Tales of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  The parade ground had been transformed. Stacks of hay bales dotted the field, all of them bearing targets at heights varying from waist to eye level. Here and there javelins stood, stabbed into the ground like pins in a vast green pincushion. At the far end of the oval, white wooden stiles in lines stood sentinel over what remained of the smooth grassy turf, which was now torn into clots of earth scattered on both sides of a rough, grassless path.

  Past the stiles the path turned in a wide curve to become a long stretch of bare earth, down which a Kirkellan horse and rider now thundered. They passed a point marked by two poles topped with flags, and another cheer went up from the watching tiers and from the crowd surrounding the field. Another horse, responding to a shout from his rider, took off toward the bales of hay. The rider snatched up a javelin from among several stuck into the ground, wound up and flung it at one of the targets as her horse wove between them. So it was a game, or a training exercise, and by the looks of things it was popular entertainment as well.

  The horse came out from between the hay bales and went at the stiles. It clipped two of the five, knocking them over to the accompaniment of the crowd’s groans, then came around to the straightaway and finished with the rider pulling up just short of the flagpoles. Her companions laughed and called out in Kirkellish; she made a rude gesture at them, laughing in turn.

  There was a line of horses waiting to take a turn in the gauntlet, and Jeffrey saw George standing near its head. He made his way toward the training master, shouting, “I can’t believe you let them tear up your baby like that!”

  George turned at the sound of Jeffrey’s voice and smiled wryly. “That damn language barrier again,” he said. “I didn’t know what they were asking for until it was too late. I figure, what the hell, we can always put down fresh sod next spring.”

  “Why haven’t I heard about this before?” Jeffrey gestured, and as if in response another horse started off down the gauntlet. “Seems like half the palace is out here today.”

  “You have actual responsibilities. Most of these people are hangers-on, I think, people who’d be at some other race if they weren’t at this one. I can’t believe we don’t have bookmakers yet.”

  “That’s surprising.” The rider and horse came down the last stretch to much applause. “It’s impressive. For such big beasts, they can get up quite a turn of speed if they want to.”

  “I want to see some of our animals run the track. Need to get some jumpers out here, though the ambassador would still beat every one of them. That horse of hers is astonishing.”

  “I hear ambassador and now I think, that is me,” Imogen said, bringing Victory up beside them. She looked so natural up there that Jeffrey felt a rush of pride on her behalf. “You are here to watch us ride?”

  “I am,” he said. “George tells me Victory is a jumper.”

  “She is the best.”

  Another rider passed Imogen and said something to her that made her laugh. The man added a comment that Jeffrey, despite not speaking the language, interpreted as a challenge. Imogen replied in the same tone, and they shook hands. “He is saying he does not think Victory can take all the—what do you say? Stiles? He thinks she cannot jump all five without kicking them. No one does this yet today, but that is because Victory does not run yet. So we have a bet. You will watch and cheer?”

  “I will.”

  “Then we will win.” She grinned at him, that brilliant smile that he saw so rarely. He felt a pang of guilt. She belonged on that horse, with those warriors, not here in Aurilien…but Mairen had said there was a part of Imogen that wasn’t a warrior, and maybe she needed to learn what that part of her was.

  Another rider took his turn, and then Imogen and Victory were at the starting line. The cheer that greeted her arrival was deafening. Imogen stood up in her saddle and waved at the spectators, who were on their feet. Their response made Jeffrey irritable. He wanted to see her race, not play to a crowd of wastrel good-for-nothing third sons and daughters.

  Imogen settled back into the saddle, checked the fit of her boots into the stirrups, and shouted to Victory, who started slowly but gained momentum until she was practically flying across the field. Imogen weaved through the hay bales without bothering with the javelins and came around and set Victory’s head at the stiles. Jeffrey found himself holding his breath. Victory gathered herself and sailed over the first hurdle, then the second, as the spectators counted them off. Jeffrey thought he saw the third stile rock, just a little, but the count went on until, one last time, Victory flew gracefully over the hurdle and everyone including Jeffrey himself screamed, “Five!” The cheering redoubled. Victory came around the straightaway at speed, crossing the line between the flags before Imogen reined her in. The other rider came up to her and they had a conversation which ended with both of them laughing.

  She came back to where George and Jeffrey were standing and dismounted. “It is too bad. I felt her kick the stile. I wanted Victory to win that bet.”

  “But it didn’t go over,” Jeffrey said.

  Imogen shrugged. “It is still not a perfect run. Victory will do better next time. And it is not much of a bet. He is interested in that woman over there.” She pointed at a dark-haired soldier who sat in the lowest row of seats, watching the fun. “I tell her so for him.”

  “What was he going to do if you won?”

  “He offered to do the same for me.” She laughed. “With gestures and his few words of Tremontanese. But I am not interested in any of these.” She indicated the entire field, and Jeffrey, surprisingly, felt relieved. If George was right, none of these men were worthy of her. “I can speak to them myself if I am. Some of them are handsome.” Jeffrey’s heart sank a little.

  “Wait until Elspeth’s reception,” he said lightly. “You’ll see many men who are much better. Smarter, more handsome, funnier…” He wondered why he was trying so hard to sell her on the virtues of unknown men. It wasn’t as if the other courtiers were much better than anyone here. Maybe he should be encouraging her to…or maybe he should keep his damn opinions to himself, and stop interfering in her life.

  “I hope so,” Imogen said. “I have a gown that will make them…I do not know the word. It is a beautiful gown and I look beautiful in it.”

  “I can’t wait to see it,” Jeffrey said. “Will you be riding again today?”

  “No, I have had my turn. Too many people want to ride and there is not enough time. I will ride with Victory for her exercise instead.”

  He almost asked if he could come with her. The thought surprised him. He wasn’t a great rider, and though he didn’t hate horses as it seemed everyone around him believed, he didn’t love them the way Imogen loved Victory or even the way Elspeth loved her gentle mare. It was just that Imogen was, for once, relaxed and confident instead of being irritable and insecure, and he wanted to have at least some interactions with her when she wasn’t thinking about how much she’d rather be anywhere than here. He wanted her to like Aurilien, wanted her to like being the ambassador, wanted her to like him too, and he thought that if only he could show her the good things about Tremontane, she might not feel so alone. Though watching her in the crowd today, surrounded by the other Kirkellan, it seemed the last thing she felt was alone.

  So he said, “If you go outside the gates, stay within sight of the city. I’d hate to send a search party after you.”

  She grinned. “I am finding my way for many years before I come to your city, King of Tremontane. I promise I will not be lost.” She mounted and rode off past the training yard and down the path leading out of the palace.

  “Remarkable woman,” George mused, watching her go. “You should see her fight.”

  “Has she been down here often?”

  “Twice now. She and that big guy, Revalan, first time they took up swords I thought for sure one of them was going to die. But apparently that’s how they blow off steam. Why in hell did anyone pick her for an ambassador? She’s more like a warrior queen
.”

  “The matrian says there’s more to her than fighting and she wants her to learn what that is.”

  “Well, she’s got the makings of a champion show jumper, I can tell you that.”

  “I think the matrian had something a little less closely related to combat.”

  “If you find out what it is, I’d like to know. I think that young woman could do pretty much anything she put her mind to.”

  Imogen disappeared behind a distant curve. “I hope you’re right,” Jeffrey said.

  Jeffrey: Chapter Nine

  Jeffrey dismissed his valet and examined his reflection—black coat with blue and silver waistcoat, black hair and blue eyes to match. Could he do away with knee breeches? Did the King have that kind of power over fashion? His mother had ruthlessly made the corset disappear, when she was Consort, but he doubted his influence extended that far. He extended one leg and looked at it critically. He still couldn’t see the appeal, though he’d heard about ladies swooning over a well-turned calf. Since ladies made an effort to swoon over him anyway, he had no idea if it was his calves or his Crown that did it.

  No one else was in the sitting room when he entered, so he took a seat and gazed at the logs glowing cherry-red in the fireplace. He enjoyed these receptions. There were always people to talk to, and while there was dancing, it wasn’t the most important part of the evening. At dances, he had to sit majestically in his not-a-throne next to Alison and occasionally ask one of the safely married women to take a turn around the floor with him. He never dared dance with the young, unmarried ones, since gossip always had him betrothed to whatever woman he stood up with before their dance had even finished. Jeffrey had begun to wonder how he was ever to find a wife, if he wasn’t allowed to get to know anyone of the right age and social status. Maybe he should disguise himself and go into the lower city, court an inappropriate woman and make her the Consort. No, his face was too well known, and why should he think such a woman would make him any happier than one of his own class?

  Alison came around the corner and sat next to him, kicking at the silvery skirt of her gown. “I’m not looking forward to the next council meeting,” she said. “Have you already made a decision on the disposition of the new lands?”

  He shrugged. “I have a preference, but nothing’s settled yet.”

  “Well, whatever you decide, the peers and the councilors will make a lot of noise about how wrong you are.”

  “Am I doing the right thing?”

  Alison turned in her seat to look at him. “That sounds like a question unrelated to the topic.”

  “I’m never certain, when I’m dealing with the council and the nobles, whether they respect me or are just putting up with me because fate dropped me onto the throne.”

  “That’s almost self-pity.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. Jeffrey, I know this isn’t what any of us expected, but in the past three years you’ve grown into your role far more than I think you realize. I can assure you that the council members respect you. It’s a pity Anthony never let you children observe some of his council meetings. His councilors were every bit as vocal in their disagreements with him as yours are.”

  Jeffrey felt a little of his load lighten. “What did he do?”

  “Sat and waited for them to finish talking, then told them what was going to happen.” Alison smiled. “Sometimes he didn’t wait for them to finish. You have something of his presence, you know. And something of his trouble. No one expected Zara to—well, you know the truth. Even with everything we arranged, your father was completely thrown by his ascension to the throne. It was a long time before he felt comfortable as king.”

  “I never saw it.”

  “You were awfully young. And he was good at hiding his insecurity. I was probably the only one who saw it.” Alison paused. “It’s a pity you don’t have someone you can share the burden with.”

  “I have you.”

  “You know what I mean, son. I wish you’d think seriously about marriage.”

  Her words were so close to what he’d been thinking about before that he laughed. “I think about it often. I’m not sure what to do about it. You should make me a list of eligible young women and I could close my eyes and point.”

  “Don’t joke about this,” Alison said with such intensity that Jeffrey was startled. “Marriage isn’t something to be entered into for the wrong reasons. Even more so when you’re talking about a Consort. Your father’s rule would have been very different if he hadn’t married me, and I say that with no false modesty. We had a wonderful marriage. It’s why I haven’t pushed you to simply pick a girl and marry her, no matter how badly you need more heirs. I want you to have a marriage like mine. I think Elspeth does.”

  “Then, in all seriousness, how am I supposed to meet this paragon?”

  “I don’t know.” Alison sighed. “Perhaps it’s time we stopped caring about what people say.”

  Jeffrey groaned. “I don’t like dancing.”

  “It’s an excellent means of social interaction that makes no promises. And you’re good at it.”

  “But I don’t like it.”

  “Stop whining.” Alison smiled at her son. “I could always make you a list.”

  Jeffrey stood. “I suppose it’s as good a start as any. But not tonight, please? Every Count and Baron in the kingdom is here tonight and I have to make them feel as if this reception is as much for them as it is for Elspeth.”

  “Are you talking about me?” Elspeth said, swaying into view on Owen’s arm. They too wore North blue and silver, Owen looking very much like a Ruskalder who’d been thrust into someone else’s clothes. As far as Jeffrey knew, no one ever harassed Owen for being from Ruskald despite Tremontane’s being at war with that country. He thought it might be the romance of the thing: Owen fleeing a tyrant’s wrath, falling in love with a beautiful princess and marrying her. Or it could just be that he was big enough, and dangerous-looking enough, that no one wanted to pick a fight with him. Either way, Jeffrey was glad his best friend wasn’t suffering social stigma just for having been born in the wrong country.

  Elspeth smiled up at her husband, flashing her dimple at him, and he smiled back and leaned down to kiss her. “You should be talking about me, it’s my reception,” she continued. “Isn’t Imogen ready yet? I’ll go get her.”

  “No, Imogen is here,” Imogen said, and Jeffrey, mouth open to reply to Elspeth, found he’d forgotten what he meant to say. She was stunning. Red silk draped every curve of her body, flowed from shoulder to waist and then to a full skirt that shimmered when it caught the light. Her brown hair was piled high on her head, revealing a long neck with a faint scar that ran over her collarbone and under the neckline of her gown. He wondered absently if it felt different from the rest of her skin, realized he was still staring, and blinked to break the spell.

  “You were right about your gown,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “And so are you,” Elspeth said, hugging her.

  “I like how I look,” she said, turning to make the skirt swirl, “and I am still me.”

  “You are yourself however you dress,” Alison said. “I wish we had an escort for you.”

  Jeffrey almost offered before he remembered that he was the king, that it was his duty to escort the Dowager Consort (not that his mother would allow him to use that appellation in her presence) and that it would look very strange for the king of Tremontane to escort a foreign ambassador to a diplomatic event, however beautiful the ambassador might be. Instead, he said, “Oh, I think Imogen will be far more impressive entering by herself. No one standing nearby to distract from the effect.” He bowed to her, and she smiled and blushed a little, which made her look even better. No, on the whole it would be better if he didn’t escort her tonight.

  “Well, let’s go. I don’t want to miss any more of my reception than I already have,” Elspeth said, and Jeffrey and Alison led the way, Elspeth and Owen following and Imog
en bringing up the rear.

  They had to rearrange themselves when they reached the ballroom so that Imogen could enter first—“Elspeth cannot be near me because I think no one will look at her when I am there,” Imogen said, and Elspeth squealed a little and punched her arm. Jeffrey privately agreed with her. Elspeth had her mother’s beauty, that doll-like prettiness and those enormous brown eyes, but Imogen was…Jeffrey couldn’t find words to finish the sentence. She was extraordinary, that’s what she was.

  He and Alison waited just out of sight at the top of the stairs for Ivor the herald to announce Imogen’s name, and were mutually gratified to hear a hush come over the room as she walked down the stairs. They grinned at each other before moving into position for the far more formal announcement of the king of Tremontane and the Dowager Consort’s entrance. They crossed the room to sit in the high-backed chairs atop a carpeted dais, and then Ivor announced Elspeth and Owen, to cheery applause.

  Elspeth looked so much better now, Jeffrey thought, still too thin, but not as breakable as she’d looked those first few days of her return. Owen looked at her as if she were his entire world, which was probably true. Jeffrey concealed a smile. Elspeth was preening like the butterfly he sometimes thought she was. It was always a surprise when she said or did something that reminded you that beneath that butterfly exterior was a clever mind and a kind heart. They looked so happy together that Jeffrey felt jealousy stab at his heart. Never mind what his mother said; the likelihood that he’d end up like she had, or like Owen and Elspeth had, was, well, unlikely.

  The crowd made room for Owen to lead Elspeth to the center of the floor, her long blue skirt sweeping behind her so she appeared to be floating on his arm. Jeffrey looked at his mother as Owen and Elspeth danced alone, Owen only a little clumsy, and said, “They make a handsome couple.”