by Jill Myles
So I stood from my throne and grabbed my skirts in my hands. “You will excuse me, Father. I am not feeling well.”
“Go to your rooms.”
I gave him a stiff nod and hurried down the steps of the dais, shoving past the confused earl and my father's trusted heralds. I'd only have a few minutes before they realized I wasn't truly heading back to my room, so I needed to make them count. Waving off the guard that fell in step behind me, I waited as one of the heralds opened the double doors to the ballroom and I emerged back out, alone, my shoulders straight as an arrow with tension.
People were pressed close to the door, trying to eavesdrop. When I emerged, they parted quickly again, and I stumbled forward into the stiflingly warm room. The scent of sweat and perfume was heavy, and bodies crushed close, alarmingly close. One man grabbed at my elbow, clearly trying to help me out of the press. I pulled away from him, recognizing who it was. Lord Fain, a polite, uninteresting lord with a small castle on the edges of the kingdom. I straightened my skirts and stared at his face, looking for a feature to mock.
It was, I confess, far too easy. “Your nose looks like a raw potato, Lord Fain.” I declared in my loudest voice. “You should go and greet Earl Carrot. I left him back in the audience chamber.”
Lord Fain inhaled sharply and recoiled from me as if diseased. The entire ballroom stilled, grew silent. Even the musicians stopped playing. All eyes were on me, the angry raven in the center of the colorful gaiety. The only one speaking in a loud, strident voice. Straightening myself, I began to stroll through the ballroom, eying the men as I did so.
“Too hairy,” I told the next one, giving him a disdainful look. “I shouldn't have to brush my husband like a messy rug.”
The crowd tittered, half-horrified, half-amused. They parted to let me through, eager for any sort of gossip or entertainment to divert them. Like crows near for a carcass, they hovered over my shoulder, waiting for me to point out the next unfortunate suitor.
“Too poor,” I told the next one, and stroked my lovely belt of jet beads. “I'm not about to marry a pig farmer.”
“I am a baron, your highness,” the man said, his dark blonde hair revealed as he broke into a sweeping bow, trying to save face.
“Not with those clothes, you're not,” I replied, my voice droll. He glanced up and I saw his mouth thin with dislike. Good. I turned away from him as if he were beneath my notice.
“Too ugly,” I flat out told the next. “Too short,” were the next two. I made sure to point out each humiliated man so the rapt audience would know just who I was humiliating. “Too freckled. Too pale. And you. Goodness, no, not you. You hold your wine goblet like a woman. And you? Are you even old enough to be here? You're scarce more than a stripling.”
“Princess Rinda, this is enough,” my father roared from the far end of the room. Someone must have told him that I had not headed to my chamber like the dutiful daughter he wanted me to be.
I twirled in my black skirts, turning to face my glowering father with a winning smile. “You told me to pick, Father. I am simply going through my choices. Isn't that what this ball was for?” I cast the court my brightest smile and turned, strolling forward to the next man in line – one of Father's boldest knights and an honorary earl. I wrinkled my nose at the sight of him. “My dear sir, you must learn that if your scalp snows like a mountaintop in winter, it is best to avoid dark colors.”
The man's tanned face flushed, darkened. The audience erupted into loud, raucous laughter.
“Guards, escort Princess Rinda back to her chambers,” my father shouted over them, and the room grew quiet once more, the audience clearly torn between appeasing their king and enjoying the very naughty fun I provided.
I glanced back and saw the guards hesitating. Princesses did not often need arresting – we were usually the ones guarded. But my actions were bordering on treason as I slaughtered my family's alliances within moments. I used their hesitation to my advantage, hurrying past the next man and edging toward the door.
I made sure to insult him, though. “Gracious me, you're dripping sweat like a water fountain.” I said to the nearby lord, not having to fake my horror and distaste. “And you smell awful. Did you really think you were going to marry a princess?”
“I said escort her back to her rooms,” my father roared. “Now!”
I grabbed my skirts, hiking them to my knees so I could run. This time, I raced out of the ballroom and deep into the halls of the castle. Servants were carrying more wine towards the revelry, and they flattened against the walls as I rushed past in a swirl of dark skirts. I nearly upset the platter of suckling pig, and ducked under, racing for the foyer and the stairs that led out into the courtyard. I needed air. Fresh air. Just five minutes on the steps so I could compose my racing thoughts.
As I rushed forward past the servants and stragglers to the ballroom, I heard the sound of a commotion toward the front of the keep, and the heavy stomp of many boots. More guests? This was truly too much. Giddy with emotion and naughtiness, I headed for the new arrivals so I could give them the same lashing of my sharp tongue.
To my surprise, a large party waited in the foyer, still unwrapping their traveling clothing. It was obvious that they had just arrived straight from the road. Dusty wraps and cloaks were being shed to waiting servants, and they reeked of horses and sweat and leather, the way my sister did when she spent all day on her pony. Their clothing was of a different make than the fashionable Balinoran style of puffed sleeves and parti-colored hose, preferring somber clothing with a simple, clean cut. The newcomers were dark haired to a man, and each one wore a thick bushy beard that obscured their faces. I did not recognize them, but the heraldry emblazoned over their somber clothing was obvious – a lion, arching and roaring in front of a white castle.
The king of Lioncourt had arrived after all.
My mouth went dry with a mixture of dread and anticipation. If I could discourage him, bring him down like the others, I'd be safe from all. If the Lioncourt king had arrived to marry a princess and scorned me as unworthy, I'd be considered completely unmarriageable. My eyes scanned the men with intense interest, trying to discern which one was the king.
One man stepped forward, and I gave an involuntary recoil of horror. He was tall and lean. A hooded cloak still covered him, masking his hair and his features. Was he young? Old? It didn't matter – all I could see was the fascinatingly disgusting, scraggly black beard on his face, and the dirt that lined his skin. His facial hair had not been groomed for quite some time, if I was any judge of hygiene, and stuck out like a bushy brush around his face. He gave a slight bow of greeting, the move courtly and fluid, and then extended his hand toward me.
I flinched. “You're the king?”
A smile crossed his face, teeth flashing white under the thick, revolting beard. “I am indeed,” he began.
I started to laugh. And here I'd thought the nobles inside Balinore were ridiculous with their foppish clothing and silly airs. At least they were clean! And groomed! I began to laugh even harder. “My father…wanted me…to marry you?”
Across from us, the guards rushed in, followed by my father. He looked shocked to see me standing there with the Lioncourt king, and gave me a furious look even as his guards sank to their knees around him. “Your highness, we are honored —”
I howled with laughter, clutching the sides of my tight corset. “We are?”
My father rushed to my side to silence me. His hand clenched around my arm painfully. “Rinda,” he whispered in a harsh tone. “You embarrass all of Balinore with your behavior.”
I could not stop giggling. My laughter had gone past amusement and was headed somewhere toward hysteria. “Look at him, Father. He looks like a scarecrow. His beard looks like a wild animal clamoring to escape his face!” I gasped between words, unable to breathe as the king turned slightly red under all that travel dirt, which only made me laugh harder.
Father shook me roughly, jarring my entire
body with the force of the motion. “You will shut your mouth at once, Rinda!”
I wasn't about to remain silent. I pointed at the king's beard with my free hand and gasped in mock astonishment. “I think I just saw a bird poke its head out!”
One of the king's courtiers stepped forward. “This is highly insulting to our king,” he began, glaring at me as if I were dirt.
This only made me laugh harder. I was the dirt?
“You wish for an alliance between our houses? With such a creature?” The man shouted at my father. “With this rude, insolent girl?”
The king only stared at me from under that hood, his gaze unreadable. I wished I could see his face in the flickering torchlight, to see if he was wounded by my words. I couldn’t tell; his beard covered his entire face.
The courtier stepped between myself and the barbaric king. “The King of Lioncourt will not marry an uncivil princess,” the courtier declared to my father, as the king only scratched at his long beard, watching me as my shoulders shook with laughter.
“King of Lioncourt…more like King of Scarecrows!” I laughed and laughed and laughed at the ridiculousness of it.
A hand slapped me across the face, so hard that I nearly blacked out. I lost my footing and sprawled on the ground, my jewelry spilling and breaking into a thousand scattered gems on the polished floors, my skirts a rustling waterfall of outrage. The room had gone deathly silent. I lay on the cold marble tiles, stunned for a moment as I tried to focus again. The world had tilted, blackness edging around my sight.
I had been hit by my father before, but never in front of others.
My father stood over me, glaring, his entire body trembling with a rage I'd never seen before. I'd pushed him too far.
Immediately, the scarecrow king was at my side, offering a hand down to me, to help me up. I slapped it away. “I don't want you touching me.” My head rang, and my voice was shaky and weak, but I didn't want anyone's help. Father would see that as a weakness.
The bushy-bearded king stood up and moved a few steps back, but I noticed remained close, as if he did not trust my father to get too close. Smart man.
“Was this your goal?” Father said down to me in a low, ugly voice, careless of who stood nearby. I stared at the feet at my eye-level, not looking up into my father's horrible face. Lioncourt boots, dozens of them, all witnessing my shame before my father. Through the ringing of my head, I realized that their boots were well-made despite the travel mud, and the king himself had a lovely pair with delicate tooled patterns etched into the leather. So the Lioncourt entourage was not completely savage, at least when it came to shoes.
“Answer me, Rinda,” my father said, growing louder. “Was it your goal to humiliate your family before the court tonight? Is this your way of revenge upon me?”
“There you go, Father,” I said in a light voice as I pushed off the floor, forcing myself to sit up. I did not touch my cheek though it throbbed like an open wound. The taste of blood still filled my mouth, and I realized I must have broken the skin inside my cheek. “You always think everything is about you.” I dug my fingernails into my palms, fighting back angry tears. I would not cry in front of these people. I would not.
“You have ruined your marriage prospects tonight, Rinda!” My father leaned in and shouted so hard that the loose strands of hair blew off my brow and spittle flecked my forehead. “What are you thinking?”
“I do not want to marry, Father. I already told you that.”
“You don't want to marry?” he seethed, and his fingers grabbed me under the chin, forcing my head up. I don't think I'd ever seen my father so angry. His face was purple at the edges, so dark that his beard seemed white in comparison. “That is why you did all of this tonight? This show of theatrics and insults? All so you would not have to marry?”
I remained silent and composed, glaring up at my father. I would not answer.
A harsh laugh erupted from him then, and he cast me away, letting me fall back to the floor amongst my skirts and the beads of my broken belt.
“Hear me now, Rinda. None of the noblemen in the kingdom may wish to marry you now, but I swear upon all that I hold sacred that I will give you away to the next man that shows up on my doorstep. I promise you this.”
A gasp sounded behind me, and Imogen rushed forward, reaching out to touch Father's arm, as if she could cool his anger. “Father, no—”
“I have spoken,” he bellowed, shaking off Imogen's touch and pointing down at me again. “The next man that shows up at this door will be your husband, Rinda, and I hope he makes you as miserable as you made me!”
Chapter Five
A hand on my shoulder shook me awake from under the mountains of pillows and covers. “Your Highness,” whispered my servant, Dorcas. “Your father has requested your presence in the drawing room.”
I sat up in bed, pushing my tangled hair out of my face, and peered around my room. It was pitch black. That was odd. Normally I slept until the day was late and sunlight was streaming in through the window. “What time is it?”
“Tis before dawn, Your Highness.”
Dawn? Before it? Unheard. I flopped back into bed and pulled my embroidered coverlets over my head. “Go away until it is a decent hour. Like noon.”
“Your Highness,” Dorcas repeated, and she sounded tearful. “The king is quite insistent. Please, please, Princess.”
I threw the blankets away from my face and glared at the maid. “Is this one of Father’s ridiculous little games? He’s still mad about the ball, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know, Highness,” she wept. “All I am told is that I must bring you downstairs. Immediately.”
With a roll of my eyes, I sat up in bed and swung my legs over the side of my feather mattress. My favorite jeweled slippers were waiting next to the bed, and I pushed my feet into them, then shuffled toward the door.
“Princess Rinda!” The maid said, scandalized even as she hurried to open my bedroom door for me. “Will you not dress? Your father will be most displeased.”
I glanced down at the sleep-wrinkled silk nightgown I wore. The neck was high and delicately embroidered, and a long train of the finest Balinoran lace swept across the floor behind me. It was my most expensive nightgown. Father would hate it. “No, I think I shall go downstairs like this,” I said with a delicate yawn. “If Father wants me to crawl out of bed to attend him, he’s going to have to deal with it.”
For good measure, I raked my hand through my long brown tangles, fluffing them to make my hair seem even more rumpled.
The maid gave a choked wail, but dashed ahead of me. “Very well, Your Higness.”
Even at this obscenely early hour, Balinore castle still buzzed with people, though not the nobility. Servants crept along the halls, and guardsmen, and all stopped to stare at me, a yawning mess just risen from bed.
Or so I thought. But when the gasps and whispers continued, my nerves began to prickle. Why were there so many servants awake? Why did they stare at me more than usual? As I caught the smirk of a particularly irritating servant, it made me frown. What exactly was going on?
“He is in the throne room, Princess Rinda,” Dorcas continued, leading me forward. She sounded suspiciously like she was choking back tears.
“Do cease blubbering, Dorcas,” I said, sweeping past her as she opened the double doors to the main hall. “You’ll wake everyone else and then I’ll be even more cranky.”
“Yes, my princess.”
The fact that my father was meeting me in the throne room told me that he would have attendants with him – Father liked to make a scene when he sat upon the throne. He felt it was his duty as king – both law and entertainment. So I was not surprised when a guardsman opened the doors for Ruth and I and the room was filled with people.
Rather, it surprised me to see my sister, Princess Imogen, seated next to my father, her eyes red with weeping. I strode forward, intending to take my place on the dais next to them.
; “Rinda,” my father said warningly, standing as I strode past all the whispering courtiers and guardsmen. “Where are your manners?”
I stifled an impolite yawn. “Still in bed, I imagine, where I ought to be.”
I expected my impudence to make father furious, as it always did. But for some reason, he simply…smiled. That was odd. When I moved to push past the guardsmen to take my place on the dais, they didn’t move. I glanced over at my father. His smile had grown even larger.
“Stay there, Rinda. I wish to show you something.”
Was this another one of Father’s veiled insults – not allowing me to sit? I feigned boredom as I stood before the throne like a supplicant, waiting.
My father shifted in his chair and glanced over at Imogen. She continued to weep into a delicate handkerchief, shaking her head. Father ignored her reaction and turned back to me, gesturing in my direction with a magnanimous wave of his hand. “Do you remember what I told you last night?”
I played with a lock of my tangled hair and tried to seem casual. “That you despised me?”
Father’s eyes narrowed into cold slits of disapproval. “Since you were not interested in any of the suitors at the ball, I vowed to give you to the next man that walked through the door.”
Ah yes. My father’s ridiculous threat.
“He is here. Meet your bridegroom, daughter.” The look on my father’s face was nothing short of triumphant.
Dread pitted in my stomach again. So he’d found someone to marry me off to, did he? I glanced around the room, puzzled. I saw no nobility lurking in the corners. There were guards dressed in the royal family’s livery lining the walls, my father’s vizier and advisors, and a shabbily dressed minstrel lurking behind me on the carpet, his hat in his hands.
I glanced back at my father, my brows raising a little. “I do not see the man in question. Perhaps he has fled the scene at the thought of marrying the foul-tongued princess.”