it was strange.

  Slaves now began directing the guests to their seats. Reynard, as the principal guest of honor, was at King Gonzalo’s right hand. Rupert was two seats down from his father, an empty place between them.

  At last everyone was settled. Now they all waited, as custom demanded, for their host to sit down. But this he seemed strangely reluctant to do. So they stood in silence for an uncommonly long time.

  The delay clearly had something to do with the missing guests. There must be fifteen or twenty of them, judging by the empty places at the tables, including one to the king’s left and the one between Reynard and his son. Either Gonzalo’s courtiers were incredibly rude—it was unthinkable to arrive late for a royal banquet!—or the Cortovans had some peculiar social custom having to do with the absent women. Most likely the latter, Reynard decided. Everything was peculiar in Cortova.

  Just as he was thinking this, the ethereal music, which had been playing softly in the background, grew bolder and more festive as a procession emerged from the trees in the garden below.

  It was led by two files of young female slaves all dressed in white and carrying lamps. With remarkable precision, they spaced themselves out along the path ahead till they’d formed a wall of light for those who followed.

  The princess now appeared, walking hand in hand with her little brother, Prince Castor. The royal children were followed by the ladies of the court, walking in pairs, their colorful tunics ruffling in the breeze. As the procession neared the wide staircase that led up to the landing, the wall of light moved with them till they’d reached the top. There the two rows of slaves parted and moved to the sides like a shimmering bird spreading its wings.

  The prince and princess came forward and made obeisance to their father—he with a manly bow, she with a graceful curtsy—then went around the table and took their places. The ladies of the court followed suit, two at a time. Only when the last of them was standing at her place did King Gonzalo finally sit down.

  In preparation for this visit, Prince Rupert had been given lessons in the language of Cortova by a tiresome old scold of a schoolmaster. But he hadn’t paid a bit of attention. Later, during the journey south, Rupert’s nonexistent skills had been “polished” by one of his father’s knights who’d lived for some time on the borderlands and prided himself on his flawless Cortovan accent. The prince had learned nothing from him, either.

  And really, what was the point? Rupert wasn’t the one who had to negotiate with King Gonzalo. He was just along for show—to assure Cortova that he was neither an idiot nor a leper, which was surely all they really cared about. And besides, after he and the princess were married, she’d have to learn his language. So why bother? Wasn’t he doing enough as it was just going on this tiresome journey and sitting through another one of those boring, everlasting, stupid banquets?

  He’d been relieved, when they’d been shown to their seats, that the place to his left was empty. That meant he’d only have to deal with one person: the aged crone on his right, the duchess Somebody-or-other. Since she was most likely deaf and senile, she wouldn’t notice what he said no matter what language he said it in. And if he got really bored, he could always talk across the empty seat to his father. Not that he liked his father all that much.

  When the ladies’ procession had first appeared in the garden, Rupert had taken it for the entertainment. He’d wondered why they were starting so early, before the guests had even taken their seats. But he’d figured it out when the boy went to stand beside Gonzalo and the girl took the empty place next to him.

  For the past six months Rupert’s friends had been telling him how beautiful the princess was supposed to be and sa
ying how lucky he was. Rupert had always replied that he knew all about it. He’d seen her in Westria—and she wasn’t bad at all.

  But the truth was, he honestly didn’t remember her from that night. He’d been younger then and in a mood because he hadn’t wanted to go to Westria for the stupid wedding of some stupid relative he’d never even met. He’d been too busy making steeples with his fingers and kicking his brothers under the table to notice one girl out of a hundred who’d paraded into the hall.

  But now that he was going to marry her and she was apparently such a beauty—well, naturally he was curious. So once they were seated, he turned to have a look.

  Even Rupert knew it would be rude just to stare. He had to say something. So he brought out what he thought he remembered meant hello in Cortovan—though apparently it didn’t, because she seemed a bit confused. She said something back to him, which of course he didn’t understand, so he just nodded.

  Yes, he decided, she was definitely pretty, no question about it—though as a general rule he preferred girls with fair hair and pert little turned-up noses. But her skin was exceptional—perhaps a little dark, but then the Cortovans were a swarthy people—and her lips were just about as good as they come.

  But what struck him speechless was the fact that she hadn’t even bothered to dress up or do fancy things with her hair. And where were the jewels? Surely she had some; the king of Cortova was famously rich. Yet aside from the little pearl earrings she wore and that gold thing on her head (which was too small to be a proper crown and was old and worn besides), there wasn’t so much as a bracelet or a ring, much less a necklace.

  The princess was smiling now, and that in itself was something to behold: those teeth—God’s breath, they were perfect! But now she was speaking again, saying something else Rupert couldn’t make head nor tail of. Finally he gave it up for hopeless and attended to his wine.

  The princess, however, was not so easily discouraged. She tried again, this time in Westrian. She didn’t speak it well, but she’d studied it for a time in preparation for her marriage to Edmund. She apparently guessed that if Prince Rupert knew any other language at all, it would likely be Westrian, since the two kingdoms shared a border and were linked by family ties. Her guess proved to be correct.

  “You like the fig?” she asked sweetly as the first course was served.

  “Yes,” he grunted, thinking how long and slender her neck was: swanlike—that’s how the court singers usually described such a feature in their ballads of the heroes and ladies.

  “It grow here in garden with sun. Is also oranges we have. And grapes for wine.”

  “Mmm,” he said.

  “Too hot you like, in the day?”

  He shrugged.

  Reynard had been watching them. Now he leaned forward and shot his son a look that would have peeled the hide off a boar. The prince recoiled and attempted a smile, which was so transparently false as to be grotesque.

  The king of Austlind shut his eyes and sighed.

  When the servers had retreated and the feast was well under way, Gonzalo made a signal and the entertainment began.

  It started with drums, slow and deep. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Soon they were joined by the rhythmic jangle of tambourines. Finally, over the pulsing percussion, flutes and krummhorns began to play, exotic and wild, as a troupe of dancers from Aegyptos came leaping out of the darkness into the space embraced by the three long tables and stood at attention like soldiers.

  They were dressed in loincloths of a fiery red, a rainbow of bright-colored ribbons hanging from the waistbands, at the end of which were little brass bells. But apart from their loincloths—and the gold armbands and wide gold collars they wore, which shone like fire against their dark skin glistening with oil—they were entirely naked.

  Now the dance began with a rhythmic slapping of bare feet on stone—thrilling in its complex cadence—growing louder and faster until the tension was almost unbearable. Then they broke away from their martial formation and began a battle dance. It was intricate, and ferocious, and beautiful all at once. The audience forgot the feast and held their breaths as they watched.

  Reynard took this opportunity to study the princess (looking at her sideways so as not to be too obvious, though she seemed too absorbed by the dancers to notice) and was puzzled, as his son had been, by her lack of adornment. Had she mislaid her net with the emeralds and pearls? Taken a vow of simplicity? Overslept so she hadn’t had time to do herself up properly?

  The princess felt his gaze just then and turned and smiled.

  Reynard had heard stories of great magicians who could slay dragons with a flick of their willow wands and of the basilisk that could kill with a single glance. Elizabetta’s smile had been almost as powerful. And for a moment the king of Austlind felt his chest grow tight so that he could hardly breathe.

  “Are you quite well, Your Grace?” she asked.

  “I am, yes, my lady.”

  “You looked a little wan. But then, you’ve traveled such a long way. You must be quite exhausted.”

  “I am, a little.”

  Oh, you fool, he thought. How can you be a little exhausted? A little tired, maybe, but—

  She laid a hand gently on Reynard’s arm, just above the wrist. He jumped at her touch, but she was gracious enough not to notice. She just leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. “I shouldn’t tell, but there are some remarkable fancies yet to come, and one of them was made especially for you.”

  He felt very much like a boy of seven being promised a packet of lavender drops if he was very, very good.

  “And at the risk of spoiling the surprise, well, I’ll just say that it’s quite enormous and made entirely of egg whites, honey, and heaven knows what else, and that when you see it you will recognize it. There! Something to look forward to, no matter how tired you are.”

  Reynard was not quite taking this in. He was noticing the fine arch of her brow, the angle of her cheekbones, the soft curve of her lips, and that amazing, delicate complexion—untouched by paint or powder—which positively glowed with the freshness of youth.

  And he sensed, without quite understanding it, that he saw her perfection now, as he hadn’t before, precisely because she was so simply arrayed. He wasn’t distracted by other things—such as pearls and emeralds sparkling in her hair. And it came to him that this was exactly how she’d planned it.

  Could she really be as clever as that? If so, then heaven help his son!

  The music was reaching its crescendo now, the dancers spinning in unison, their arms upraised, the colored ribbons flying out around them like the petals of a flower.

  “Yee-yee-yee-yee-yee-yee-yee-YEE!” they cried, their high-pitched voices supported by the rapid beating of the drums—louder and louder, faster and faster. And then BOOM!—one final clap of thunder, and in an instant it was over. The dancers remained frozen, arms still stretched toward the heavens. And for just the time it takes to draw a breath, everything was still.

  Then the silence was broken by a roar of laughter and applause, and the princess removed her hand from Reynard’s arm.

  “Also,” she whispered, “right after the sweets, there will be fireworks.”

  Well, of course, he thought. Fireworks. Why not?

  Several Days Before

  5

  Premonitions

  THE KING OF WESTRIA knocked on the door to Molly’s cabin and was admitted by her attendant.

  “Your Grace!” said the lady, blushing and dropping into a very deep curtsy.

  “Leave us” was all he said, and she did.

  The king crossed the room—it only took two steps—and stood over the little cot, examining the disheveled heap of bedclothes. He touched the blanket and encountered a shoulder.

  “Molly?” he said.

  She grunted softly.

  “You are aware, I believe, that protocol requires you to rise in the presence of your king.” When she answered this with a derisive snort, he g
rinned. “You could at least sit up so I can see your face.”

  “Not worth looking at,” she mumbled. “And besides, I’m not sure I can.”

  “Then I shall help you.”

  He threw back the blanket and took her in his arms, lifting and settling her in a seated position as easily as if she’d been a child. He tucked a pillow behind her back, then drew up the covers again.

  “You are a mess,” he agreed, brushing tangles of damp hair from her face.

  “Just the dried husk of my former self,” she said drowsily, “hollow and crumbling to dust. Soon the wind will come and blow me away.”

  The ship lurched. She shut her eyes and furrowed her brow. “How is it that even though I’m emptied out entire, I still feel like I’m going to puke?”

  “It’ll be over soon. We’re due to reach port tomorrow.”

  She swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat and shuddered.

  “Have you been drinking the restorative I sent? You must have fluids, Molly, whether you eat or not.”

  “I had some of it this morning. Tobias all but forced it down my throat.”

  “Good for Tobias. I shall do the same. Where is it?”

  She responded with a feeble wave in the general direction of her knees.

  “What, under the bedclothes?”

  “It’s in there somewhere, I think.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

  He pulled back the covers again and searched—muttering to himself about the indignity of it all, and how in blazes had it come to this?—till at last he found the bottle wedged between the bulkhead and the mattress.

  He rescued it and removed the cork. Then, taking Molly’s chin in one hand and the bottle in the other, he tipped a little liquid onto her tongue.

  “Just sip it; that’s right. If you take it a bit at a time, you’re more likely to keep it down. And just so you know, you’re going to finish this bottle before I leave. Then I will send you another. You’ll drink that one, too. Understand?”